Cymbeline

Actus Quintus. Scena Prima

Enter Posthumus alone.

  Post. Yea bloody cloth, Ile keep thee: for I am wishtThou should'st be colour'd thus. You married ones,If each of you should take this course, how manyMust murther Wiues much better then themseluesFor wrying but a little? Oh Pisanio,Euery good Seruant do's not all Commands:No Bond, but to do iust ones. Gods, if youShould haue 'tane vengeance on my faults, I neuerHad liu'd to put on this: so had you sauedThe noble Imogen, to repent, and strookeMe (wretch) more worth your Vengeance. But alacke,You snatch some hence for little faults; that's loueTo haue them fall no more: you some permitTo second illes with illes, each elder worse,And make them dread it, to the dooers thrift.But Imogen is your owne, do your best willes,And make me blest to obey. I am brought hitherAmong th' Italian Gentry, and to fightAgainst my Ladies Kingdome: 'Tis enoughThat (Britaine) I haue kill'd thy Mistris: Peace,Ile giue no wound to thee: therefore good Heauens,Heare patiently my purpose. Ile disrobe meOf these Italian weedes, and suite my selfeAs do's a Britaine Pezant: so Ile fightAgainst the part I come with: so Ile dyeFor thee (O Imogen) euen for whom my lifeIs euery breath, a death: and thus, vnknowne,Pittied, nor hated, to the face of perillMy selfe Ile dedicate. Let me make men knowMore valour in me, then my habits show.Gods, put the strength o'th'Leonati in me:To shame the guize o'th' world, I will begin,The fashion lesse without, and more within.Enter.Scena Secunda

Enter Lucius, Iachimo, and the Romane Army at one doore: and the Britaine Army at another: Leonatus Posthumus following like a poore Souldier. They march ouer, and goe out. Then enter againe in Skirmish Iachimo and Posthumus: he vanquisheth and disarmeth Iachimo, and then leaues him.

  Iac. The heauinesse and guilt within my bosome,Takes off my manhood: I haue belyed a Lady,The Princesse of this Country; and the ayre on'tReuengingly enfeebles me, or could this Carle,A very drudge of Natures, haue subdu'de meIn my profession? Knighthoods, and Honors borneAs I weare mine) are titles but of scorne.If that thy Gentry (Britaine) go beforeThis Lowt, as he exceeds our Lords, the oddesIs, that we scarse are men, and you are Goddes.Enter.The Battaile continues, the Britaines fly, Cymbeline is taken: Then enter to his rescue, Bellarius, Guiderius, and Aruiragus.  Bel. Stand, stand, we haue th' aduantage of the ground,The Lane is guarded: Nothing rowts vs, butThe villany of our feares   Gui. Arui. Stand, stand, and fight.Enter Posthumus, and seconds the Britaines. They RescueCymbeline, andExeunt.Then enter Lucius, Iachimo, and Imogen.  Luc. Away boy from the Troopes, and saue thy selfe:For friends kil friends, and the disorder's suchAs warre were hood-wink'dIac. 'Tis their fresh supplies   Luc. It is a day turn'd strangely: or betimesLet's re-inforce, or fly.Exeunt.Scena Tertia

Enter Posthumus, and a Britaine Lord.

  Lor. Cam'st thou from where they made the stand?  Post. I did,Though you it seemes come from the Fliers?  Lo. I did   Post. No blame be to you Sir, for all was lost,But that the Heauens fought: the King himselfeOf his wings destitute, the Army broken,And but the backes of Britaines seene; all flyingThrough a strait Lane, the Enemy full-heart'd,Lolling the Tongue with slaught'ring: hauing workeMore plentifull, then Tooles to doo't: strooke downeSome mortally, some slightly touch'd, some fallingMeerely through feare, that the strait passe was damm'dWith deadmen, hurt behinde, and Cowards liuingTo dye with length'ned shame   Lo. Where was this Lane?  Post. Close by the battell, ditch'd, & wall'd with turph,Which gaue aduantage to an ancient Soldiour(An honest one I warrant) who deseru'dSo long a breeding, as his white beard came to,In doing this for's Country. Athwart the Lane,He, with two striplings (Lads more like to runThe Country base, then to commit such slaughter,With faces fit for Maskes, or rather fayrerThen those for preseruation cas'd, or shame)Made good the passage, cryed to those that fled.Our Britaines hearts dye flying, not our men,To darknesse fleete soules that flye backwards; stand,Or we are Romanes, and will giue you thatLike beasts, which you shun beastly, and may saueBut to looke backe in frowne: Stand, stand. These three,Three thousand confident, in acte as many:For three performers are the File, when allThe rest do nothing. With this word stand, stand,Accomodated by the Place; more CharmingWith their owne Noblenesse, which could haue turn'dA Distaffe, to a Lance, guilded pale lookes;Part shame, part spirit renew'd, that some turn'd cowardBut by example (Oh a sinne in Warre,Damn'd in the first beginners) gan to lookeThe way that they did, and to grin like LyonsVpon the Pikes o'th' Hunters. Then beganneA stop i'th' Chaser; a Retyre: AnonA Rowt, confusion thicke: forthwith they flyeChickens, the way which they stopt Eagles: SlauesThe strides the Victors made: and now our CowardsLike Fragments in hard Voyages becameThe life o'th' need: hauing found the backe doore openOf the vnguarded hearts: heauens, how they wound,Some slaine before some dying; some their FriendsOre-borne i'th' former waue, ten chac'd by one,Are now each one the slaughter-man of twenty:Those that would dye, or ere resist, are growneThe mortall bugs o'th' Field   Lord. This was strange chance:A narrow Lane, an old man, and two Boyes   Post. Nay, do not wonder at it: you are madeRather to wonder at the things you heare,Then to worke any. Will you Rime vpon't,And vent it for a Mock'rie? Heere is one:``Two Boyes, an Oldman (twice a Boy) a Lane,``Preseru'd the Britaines, was the Romanes baneLord. Nay, be not angry Sir   Post. Lacke, to what end?Who dares not stand his Foe, Ile be his Friend:For if hee'l do, as he is made to doo,I know hee'l quickly flye my friendship too.You haue put me into Rime   Lord. Farewell, you're angry.Enter.  Post. Still going? This is a Lord: Oh Noble miseryTo be i'th' Field, and aske what newes of me:To day, how many would haue giuen their HonoursTo haue sau'd their Carkasses? Tooke heele to doo't,And yet dyed too. I, in mine owne woe charm'dCould not finde death, where I did heare him groane,Nor feele him where he strooke. Being an vgly Monster,'Tis strange he hides him in fresh Cups, soft Beds,Sweet words; or hath moe ministers then weThat draw his kniues i'th' War. Well I will finde him:For being now a Fauourer to the Britaine,No more a Britaine, I haue resum'd againeThe part I came in. Fight I will no more,But yeeld me to the veriest Hinde, that shallOnce touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter isHeere made by'th' Romane; great the Answer beBritaines must take. For me, my Ransome's death,On eyther side I come to spend my breath;Which neyther heere Ile keepe, nor beare agen,But end it by some meanes for Imogen.Enter two Captaines, and Soldiers.  1 Great Iupiter be prais'd, Lucius is taken,'Tis thought the old man, and his sonnes, were Angels   2 There was a fourth man, in a silly habit,That gaue th' Affront with them   1 So 'tis reported:But none of 'em can be found. Stand, who's there?  Post. A Roman,Who had not now beene drooping heere, if SecondsHad answer'd him   2 Lay hands on him: a Dogge,A legge of Rome shall not returne to tellWhat Crows haue peckt them here: he brags his seruiceAs if he were of note: bring him to'th' King.Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Aruiragus, Pisanio, andRomane Captiues. The Captaines present Posthumus to Cymbeline, who deliuers him ouer to a Gaoler.Scena Quarta

Enter Posthumus, and Gaoler.

  Gao. You shall not now be stolne,You haue lockes vpon you:So graze, as you finde Pasture2. Gao. I, or a stomacke   Post. Most welcome bondage; for thou art a way(I thinke) to liberty: yet am I betterThen one that's sicke o'th' Gowt, since he had ratherGroane so in perpetuity, then be cur'dBy'th' sure Physitian, Death; who is the keyT' vnbarre these Lockes. My Conscience, thou art fetter'dMore then my shanks, & wrists: you good Gods giue meThe penitent Instrument to picke that Bolt,Then free for euer. Is't enough I am sorry?So Children temporall Fathers do appease;Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent,I cannot do it better then in Gyues,Desir'd, more then constrain'd, to satisfieIf of my Freedome 'tis the maine part, takeNo stricter render of me, then my All.I know you are more clement then vilde men,Who of their broken Debtors take a third,A sixt, a tenth, letting them thriue againeOn their abatement; that's not my desire.For Imogens deere life, take mine, and though'Tis not so deere, yet 'tis a life; you coyn'd it,'Tweene man, and man, they waigh not euery stampe:Though light, take Peeces for the figures sake,(You rather) mine being yours: and so great Powres,If you will take this Audit, take this life,And cancell these cold Bonds. Oh Imogen,Ile speake to thee in silence.

Solemne Musicke. Enter (as in an Apparation) Sicillius Leonatus, Father to Posthumus, an old man, attyred like a warriour, leading in his hand an ancient Matron (his wife, & Mother to Posthumus) with Musicke before them. Then after other Musicke, followes the two young Leonati (Brothers to Posthumus) with wounds as they died in the warrs. They circle Posthumus round as he lies sleeping.

Sicil. No more thou Thunder-Master shew thy spight, on Mortall Flies: With Mars fall out with Iuno chide, that thy Adulteries Rates, and Reuenges. Hath my poore Boy done ought but well, whose face I neuer saw: I dy'de whil'st in the Wombe he staide, attending Natures Law. Whose Father then (as men report, thou Orphanes Father art) Thou should'st haue bin, and sheelded him, from this earth-vexing smart

Moth. Lucina lent not me her ayde, but tooke me in my Throwes, That from me was Posthumus ript, came crying 'mong'st his Foes. A thing of pitty Sicil. Great Nature like his Ancestrie, moulded the stuffe so faire: That he deseru'd the praise o'th' World, as great Sicilius heyre

1. Bro. When once he was mature for man, in Britaine where was hee That could stand vp his paralell? Or fruitfull obiect bee? In eye of Imogen, that best could deeme his dignitie

Mo. With Marriage wherefore was he mockt to be exil'd, and throwne From Leonati Seate, and cast from her, his deerest one: Sweete Imogen? Sic. Why did you suffer Iachimo, slight thing of Italy, To taint his Nobler hart & braine, with needlesse ielousy, And to become the geeke and scorne o'th' others vilany? 2 Bro. For this, from stiller Seats we came, our Parents, and vs twaine, That striking in our Countries cause, fell brauely, and were slaine, Our Fealty, & Tenantius right, with Honor to maintaine

1 Bro. Like hardiment Posthumus hath to Cymbeline perform'd: Then Iupiter, y King of Gods, why hast y thus adiourn'd The Graces for his Merits due, being all to dolors turn'd?

Sicil. Thy Christall window ope; looke, looke out, no longer exercise Vpon a valiant Race, thy harsh, and potent iniuries:

Moth. Since (Iupiter) our Son is good, take off his miseries

Sicil. Peepe through thy Marble Mansion, helpe, or we poore Ghosts will cry To'th' shining Synod of the rest, against thy Deity

Brothers. Helpe (Iupiter) or we appeale, and from thy iustice flye.

Iupiter descends in Thunder and Lightning, sitting vppon an Eagle: hee throwes a Thunder-bolt. The Ghostes fall on their knees.  Iupiter. No more you petty Spirits of Region lowOffend our hearing: hush. How dare you GhostesAccuse the Thunderer, whose Bolt (you know)Sky-planted, batters all rebelling Coasts.Poore shadowes of Elizium, hence, and restVpon your neuer-withering bankes of Flowres.Be not with mortall accidents opprest,No care of yours it is, you know 'tis ours.Whom best I loue, I crosse; to make my guiftThe more delay'd, delighted. Be content,Your low-laide Sonne, our Godhead will vplift:His Comforts thriue, his Trials well are spent:Our Iouiall Starre reign'd at his Birth, and inOur Temple was he married: Rise, and fade,He shall be Lord of Lady Imogen,And happier much by his Affliction madeThis Tablet lay vpon his Brest, whereinOur pleasure, his full Fortune, doth confine,And so away: no farther with your dinneExpresse Impatience, least you stirre vp mine:Mount Eagle, to my Palace Christalline.Ascends  Sicil. He came in Thunder, his Celestiall breathWas sulphurous to smell: the holy EagleStoop'd, as to foote vs: his Ascension isMore sweet then our blest Fields: his Royall BirdPrunes the immortall wing, and cloyes his Beake,As when his God is pleas'dAll. Thankes Iupiter   Sic. The Marble Pauement clozes, he is enter'dHis radiant Roofe: Away, and to be blestLet vs with care performe his great behest.Vanish  Post. Sleepe, thou hast bin a Grandsire, and begotA Father to me: and thou hast createdA Mother, and two Brothers. But (oh scorne)Gone, they went hence so soone as they were borne:And so I am awake. Poore Wretches, that dependOn Greatnesse, Fauour; Dreame as I haue done,Wake, and finde nothing. But (alas) I swerue:Many Dreame not to finde, neither deserue,And yet are steep'd in Fauours; so am IThat haue this Golden chance, and know not why:What Fayeries haunt this ground? A Book? Oh rare one,Be not, as is our fangled world, a GarmentNobler then that it couers. Let thy effectsSo follow, to be most vnlike our Courtiers,As good, as promise.Reades.

When as a Lyons whelpe, shall to himselfe vnknown, without seeking finde, and bee embrac'd by a peece of tender Ayre: And when from a stately Cedar shall be lopt branches, which being dead many yeares, shall after reuiue, bee ioynted to the old Stocke, and freshly grow, then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britaine be fortunate, and flourish in Peace and Plentie. 'Tis still a Dreame: or else such stuffe as Madmen Tongue, and braine not: either both, or nothing Or senselesse speaking, or a speaking such As sense cannot vntye. Be what it is, The Action of my life is like it, which Ile keepe If but for simpathy. Enter Gaoler.

Gao. Come Sir, are you ready for death?

Post. Ouer-roasted rather: ready long ago

Gao. Hanging is the word, Sir, if you bee readie for that, you are well Cook'd

Post. So if I proue a good repast to the Spectators, the dish payes the shot

Gao. A heauy reckoning for you Sir: But the comfort is you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more Tauerne Bils, which are often the sadnesse of parting, as the procuring of mirth: you come in faint for want of meate, depart reeling with too much drinke: sorrie that you haue payed too much, and sorry that you are payed too much: Purse and Braine, both empty: the Brain the heauier, for being too light; the Purse too light, being drawne of heauinesse. Oh, of this contradiction you shall now be quit: Oh the charity of a penny Cord, it summes vp thousands in a trice: you haue no true Debitor, and Creditor but it: of what's past, is, and to come, the discharge: your necke (Sir) is Pen, Booke, and Counters; so the Acquittance followes

Post. I am merrier to dye, then thou art to liue

Gao. Indeed Sir, he that sleepes, feeles not the Tooth-Ache: but a man that were to sleepe your sleepe, and a Hangman to helpe him to bed, I think he would change places with his Officer: for, look you Sir, you know not which way you shall go

Post. Yes indeed do I, fellow

Gao. Your death has eyes in's head then: I haue not seene him so pictur'd: you must either bee directed by some that take vpon them to know, or to take vpon your selfe that which I am sure you do not know: or iump the after-enquiry on your owne perill: and how you shall speed in your iournies end, I thinke you'l neuer returne to tell one

Post. I tell thee, Fellow, there are none want eyes, to direct them the way I am going, but such as winke, and will not vse them

Gao. What an infinite mocke is this, that a man shold haue the best vse of eyes, to see the way of blindnesse: I am sure hanging's the way of winking. Enter a Messenger.

Mes. Knocke off his Manacles, bring your Prisoner to the King

Post. Thou bring'st good newes, I am call'd to bee made free

Gao. Ile be hang'd then

Post. Thou shalt be then freer then a Gaoler; no bolts for the dead

Gao. Vnlesse a man would marry a Gallowes, & beget yong Gibbets, I neuer saw one so prone: yet on my Conscience, there are verier Knaues desire to liue, for all he be a Roman; and there be some of them too that dye against their willes; so should I, if I were one. I would we were all of one minde, and one minde good: O there were desolation of Gaolers and Galowses: I speake against my present profit, but my wish hath a preferment in't.

Exeunt.

Scena Quinta

Enter Cymbeline, Bellarius, Guiderius, Aruiragus, Pisanio, and Lords.

  Cym. Stand by my side you, whom the Gods haue madePreseruers of my Throne: woe is my heart,That the poore Souldier that so richly fought,Whose ragges, sham'd gilded Armes, whose naked brestStept before Targes of proofe, cannot be found:He shall be happy that can finde him, ifOur Grace can make him so   Bel. I neuer sawSuch Noble fury in so poore a Thing;Such precious deeds, in one that promist noughtBut beggery, and poore lookes   Cym. No tydings of him?  Pisa. He hath bin search'd among the dead, & liuing;But no trace of him   Cym. To my greefe, I amThe heyre of his Reward, which I will addeTo you (the Liuer, Heart, and Braine of Britaine)By whom (I grant) she liues. 'Tis now the timeTo aske of whence you are. Report it   Bel. Sir,In Cambria are we borne, and Gentlemen:Further to boast, were neyther true, nor modest,Vnlesse I adde, we are honest   Cym. Bow your knees:Arise my Knights o'th' Battell, I create youCompanions to our person, and will fit youWith Dignities becomming your estates.Enter Cornelius and Ladies.There's businesse in these faces: why so sadlyGreet you our Victory? you looke like Romaines,And not o'th' Court of Britaine   Corn. Hayle great King,To sowre your happinesse, I must reportThe Queene is dead   Cym. Who worse then a PhysitianWould this report become? But I consider,By Med'cine life may be prolong'd, yet deathWill seize the Doctor too. How ended she?  Cor. With horror, madly dying, like her life,Which (being cruell to the world) concludedMost cruell to her selfe. What she confest,I will report, so please you. These her WomenCan trip me, if I erre, who with wet cheekesWere present when she finish'dCym. Prythee say   Cor. First, she confest she neuer lou'd you: onelyAffected Greatnesse got by you: not you:Married your Royalty, was wife to your place:Abhorr'd your person   Cym. She alone knew this:And but she spoke it dying, I would notBeleeue her lips in opening it. Proceed   Corn. Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to loueWith such integrity, she did confesseWas as a Scorpion to her sight, whose life(But that her flight preuented it) she hadTane off by poyson   Cym. O most delicate Fiend!Who is't can reade a Woman? Is there more?  Corn. More Sir, and worse. She did confesse she hadFor you a mortall Minerall, which being tooke,Should by the minute feede on life, and ling'ring,By inches waste you. In which time, she purpos'dBy watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, toOrecome you with her shew; and in time(When she had fitted you with her craft, to workeHer Sonne into th' adoption of the Crowne:But fayling of her end by his strange absence,Grew shamelesse desperate, open'd (in despightOf Heauen, and Men) her purposes: repentedThe euils she hatch'd, were not effected: soDispayring, dyed   Cym. Heard you all this, her Women?  La. We did, so please your Highnesse   Cym. Mine eyesWere not in fault, for she was beautifull:Mine eares that heare her flattery, nor my heart,That thought her like her seeming. It had beene viciousTo haue mistrusted her: yet (Oh my Daughter)That it was folly in me, thou mayst say,And proue it in thy feeling. Heauen mend all.Enter Lucius, Iachimo, and other Roman prisoners, Leonatus behind, and Imogen.Thou comm'st not Caius now for Tribute, thatThe Britaines haue rac'd out, though with the losseOf many a bold one: whose Kinsmen haue made suiteThat their good soules may be appeas'd, with slaughterOf you their Captiues, which our selfe haue granted,So thinke of your estate   Luc. Consider Sir, the chance of Warre, the dayWas yours by accident: had it gone with vs,We should not when the blood was cool, haue threatendOur Prisoners with the Sword. But since the GodsWill haue it thus, that nothing but our liuesMay be call'd ransome, let it come: Sufficeth,A Roman, with a Romans heart can suffer:Augustus liues to thinke on't: and so muchFor my peculiar care. This one thing onelyI will entreate, my Boy (a Britaine borne)Let him be ransom'd: Neuer Master hadA Page so kinde, so duteous, diligent,So tender ouer his occasions, true,So feate, so Nurse-like: let his vertue ioyneWith my request, which Ile make bold your HighnesseCannot deny: he hath done no Britaine harme,Though he haue seru'd a Roman. Saue him (Sir)And spare no blood beside   Cym. I haue surely seene him:His fauour is familiar to me: Boy,Thou hast look'd thy selfe into my grace,And art mine owne. I know not why, wherefore,To say, liue boy: ne're thanke thy Master, liue;And aske of Cymbeline what Boone thou wilt,Fitting my bounty, and thy state, Ile giue it:Yea, though thou do demand a PrisonerThe Noblest taneImo. I humbly thanke your Highnesse   Luc. I do not bid thee begge my life, good Lad,And yet I know thou wilt   Imo. No, no, alacke,There's other worke in hand: I see a thingBitter to me, as death: your life, good Master,Must shuffle for it selfe   Luc. The Boy disdaines me,He leaues me, scornes me: briefely dye their ioyes,That place them on the truth of Gyrles, and Boyes.Why stands he so perplext?  Cym. What would'st thou Boy?I loue thee more, and more: thinke more and moreWhat's best to aske. Know'st him thou look'st on? speakWilt haue him liue? Is he thy Kin? thy Friend?  Imo. He is a Romane, no more kin to me,Then I to your Highnesse, who being born your vassaileAm something neerer   Cym. Wherefore ey'st him so?  Imo. Ile tell you (Sir) in priuate, if you pleaseTo giue me hearing   Cym. I, with all my heart,And lend my best attention. What's thy name?  Imo. Fidele Sir   Cym. Thou'rt my good youth: my PageIle be thy Master: walke with me: speake freely   Bel. Is not this Boy reuiu'd from death?  Arui. One Sand anotherNot more resembles that sweet Rosie Lad:Who dyed, and was Fidele: what thinke you?  Gui. The same dead thing aliue   Bel. Peace, peace, see further: he eyes vs not, forbeareCreatures may be alike: were't he, I am sureHe would haue spoke to vsGui. But we see him deadBel. Be silent: let's see further   Pisa. It is my Mistris:Since she is liuing, let the time run on,To good, or bad   Cym. Come, stand thou by our side,Make thy demand alowd. Sir, step you forth,Giue answer to this Boy, and do it freely,Or by our Greatnesse, and the grace of it(Which is our Honor) bitter torture shallWinnow the truth from falshood. One speake to him   Imo. My boone is, that this Gentleman may renderOf whom he had this Ring   Post. What's that to him?  Cym. That Diamond vpon your Finger, sayHow came it yours?  Iach. Thou'lt torture me to leaue vnspoken, thatWhich to be spoke, wou'd torture thee   Cym. How? me?  Iach. I am glad to be constrain'd to vtter thatWhich torments me to conceale. By VillanyI got this Ring: 'twas Leonatus Iewell,Whom thou did'st banish: and which more may greeue thee,As it doth me: a Nobler Sir, ne're liu'd'Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou heare more my Lord?  Cym. All that belongs to this   Iach. That Paragon, thy daughter,For whom my heart drops blood, and my false spiritsQuaile to remember. Giue me leaue, I faint   Cym. My Daughter? what of hir? Renew thy strengthI had rather thou should'st liue, while Nature will,Then dye ere I heare more: striue man, and speake   Iach. Vpon a time, vnhappy was the clockeThat strooke the houre: it was in Rome, accurstThe Mansion where: 'twas at a Feast, oh wouldOur Viands had bin poyson'd (or at leastThose which I heau'd to head:) the good Posthumus,(What should I say? he was too good to beWhere ill men were, and was the best of allAmong'st the rar'st of good ones) sitting sadly,Hearing vs praise our Loues of ItalyFor Beauty, that made barren the swell'd boastOf him that best could speake: for Feature, lamingThe Shrine of Venus, or straight-pight Minerua,Postures, beyond breefe Nature. For Condition,A shop of all the qualities, that manLoues woman for, besides that hooke of Wiuing,Fairenesse, which strikes the eyeCym. I stand on fire. Come to the matter   Iach. All too soone I shall,Vnlesse thou would'st greeue quickly. This Posthumus,Most like a Noble Lord, in loue, and oneThat had a Royall Louer, tooke his hint,And (not dispraising whom we prais'd, thereinHe was as calme as vertue) he beganHis Mistris picture, which, by his tongue, being made,And then a minde put in't, either our braggesWere crak'd of Kitchin-Trulles, or his descriptionProu'd vs vnspeaking sottesCym. Nay, nay, to'th' purpose   Iach. Your daughters Chastity, (there it beginnes)He spake of her, as Dian had hot dreames,And she alone, were cold: Whereat, I wretchMade scruple of his praise, and wager'd with himPeeces of Gold, 'gainst this, which then he woreVpon his honour'd finger) to attaineIn suite the place of's bed, and winne this RingBy hers, and mine Adultery: he (true Knight)No lesser of her Honour confidentThen I did truly finde her, stakes this Ring,And would so, had it beene a CarbuncleOf Phoebus Wheele; and might so safely, had itBin all the worth of's Carre. Away to BritainePoste I in this designe: Well may you (Sir)Remember me at Court, where I was taughtOf your chaste Daughter, the wide difference'Twixt Amorous, and Villanous. Being thus quench'dOf hope, not longing; mine Italian braine,Gan in your duller Britaine operateMost vildely: for my vantage excellent.And to be breefe, my practise so preuayl'dThat I return'd with simular proofe enough,To make the Noble Leonatus mad,By wounding his beleefe in her Renowne,With Tokens thus, and thus: auerring notesOf Chamber-hanging, Pictures, this her Bracelet(Oh cunning how I got) nay some markesOf secret on her person, that he could notBut thinke her bond of Chastity quite crack'd,I hauing 'tane the forfeyt. Whereupon,Me thinkes I see him now   Post. I so thou do'st,Italian Fiend. Aye me, most credulous Foole,Egregious murtherer, Theefe, any thingThat's due to all the Villaines past, in beingTo come. Oh giue me Cord, or knife, or poyson,Some vpright Iusticer. Thou King, send outFor Torturors ingenious: it is IThat all th' abhorred things o'th' earth amendBy being worse then they. I am Posthumus,That kill'd thy Daughter: Villain-like, I lye,That caus'd a lesser villaine then my selfe,A sacrilegious Theefe to doo't. The TempleOf Vertue was she; yea, and she her selfe.Spit, and throw stones, cast myre vpon me, setThe dogges o'th' street to bay me: euery villaineBe call'd Posthumus Leonatus, andBe villany lesse then 'twas. Oh Imogen!My Queene, my life, my wife: oh Imogen,Imogen, ImogenImo. Peace my Lord, heare, heare   Post. Shall's haue a play of this?Thou scornfull Page, there lye thy part   Pis. Oh Gentlemen, helpe,Mine and your Mistris: Oh my Lord Posthumus,You ne're kill'd Imogen till now: helpe, helpe,Mine honour'd Lady   Cym. Does the world go round?  Posth. How comes these staggers on mee?  Pisa. Wake my Mistris   Cym. If this be so, the Gods do meane to strike meTo death, with mortall ioy   Pisa. How fares my Mistris?  Imo. Oh get thee from my sight,Thou gau'st me poyson: dangerous Fellow hence,Breath not where Princes areCym. The tune of Imogen   Pisa. Lady, the Gods throw stones of sulpher on me, ifThat box I gaue you, was not thought by meeA precious thing, I had it from the QueeneCym. New matter stillImo. It poyson'd me   Corn. Oh Gods!I left out one thing which the Queene confest,Which must approue thee honest. If PasanioHaue (said she) giuen his Mistris that ConfectionWhich I gaue him for Cordiall, she is seru'd,As I would serue a Rat   Cym. What's this, Cornelius?  Corn. The Queene (Sir) very oft importun'd meTo temper poysons for her, still pretendingThe satisfaction of her knowledge, onelyIn killing Creatures vilde, as Cats and DoggesOf no esteeme. I dreading, that her purposeWas of more danger, did compound for herA certaine stuffe, which being tane, would ceaseThe present powre of life, but in short time,All Offices of Nature, should againeDo their due Functions. Haue you tane of it?  Imo. Most like I did, for I was deadBel. My Boyes, there was our errorGui. This is sure Fidele   Imo. Why did you throw your wedded Lady fro[m] you?Thinke that you are vpon a Rocke, and nowThrow me againe   Post. Hang there like fruite, my soule,Till the Tree dye   Cym. How now, my Flesh? my Childe?What, mak'st thou me a dullard in this Act?Wilt thou not speake to me?  Imo. Your blessing, Sir   Bel. Though you did loue this youth, I blame ye not,You had a motiue for't   Cym. My teares that fallProue holy-water on thee; Imogen,Thy Mothers deadImo. I am sorry for't, my Lord   Cym. Oh, she was naught; and long of her it wasThat we meet heere so strangely: but her SonneIs gone, we know not how, nor where   Pisa. My Lord,Now feare is from me, Ile speake troth. Lord ClotenVpon my Ladies missing, came to meWith his Sword drawne, foam'd at the mouth, and sworeIf I discouer'd not which way she was gone,It was my instant death. By accident,I had a feigned Letter of my MastersThen in my pocket, which directed himTo seeke her on the Mountaines neere to Milford,Where in a frenzie, in my Masters Garments(Which he inforc'd from me) away he postesWith vnchaste purpose, and with oath to violateMy Ladies honor, what became of him,I further know notGui. Let me end the Story: I slew him there   Cym. Marry, the Gods forefend.I would not thy good deeds, should from my lipsPlucke a hard sentence: Prythee valiant youthDeny't againeGui. I haue spoke it, and I did itCym. He was a Prince   Gui. A most inciuill one. The wrongs he did meeWere nothing Prince-like; for he did prouoke meWith Language that would make me spurne the Sea,If it could so roare to me. I cut off's head,And am right glad he is not standing heereTo tell this tale of mine   Cym. I am sorrow for thee:By thine owne tongue thou art condemn'd, and mustEndure our Law: Thou'rt dead   Imo. That headlesse man I thought had bin my Lord  Cym. Binde the Offender,And take him from our presence   Bel. Stay, Sir King.This man is better then the man he slew,As well descended as thy selfe, and hathMore of thee merited, then a Band of ClotensHad euer scarre for. Let his Armes alone,They were not borne for bondage   Cym. Why old Soldier:Wilt thou vndoo the worth thou art vnpayd forBy tasting of our wrath? How of descentAs good as we?  Arui. In that he spake too farreCym. And thou shalt dye for't   Bel. We will dye all three,But I will proue that two one's are as goodAs I haue giuen out him. My Sonnes, I mustFor mine owne part, vnfold a dangerous speech,Though haply well for youArui. Your danger's oursGuid. And our good his   Bel. Haue at it then, by leaueThou hadd'st (great King) a Subiect, whoWas call'd BelariusCym. What of him? He is a banish'd Traitor   Bel. He it is, that hathAssum'd this age: indeed a banish'd man,I know not how, a Traitor   Cym. Take him hence,The whole world shall not saue him   Bel. Not too hot;First pay me for the Nursing of thy Sonnes,And let it be confiscate all, so sooneAs I haue receyu'd it   Cym. Nursing of my Sonnes?  Bel. I am too blunt, and sawcy: heere's my knee:Ere I arise, I will preferre my Sonnes,Then spare not the old Father. Mighty Sir,These two young Gentlemen that call me Father,And thinke they are my Sonnes, are none of mine,They are the yssue of your Loynes, my Liege,And blood of your begettingCym. How? my Issue   Bel. So sure as you, your Fathers: I (old Morgan)Am that Belarius, whom you sometime banish'd:Your pleasure was my neere offence, my punishmentIt selfe, and all my Treason that I suffer'd,Was all the harme I did. These gentle Princes(For such, and so they are) these twenty yearesHaue I train'd vp; those Arts they haue, as ICould put into them. My breeding was (Sir)As your Highnesse knowes: Their Nurse Euriphile(Whom for the Theft I wedded) stole these ChildrenVpon my Banishment: I moou'd her too't,Hauing receyu'd the punishment beforeFor that which I did then. Beaten for Loyaltie,Excited me to Treason. Their deere losse,The more of you 'twas felt, the more it shap'dVnto my end of stealing them. But gracious Sir,Heere are your Sonnes againe, and I must looseTwo of the sweet'st Companions in the World.The benediction of these couering HeauensFall on their heads like dew, for they are worthieTo in-lay Heauen with Starres   Cym. Thou weep'st, and speak'st:The Seruice that you three haue done, is moreVnlike, then this thou tell'st. I lost my Children,If these be they, I know not how to wishA payre of worthier Sonnes   Bel. Be pleas'd awhile;This Gentleman, whom I call Polidore,Most worthy Prince, as yours, is true Guiderius:This Gentleman, my Cadwall, Aruiragus.Your yonger Princely Son, he Sir, was laptIn a most curious Mantle, wrought by th' handOf his Queene Mother, which for more probationI can with ease produce   Cym. Guiderius hadVpon his necke a Mole, a sanguine Starre,It was a marke of wonder   Bel. This is he,Who hath vpon him still that naturall stampe:It was wise Natures end, in the donationTo be his euidence now   Cym. Oh, what am IA Mother to the byrth of three? Nere MotherReioyc'd deliuerance more: Blest, pray you be,That after this strange starting from your Orbes,You may reigne in them now: Oh Imogen,Thou hast lost by this a Kingdome   Imo. No, my Lord:I haue got two Worlds by't. Oh my gentle Brothers,Haue we thus met? Oh neuer say heereafterBut I am truest speaker. You call'd me BrotherWhen I was but your Sister: I you Brothers,When we were so indeed   Cym. Did you ere meete?  Arui. I my good Lord   Gui. And at first meeting lou'd,Continew'd so, vntill we thought he dyedCorn. By the Queenes Dramme she swallow'd   Cym. O rare instinct!When shall I heare all through? This fierce abridgment,Hath to it Circumstantiall branches, whichDistinction should be rich in. Where? how liu'd you?And when came you to serue our Romane Captiue?How parted with your Brother? How first met them?Why fled you from the Court? And whether these?And your three motiues to the Battaile? withI know not how much more should be demanded,And all the other by-dependancesFrom chance to chance? But nor the Time, nor PlaceWill serue our long Interrogatories. See,Posthumus Anchors vpon Imogen;And she (like harmlesse Lightning) throwes her eyeOn him: her Brothers, Me: her Master hittingEach obiect with a Ioy: the Counter-changeIs seuerally in all. Let's quit this ground,And smoake the Temple with our Sacrifices.Thou art my Brother, so wee'l hold thee euer   Imo. You are my Father too, and did releeue me:To see this gracious season   Cym. All ore-ioy'dSaue these in bonds, let them be ioyfull too,For they shall taste our ComfortImo. My good Master, I will yet do you seruiceLuc. Happy be you   Cym. The forlorne Souldier, that so Nobly foughtHe would haue well becom'd this place, and grac'dThe thankings of a King   Post. I am SirThe Souldier that did company these threeIn poore beseeming: 'twas a fitment forThe purpose I then follow'd. That I was he,Speake Iachimo, I had you downe, and mightHaue made you finish   Iach. I am downe againe:But now my heauie Conscience sinkes my knee,As then your force did. Take that life, beseech youWhich I so often owe: but your Ring first,And heere the Bracelet of the truest PrincesseThat euer swore the Faith   Post. Kneele not to me:The powre that I haue on you, is to spare you:The malice towards you, to forgiue you. LiueAnd deale with others better   Cym. Nobly doom'd:Wee'l learne our Freenesse of a Sonne-in-Law:Pardon's the word to all   Arui. You holpe vs Sir,As you did meane indeed to be our Brother,Ioy'd are we, that you are   Post. Your Seruant Princes. Good my Lord of RomeCall forth your Sooth-sayer: As I slept, me thoughtGreat Iupiter vpon his Eagle back'dAppear'd to me, with other sprightly shewesOf mine owne Kindred. When I wak'd, I foundThis Labell on my bosome; whose containingIs so from sense in hardnesse, that I canMake no Collection of it. Let him shewHis skill in the constructionLuc. PhilarmonusSooth. Heere, my good LordLuc. Read, and declare the meaning.Reades.When as a Lyons whelpe, shall to himselfe vnknown, withoutseeking finde, and bee embrac'd by a peece of tenderAyre: And when from a stately Cedar shall be lopt branches,which being dead many yeares, shall after reuiue, bee ioynted tothe old Stocke, and freshly grow, then shall Posthumus end hismiseries, Britaine be fortunate, and flourish in Peace and Plentie.Thou Leonatus art the Lyons Whelpe,The fit and apt Construction of thy nameBeing Leonatus, doth import so much:The peece of tender Ayre, thy vertuous Daughter,Which we call Mollis Aer, and Mollis AerWe terme it Mulier; which Mulier I diuineIs this most constant Wife, who euen nowAnswering the Letter of the Oracle,Vnknowne to you vnsought, were clipt aboutWith this most tender AireCym. This hath some seeming   Sooth. The lofty Cedar, Royall CymbelinePersonates thee: And thy lopt Branches, pointThy two Sonnes forth: who by Belarius stolneFor many yeares thought dead, are now reuiu'dTo the Maiesticke Cedar ioyn'd; whose IssuePromises Britaine, Peace and Plenty   Cym. Well,My Peace we will begin: And Caius Lucius,Although the Victor, we submit to Caesar,And to the Romane Empire; promisingTo pay our wonted Tribute, from the whichWe were disswaded by our wicked Queene,Whom heauens in Iustice both on her, and hers,Haue laid most heauy hand   Sooth. The fingers of the Powres aboue, do tuneThe harmony of this Peace: the VisionWhich I made knowne to Lucius ere the strokeOf yet this scarse-cold-Battaile, at this instantIs full accomplish'd. For the Romaine EagleFrom South to West, on wing soaring aloftLessen'd her selfe, and in the Beames o'th' SunSo vanish'd; which fore-shew'd our Princely EagleTh' Imperiall Caesar, should againe vniteHis Fauour, with the Radiant Cymbeline,Which shines heere in the West   Cym. Laud we the Gods,And let our crooked Smoakes climbe to their NostrilsFrom our blest Altars. Publish we this PeaceTo all our Subiects. Set we forward: LetA Roman, and a Brittish Ensigne waueFriendly together: so through Luds-Towne march,And in the Temple of great IupiterOur Peace wee'l ratifie: Seale it with Feasts.Set on there: Neuer was a Warre did cease(Ere bloodie hands were wash'd) with such a Peace.Exeunt.FINIS. THE TRAGEDIE OF CYMBELINE