Act II, Scene IV — Rome. Philario’s house
Enter Posthumus and Philario.
POSTHUMUS. Fear it not, sir; I would I were so sure To win the King as I am bold her honour Will remain hers.
PHILARIO. What means do you make to him?
POSTHUMUS. Not any; but abide the change of time, Quake in the present winter’s state, and wish That warmer days would come. In these fear’d hopes I barely gratify your love; they failing, I must die much your debtor.
PHILARIO. Your very goodness and your company O’erpays all I can do. By this your king Hath heard of great Augustus. Caius Lucius Will do’s commission throughly; and I think He’ll grant the tribute, send th’ arrearages, Or look upon our Romans, whose remembrance Is yet fresh in their grief.
POSTHUMUS. I do believe Statist though I am none, nor like to be, That this will prove a war; and you shall hear The legions now in Gallia sooner landed In our not-fearing Britain than have tidings Of any penny tribute paid. Our countrymen Are men more order’d than when Julius Cæsar Smil’d at their lack of skill, but found their courage Worthy his frowning at. Their discipline, Now mingled with their courages, will make known To their approvers they are people such That mend upon the world.
Enter Iachimo.
PHILARIO. See! Iachimo!
POSTHUMUS. The swiftest harts have posted you by land, And winds of all the corners kiss’d your sails, To make your vessel nimble.
PHILARIO. Welcome, sir.
POSTHUMUS. I hope the briefness of your answer made The speediness of your return.
IACHIMO. Your lady Is one of the fairest that I have look’d upon.
POSTHUMUS. And therewithal the best; or let her beauty Look through a casement to allure false hearts, And be false with them.
IACHIMO. Here are letters for you.
POSTHUMUS. Their tenour good, I trust.
IACHIMO. ’Tis very like.
PHILARIO. Was Caius Lucius in the Britain court When you were there?
IACHIMO. He was expected then, But not approach’d.
POSTHUMUS. All is well yet. Sparkles this stone as it was wont, or is’t not Too dull for your good wearing?
IACHIMO. If I have lost it, I should have lost the worth of it in gold. I’ll make a journey twice as far t’ enjoy A second night of such sweet shortness which Was mine in Britain; for the ring is won.
POSTHUMUS. The stone’s too hard to come by.
IACHIMO. Not a whit, Your lady being so easy.
POSTHUMUS. Make not, sir, Your loss your sport. I hope you know that we Must not continue friends.
IACHIMO. Good sir, we must, If you keep covenant. Had I not brought The knowledge of your mistress home, I grant We were to question farther; but I now Profess myself the winner of her honour, Together with your ring; and not the wronger Of her or you, having proceeded but By both your wills.
POSTHUMUS. If you can make’t apparent That you have tasted her in bed, my hand And ring is yours. If not, the foul opinion You had of her pure honour gains or loses Your sword or mine, or masterless leaves both To who shall find them.
IACHIMO. Sir, my circumstances, Being so near the truth as I will make them, Must first induce you to believe; whose strength I will confirm with oath; which I doubt not You’ll give me leave to spare when you shall find You need it not.
POSTHUMUS. Proceed.
IACHIMO. First, her bedchamber, (Where I confess I slept not, but profess Had that was well worth watching) it was hang’d With tapestry of silk and silver; the story, Proud Cleopatra when she met her Roman And Cydnus swell’d above the banks, or for The press of boats or pride. A piece of work So bravely done, so rich, that it did strive In workmanship and value; which I wonder’d Could be so rarely and exactly wrought, Since the true life on’t was—
POSTHUMUS. This is true; And this you might have heard of here, by me Or by some other.
IACHIMO. More particulars Must justify my knowledge.
POSTHUMUS. So they must, Or do your honour injury.
IACHIMO. The chimney Is south the chamber, and the chimneypiece Chaste Dian bathing. Never saw I figures So likely to report themselves. The cutter Was as another nature, dumb; outwent her, Motion and breath left out.
POSTHUMUS. This is a thing Which you might from relation likewise reap, Being, as it is, much spoke of.
IACHIMO. The roof o’ th’ chamber With golden cherubins is fretted; her andirons (I had forgot them) were two winking Cupids Of silver, each on one foot standing, nicely Depending on their brands.
POSTHUMUS. This is her honour! Let it be granted you have seen all this, and praise Be given to your remembrance; the description Of what is in her chamber nothing saves The wager you have laid.
IACHIMO. Then, if you can, [Shows the bracelet] Be pale. I beg but leave to air this jewel. See! And now ’tis up again. It must be married To that your diamond; I’ll keep them.
POSTHUMUS. Jove! Once more let me behold it. Is it that Which I left with her?
IACHIMO. Sir (I thank her) that. She stripp’d it from her arm; I see her yet; Her pretty action did outsell her gift, And yet enrich’d it too. She gave it me, and said She priz’d it once.
POSTHUMUS. May be she pluck’d it off To send it me.
IACHIMO. She writes so to you, doth she?
POSTHUMUS. O, no, no, no! ’tis true. Here, take this too;
[Gives the ring.]
It is a basilisk unto mine eye, Kills me to look on’t. Let there be no honour Where there is beauty; truth where semblance; love Where there’s another man. The vows of women Of no more bondage be to where they are made Than they are to their virtues, which is nothing. O, above measure false!
PHILARIO. Have patience, sir, And take your ring again; ’tis not yet won. It may be probable she lost it, or Who knows if one her women, being corrupted Hath stol’n it from her?
POSTHUMUS. Very true; And so I hope he came by’t. Back my ring. Render to me some corporal sign about her, More evident than this; for this was stol’n.
IACHIMO. By Jupiter, I had it from her arm!
POSTHUMUS. Hark you, he swears; by Jupiter he swears. ’Tis true, nay, keep the ring, ’tis true. I am sure She would not lose it. Her attendants are All sworn and honourable:—they induc’d to steal it! And by a stranger! No, he hath enjoy’d her. The cognizance of her incontinency Is this: she hath bought the name of whore thus dearly. There, take thy hire; and all the fiends of hell Divide themselves between you!
PHILARIO. Sir, be patient; This is not strong enough to be believ’d Of one persuaded well of.
POSTHUMUS. Never talk on’t; She hath been colted by him.
IACHIMO. If you seek For further satisfying, under her breast (Worthy the pressing) lies a mole, right proud Of that most delicate lodging. By my life, I kiss’d it; and it gave me present hunger To feed again, though full. You do remember This stain upon her?
POSTHUMUS. Ay, and it doth confirm Another stain, as big as hell can hold, Were there no more but it.
IACHIMO. Will you hear more?
POSTHUMUS. Spare your arithmetic; never count the turns. Once, and a million!
IACHIMO. I’ll be sworn—
POSTHUMUS. No swearing. If you will swear you have not done’t, you lie; And I will kill thee if thou dost deny Thou’st made me cuckold.
IACHIMO. I’ll deny nothing.
POSTHUMUS. O that I had her here to tear her limb-meal! I will go there and do’t, i’ th’ court, before Her father. I’ll do something—
[Exit.]
PHILARIO. Quite besides The government of patience! You have won. Let’s follow him and pervert the present wrath He hath against himself.
IACHIMO. With all my heart.
[Exeunt.]
Act II, Scene V — Rome. Another room in Philario’s house
Enter Posthumus.
POSTHUMUS. Is there no way for men to be, but women Must be half-workers? We are all bastards, And that most venerable man which I Did call my father was I know not where When I was stamp’d. Some coiner with his tools Made me a counterfeit; yet my mother seem’d The Dian of that time. So doth my wife The nonpareil of this. O, vengeance, vengeance! Me of my lawful pleasure she restrain’d, And pray’d me oft forbearance; did it with A pudency so rosy, the sweet view on’t Might well have warm’d old Saturn; that I thought her As chaste as unsunn’d snow. O, all the devils! This yellow Iachimo in an hour, was’t not? Or less; at first? Perchance he spoke not, but, Like a full-acorn’d boar, a German one, Cried “O!” and mounted; found no opposition But what he look’d for should oppose and she Should from encounter guard. Could I find out The woman’s part in me! For there’s no motion That tends to vice in man but I affirm It is the woman’s part. Be it lying, note it, The woman’s; flattering, hers; deceiving, hers; Lust and rank thoughts, hers, hers; revenges, hers; Ambitions, covetings, change of prides, disdain, Nice longing, slanders, mutability, All faults that man may name, nay, that hell knows, Why, hers, in part or all; but rather all; For even to vice They are not constant, but are changing still One vice but of a minute old for one Not half so old as that. I’ll write against them, Detest them, curse them. Yet ’tis greater skill In a true hate to pray they have their will: The very devils cannot plague them better.
[Exit.]
Act III, Scene I — Britain. A hall in Cymbeline’s palace
Enter in state Cymbeline, Queen, Cloten and Lords at one door, and at another Caius Lucius and Attendants.
CYMBELINE. Now say, what would Augustus Cæsar with us?
LUCIUS. When Julius Cæsar, (whose remembrance yet Lives in men’s eyes, and will to ears and tongues Be theme and hearing ever) was in this Britain, And conquer’d it, Cassibelan, thine uncle, Famous in Cæsar’s praises no whit less Than in his feats deserving it, for him And his succession granted Rome a tribute, Yearly three thousand pounds, which by thee lately Is left untender’d.
QUEEN. And, to kill the marvel, Shall be so ever.
CLOTEN. There be many Cæsars ere such another Julius. Britain is a world by itself, and we will nothing pay for wearing our own noses.
QUEEN. That opportunity, Which then they had to take from’s, to resume We have again. Remember, sir, my liege, The kings your ancestors, together with The natural bravery of your isle, which stands As Neptune’s park, ribb’d and pal’d in With rocks unscaleable and roaring waters, With sands that will not bear your enemies’ boats But suck them up to th’ top-mast. A kind of conquest Cæsar made here, but made not here his brag Of ‘Came, and saw, and overcame.’ With shame (The first that ever touch’d him) he was carried From off our coast, twice beaten; and his shipping (Poor ignorant baubles!) on our terrible seas, Like egg-shells mov’d upon their surges, crack’d As easily ’gainst our rocks; for joy whereof The fam’d Cassibelan, who was once at point (O, giglot fortune!) to master Cæsar’s sword, Made Lud’s Town with rejoicing fires bright And Britons strut with courage.
CLOTEN. Come, there’s no more tribute to be paid. Our kingdom is stronger than it was at that time; and, as I said, there is no moe such Cæsars. Other of them may have crook’d noses; but to owe such straight arms, none.
CYMBELINE. Son, let your mother end.
CLOTEN. We have yet many among us can gripe as hard as Cassibelan. I do not say I am one; but I have a hand. Why tribute? Why should we pay tribute? If Cæsar can hide the sun from us with a blanket, or put the moon in his pocket, we will pay him tribute for light; else, sir, no more tribute, pray you now.
CYMBELINE. You must know, Till the injurious Romans did extort This tribute from us, we were free. Cæsar’s ambition, Which swell’d so much that it did almost stretch The sides o’ th’ world, against all colour here Did put the yoke upon’s; which to shake off Becomes a warlike people, whom we reckon Ourselves to be.
CLOTEN. We do.
CYMBELINE. Say then to Cæsar, Our ancestor was that Mulmutius which Ordain’d our laws, whose use the sword of Cæsar Hath too much mangled; whose repair and franchise Shall, by the power we hold, be our good deed, Though Rome be therefore angry. Mulmutius made our laws, Who was the first of Britain which did put His brows within a golden crown, and call’d Himself a king.
LUCIUS. I am sorry, Cymbeline, That I am to pronounce Augustus Cæsar (Cæsar, that hath moe kings his servants than Thyself domestic officers) thine enemy. Receive it from me, then: war and confusion In Cæsar’s name pronounce I ’gainst thee; look For fury not to be resisted. Thus defied, I thank thee for myself.
CYMBELINE. Thou art welcome, Caius. Thy Cæsar knighted me; my youth I spent Much under him; of him I gather’d honour, Which he to seek of me again, perforce, Behoves me keep at utterance. I am perfect That the Pannonians and Dalmatians for Their liberties are now in arms, a precedent Which not to read would show the Britons cold; So Cæsar shall not find them.
LUCIUS. Let proof speak.
CLOTEN. His majesty bids you welcome. Make pastime with us a day or two, or longer. If you seek us afterwards in other terms, you shall find us in our salt-water girdle. If you beat us out of it, it is yours; if you fall in the adventure, our crows shall fare the better for you; and there’s an end.
LUCIUS. So, sir.
CYMBELINE. I know your master’s pleasure, and he mine; All the remain is, welcome.
[Exeunt.]
Act III, Scene II — Britain. Another room in Cymbeline’s palace
Enter Pisanio reading of a letter.
PISANIO. How? of adultery? Wherefore write you not What monsters her accuse? Leonatus! O master, what a strange infection Is fall’n into thy ear! What false Italian (As poisonous-tongu’d as handed) hath prevail’d On thy too ready hearing? Disloyal? No. She’s punish’d for her truth, and undergoes, More goddess-like than wife-like, such assaults As would take in some virtue. O my master, Thy mind to her is now as low as were Thy fortunes. How? that I should murder her? Upon the love, and truth, and vows, which I Have made to thy command? I, her? Her blood? If it be so to do good service, never Let me be counted serviceable. How look I That I should seem to lack humanity So much as this fact comes to?
[Reads.]
‘Do’t. The letter That I have sent her, by her own command Shall give thee opportunity.’ O damn’d paper, Black as the ink that’s on thee! Senseless bauble, Art thou a fedary for this act, and look’st So virgin-like without? Lo, here she comes.
Enter Imogen.
I am ignorant in what I am commanded.
IMOGEN. How now, Pisanio?
PISANIO. Madam, here is a letter from my lord.
IMOGEN. Who? thy lord? That is my lord, Leonatus? O, learn’d indeed were that astronomer That knew the stars as I his characters; He’d lay the future open. You good gods, Let what is here contain’d relish of love, Of my lord’s health, of his content; yet not That we two are asunder; let that grieve him! Some griefs are med’cinable; that is one of them, For it doth physic love: of his content, All but in that. Good wax, thy leave. Blest be You bees that make these locks of counsel! Lovers And men in dangerous bonds pray not alike; Though forfeiters you cast in prison, yet You clasp young Cupid’s tables. Good news, gods!
[Reads.]
Justice and your father’s wrath, should he take me in his dominion, could not be so cruel to me as you, O the dearest of creatures, would even renew me with your eyes. Take notice that I am in Cambria, at Milford Haven. What your own love will out of this advise you, follow. So he wishes you all happiness that remains loyal to his vow, and your increasing in love. LEONATUS POSTHUMUS.
O for a horse with wings! Hear’st thou, Pisanio? He is at Milford Haven. Read, and tell me How far ’tis thither. If one of mean affairs May plod it in a week, why may not I Glide thither in a day? Then, true Pisanio, Who long’st like me to see thy lord, who long’st (O, let me ’bate!) but not like me, yet long’st, But in a fainter kind. O, not like me, For mine’s beyond beyond: say, and speak thick, (Love’s counsellor should fill the bores of hearing To th’ smothering of the sense) how far it is To this same blessed Milford. And by th’ way Tell me how Wales was made so happy as T’ inherit such a haven. But first of all, How we may steal from hence; and for the gap That we shall make in time from our hence-going And our return, to excuse. But first, how get hence. Why should excuse be born or ere begot? We’ll talk of that hereafter. Prithee speak, How many score of miles may we well rid ’Twixt hour and hour?
PISANIO. One score ’twixt sun and sun, Madam, ’s enough for you, and too much too.
IMOGEN. Why, one that rode to’s execution, man, Could never go so slow. I have heard of riding wagers Where horses have been nimbler than the sands That run i’ th’ clock’s behalf. But this is fool’ry. Go bid my woman feign a sickness; say She’ll home to her father; and provide me presently A riding suit, no costlier than would fit A franklin’s huswife.
PISANIO. Madam, you’re best consider.
IMOGEN. I see before me, man. Nor here, nor here, Nor what ensues, but have a fog in them That I cannot look through. Away, I prithee; Do as I bid thee. There’s no more to say. Accessible is none but Milford way.
[Exeunt.]
Act III, Scene III — Wales. A mountainous country with a cave
Enter from the cave Belarius, Guiderius and Arviragus.
BELARIUS. A goodly day not to keep house with such Whose roof’s as low as ours! Stoop, boys; this gate Instructs you how t’ adore the heavens, and bows you To a morning’s holy office. The gates of monarchs Are arch’d so high that giants may jet through And keep their impious turbans on without Good morrow to the sun. Hail, thou fair heaven! We house i’ th’ rock, yet use thee not so hardly As prouder livers do.
GUIDERIUS. Hail, heaven!
ARVIRAGUS. Hail, heaven!
BELARIUS. Now for our mountain sport. Up to yond hill, Your legs are young; I’ll tread these flats. Consider, When you above perceive me like a crow, That it is place which lessens and sets off; And you may then revolve what tales I have told you Of courts, of princes, of the tricks in war. This service is not service so being done, But being so allow’d. To apprehend thus Draws us a profit from all things we see, And often to our comfort shall we find The sharded beetle in a safer hold Than is the full-wing’d eagle. O, this life Is nobler than attending for a check, Richer than doing nothing for a robe, Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk: Such gain the cap of him that makes him fine, Yet keeps his book uncross’d. No life to ours!
GUIDERIUS. Out of your proof you speak. We, poor unfledg’d, Have never wing’d from view o’ th’ nest, nor know not What air’s from home. Haply this life is best, If quiet life be best; sweeter to you That have a sharper known; well corresponding With your stiff age. But unto us it is A cell of ignorance, travelling abed, A prison for a debtor that not dares To stride a limit.
ARVIRAGUS. What should we speak of When we are old as you? When we shall hear The rain and wind beat dark December, how, In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse. The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing; We are beastly: subtle as the fox for prey, Like warlike as the wolf for what we eat. Our valour is to chase what flies; our cage We make a choir, as doth the prison’d bird, And sing our bondage freely.
BELARIUS. How you speak! Did you but know the city’s usuries, And felt them knowingly; the art o’ th’ court, As hard to leave as keep, whose top to climb Is certain falling, or so slipp’ry that The fear’s as bad as falling; the toil o’ th’ war, A pain that only seems to seek out danger I’ th’ name of fame and honour, which dies i’ th’ search, And hath as oft a sland’rous epitaph As record of fair act; nay, many times, Doth ill deserve by doing well; what’s worse, Must curtsy at the censure. O, boys, this story The world may read in me; my body’s mark’d With Roman swords, and my report was once First with the best of note. Cymbeline lov’d me; And when a soldier was the theme, my name Was not far off. Then was I as a tree Whose boughs did bend with fruit. But in one night A storm, or robbery, call it what you will, Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, And left me bare to weather.
GUIDERIUS. Uncertain favour!
BELARIUS. My fault being nothing, as I have told you oft, But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail’d Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline I was confederate with the Romans. So Follow’d my banishment, and this twenty years This rock and these demesnes have been my world, Where I have liv’d at honest freedom, paid More pious debts to heaven than in all The fore-end of my time. But up to th’ mountains! This is not hunters’ language. He that strikes The venison first shall be the lord o’ th’ feast; To him the other two shall minister; And we will fear no poison, which attends In place of greater state. I’ll meet you in the valleys.
[Exeunt Guiderius and Arviragus.]
How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature! These boys know little they are sons to th’ King, Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive. They think they are mine; and though train’d up thus meanly I’ th’ cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit The roofs of palaces, and nature prompts them In simple and low things to prince it much Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore, The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, who The King his father call’d Guiderius—Jove! When on my three-foot stool I sit and tell The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out Into my story; say ‘Thus mine enemy fell, And thus I set my foot on’s neck’; even then The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats, Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture That acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal, Once Arviragus, in as like a figure Strikes life into my speech, and shows much more His own conceiving. Hark, the game is rous’d! O Cymbeline, heaven and my conscience knows Thou didst unjustly banish me! Whereon, At three and two years old, I stole these babes, Thinking to bar thee of succession as Thou refts me of my lands. Euriphile, Thou wast their nurse; they took thee for their mother, And every day do honour to her grave. Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call’d, They take for natural father. The game is up.
[Exit.]
Act III, Scene IV — Wales, near Milford Haven
Enter Pisanio and Imogen.
IMOGEN. Thou told’st me, when we came from horse, the place Was near at hand. Ne’er long’d my mother so To see me first as I have now. Pisanio! Man! Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that sigh From th’ inward of thee? One but painted thus Would be interpreted a thing perplex’d Beyond self-explication. Put thyself Into a haviour of less fear, ere wildness Vanquish my staider senses. What’s the matter? Why tender’st thou that paper to me with A look untender? If’t be summer news, Smile to’t before; if winterly, thou need’st But keep that count’nance still. My husband’s hand? That drug-damn’d Italy hath out-craftied him, And he’s at some hard point. Speak, man; thy tongue May take off some extremity, which to read Would be even mortal to me.
PISANIO. Please you read, And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing The most disdain’d of fortune.
IMOGEN. [Reads.] Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath play’d the strumpet in my bed, the testimonies whereof lie bleeding in me. I speak not out of weak surmises, but from proof as strong as my grief and as certain as I expect my revenge. That part thou, Pisanio, must act for me, if thy faith be not tainted with the breach of hers. Let thine own hands take away her life; I shall give thee opportunity at Milford Haven; she hath my letter for the purpose; where, if thou fear to strike, and to make me certain it is done, thou art the pandar to her dishonour, and equally to me disloyal.
PISANIO. What shall I need to draw my sword? The paper Hath cut her throat already. No, ’tis slander, Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue Outvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath Rides on the posting winds and doth belie All corners of the world. Kings, queens, and states, Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave, This viperous slander enters. What cheer, madam?
IMOGEN. False to his bed? What is it to be false? To lie in watch there, and to think on him? To weep twixt clock and clock? If sleep charge nature, To break it with a fearful dream of him, And cry myself awake? That’s false to’s bed, Is it?
PISANIO. Alas, good lady!
IMOGEN. I false! Thy conscience witness! Iachimo, Thou didst accuse him of incontinency; Thou then look’dst like a villain; now, methinks, Thy favour’s good enough. Some jay of Italy, Whose mother was her painting, hath betray’d him. Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion, And for I am richer than to hang by th’ walls I must be ripp’d. To pieces with me! O, Men’s vows are women’s traitors! All good seeming, By thy revolt, O husband, shall be thought Put on for villainy; not born where’t grows, But worn a bait for ladies.
PISANIO. Good madam, hear me.
IMOGEN. True honest men being heard, like false Æneas, Were, in his time, thought false; and Sinon’s weeping Did scandal many a holy tear, took pity From most true wretchedness. So thou, Posthumus, Wilt lay the leaven on all proper men: Goodly and gallant shall be false and perjur’d From thy great fail. Come, fellow, be thou honest; Do thou thy master’s bidding; when thou seest him, A little witness my obedience. Look! I draw the sword myself; take it, and hit The innocent mansion of my love, my heart. Fear not; ’tis empty of all things but grief; Thy master is not there, who was indeed The riches of it. Do his bidding; strike. Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause, But now thou seem’st a coward.
PISANIO. Hence, vile instrument! Thou shalt not damn my hand.
IMOGEN. Why, I must die; And if I do not by thy hand, thou art No servant of thy master’s. Against self-slaughter There is a prohibition so divine That cravens my weak hand. Come, here’s my heart: Something’s afore’t. Soft, soft! we’ll no defence, Obedient as the scabbard. What is here? The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus All turn’d to heresy? Away, away, Corrupters of my faith, you shall no more Be stomachers to my heart. Thus may poor fools Believe false teachers; though those that are betray’d Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor Stands in worse case of woe. And thou, Posthumus, That didst set up my disobedience ’gainst the King My father, and make me put into contempt the suits Of princely fellows, shalt hereafter find It is no act of common passage but A strain of rareness; and I grieve myself To think, when thou shalt be disedg’d by her That now thou tirest on, how thy memory Will then be pang’d by me. Prithee dispatch. The lamb entreats the butcher. Where’s thy knife? Thou art too slow to do thy master’s bidding, When I desire it too.
PISANIO. O gracious lady, Since I receiv’d command to do this busines I have not slept one wink.
IMOGEN. Do’t, and to bed then.
PISANIO. I’ll wake mine eyeballs first.
IMOGEN. Wherefore then Didst undertake it? Why hast thou abus’d So many miles with a pretence? This place? Mine action and thine own? our horses’ labour? The time inviting thee? The perturb’d court, For my being absent? whereunto I never Purpose return. Why hast thou gone so far To be unbent when thou hast ta’en thy stand, Th’ elected deer before thee?
PISANIO. But to win time To lose so bad employment, in the which I have consider’d of a course. Good lady, Hear me with patience.
IMOGEN. Talk thy tongue weary, speak. I have heard I am a strumpet, and mine ear, Therein false struck, can take no greater wound, Nor tent to bottom that. But speak.
PISANIO. Then, madam, I thought you would not back again.
IMOGEN. Most like, Bringing me here to kill me.
PISANIO. Not so, neither; But if I were as wise as honest, then My purpose would prove well. It cannot be But that my master is abus’d. Some villain, Ay, and singular in his art, hath done you both This cursed injury.
IMOGEN. Some Roman courtezan!
PISANIO. No, on my life! I’ll give but notice you are dead, and send him Some bloody sign of it, for ’tis commanded I should do so. You shall be miss’d at court, And that will well confirm it.
IMOGEN. Why, good fellow, What shall I do the while? Where bide? How live? Or in my life what comfort, when I am Dead to my husband?
PISANIO. If you’ll back to th’ court—
IMOGEN. No court, no father, nor no more ado With that harsh, noble, simple nothing, That Cloten, whose love-suit hath been to me As fearful as a siege.
PISANIO. If not at court, Then not in Britain must you bide.
IMOGEN. Where then? Hath Britain all the sun that shines? Day, night, Are they not but in Britain? I’ th’ world’s volume Our Britain seems as of it, but not in’t; In a great pool a swan’s nest. Prithee think There’s livers out of Britain.
PISANIO. I am most glad You think of other place. Th’ ambassador, Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford Haven Tomorrow. Now, if you could wear a mind Dark as your fortune is, and but disguise That which t’ appear itself must not yet be But by self-danger, you should tread a course Pretty and full of view; yea, happily, near The residence of Posthumus; so nigh, at least, That though his actions were not visible, yet Report should render him hourly to your ear As truly as he moves.
IMOGEN. O! for such means, Though peril to my modesty, not death on’t, I would adventure.
PISANIO. Well then, here’s the point: You must forget to be a woman; change Command into obedience; fear and niceness (The handmaids of all women, or, more truly, Woman it pretty self) into a waggish courage; Ready in gibes, quick-answer’d, saucy, and As quarrelous as the weasel. Nay, you must Forget that rarest treasure of your cheek, Exposing it (but, O, the harder heart! Alack, no remedy) to the greedy touch Of common-kissing Titan, and forget Your laboursome and dainty trims wherein You made great Juno angry.
IMOGEN. Nay, be brief; I see into thy end, and am almost A man already.
PISANIO. First, make yourself but like one. Fore-thinking this, I have already fit (’Tis in my cloak-bag) doublet, hat, hose, all That answer to them. Would you, in their serving, And with what imitation you can borrow From youth of such a season, ’fore noble Lucius Present yourself, desire his service, tell him Wherein you’re happy; which will make him know If that his head have ear in music; doubtless With joy he will embrace you; for he’s honourable, And, doubling that, most holy. Your means abroad: You have me, rich; and I will never fail Beginning nor supplyment.
IMOGEN. Thou art all the comfort The gods will diet me with. Prithee away! There’s more to be consider’d; but we’ll even All that good time will give us. This attempt I am soldier to, and will abide it with A prince’s courage. Away, I prithee.
PISANIO. Well, madam, we must take a short farewell, Lest, being miss’d, I be suspected of Your carriage from the court. My noble mistress, Here is a box; I had it from the Queen. What’s in’t is precious. If you are sick at sea Or stomach-qualm’d at land, a dram of this Will drive away distemper. To some shade, And fit you to your manhood. May the gods Direct you to the best!
IMOGEN. Amen. I thank thee.
[Exeunt severally.]
Act III, Scene V — Britain. Cymbeline’s palace
Enter Cymbeline, Queen, Cloten, Lucius and Lords.
CYMBELINE. Thus far, and so farewell.
LUCIUS. Thanks, royal sir. My emperor hath wrote; I must from hence, And am right sorry that I must report ye My master’s enemy.
CYMBELINE. Our subjects, sir, Will not endure his yoke; and for ourself To show less sovereignty than they, must needs Appear unkinglike.
LUCIUS. So, sir. I desire of you A conduct overland to Milford Haven. Madam, all joy befall your Grace, and you!
CYMBELINE. My lords, you are appointed for that office; The due of honour in no point omit. So farewell, noble Lucius.
LUCIUS. Your hand, my lord.
CLOTEN. Receive it friendly; but from this time forth I wear it as your enemy.
LUCIUS. Sir, the event Is yet to name the winner. Fare you well.
CYMBELINE. Leave not the worthy Lucius, good my lords, Till he have cross’d the Severn. Happiness!
[Exeunt Lucius and Lords.]
QUEEN. He goes hence frowning; but it honours us That we have given him cause.
CLOTEN. ’Tis all the better; Your valiant Britons have their wishes in it.
CYMBELINE. Lucius hath wrote already to the Emperor How it goes here. It fits us therefore ripely Our chariots and our horsemen be in readiness. The pow’rs that he already hath in Gallia Will soon be drawn to head, from whence he moves His war for Britain.
QUEEN. ’Tis not sleepy business, But must be look’d to speedily and strongly.
CYMBELINE. Our expectation that it would be thus Hath made us forward. But, my gentle queen, Where is our daughter? She hath not appear’d Before the Roman, nor to us hath tender’d The duty of the day. She looks us like A thing more made of malice than of duty; We have noted it. Call her before us, for We have been too slight in sufferance.
[Exit an Attendant.]
QUEEN. Royal sir, Since the exile of Posthumus, most retir’d Hath her life been; the cure whereof, my lord, ’Tis time must do. Beseech your Majesty, Forbear sharp speeches to her; she’s a lady So tender of rebukes that words are strokes, And strokes death to her.
Enter Attendant.
CYMBELINE. Where is she, sir? How Can her contempt be answer’d?
ATTENDANT. Please you, sir, Her chambers are all lock’d, and there’s no answer That will be given to th’ loud of noise we make.
QUEEN. My lord, when last I went to visit her, She pray’d me to excuse her keeping close; Whereto constrain’d by her infirmity She should that duty leave unpaid to you Which daily she was bound to proffer. This She wish’d me to make known; but our great court Made me to blame in memory.
CYMBELINE. Her doors lock’d? Not seen of late? Grant, heavens, that which I fear Prove false!
[Exit.]
QUEEN. Son, I say, follow the King.
CLOTEN. That man of hers, Pisanio, her old servant, I have not seen these two days.
QUEEN. Go, look after.
[Exit Cloten.]
Pisanio, thou that stand’st so for Posthumus! He hath a drug of mine. I pray his absence Proceed by swallowing that; for he believes It is a thing most precious. But for her, Where is she gone? Haply despair hath seiz’d her; Or, wing’d with fervour of her love, she’s flown To her desir’d Posthumus. Gone she is To death or to dishonour, and my end Can make good use of either. She being down, I have the placing of the British crown.
Enter Cloten.
How now, my son?
CLOTEN. ’Tis certain she is fled. Go in and cheer the King. He rages; none Dare come about him.
QUEEN. All the better. May This night forestall him of the coming day!
[Exit.]
CLOTEN. I love and hate her; for she’s fair and royal, And that she hath all courtly parts more exquisite Than lady, ladies, woman. From every one The best she hath, and she, of all compounded, Outsells them all. I love her therefore; but Disdaining me and throwing favours on The low Posthumus slanders so her judgement That what’s else rare is chok’d; and in that point I will conclude to hate her, nay, indeed, To be reveng’d upon her. For when fools Shall—
Enter Pisanio.
Who is here? What, are you packing, sirrah? Come hither. Ah, you precious pandar! Villain, Where is thy lady? In a word, or else Thou art straightway with the fiends.
PISANIO. O good my lord!
CLOTEN. Where is thy lady? or, by Jupiter— I will not ask again. Close villain, I’ll have this secret from thy heart, or rip Thy heart to find it. Is she with Posthumus? From whose so many weights of baseness cannot A dram of worth be drawn.
PISANIO. Alas, my lord, How can she be with him? When was she miss’d? He is in Rome.
CLOTEN. Where is she, sir? Come nearer. No farther halting! Satisfy me home What is become of her.
PISANIO. O my all-worthy lord!
CLOTEN. All-worthy villain! Discover where thy mistress is at once, At the next word. No more of ‘worthy lord’! Speak, or thy silence on the instant is Thy condemnation and thy death.
PISANIO. Then, sir, This paper is the history of my knowledge Touching her flight.
[Presenting a letter.]
CLOTEN. Let’s see’t. I will pursue her Even to Augustus’ throne.
PISANIO. [Aside.] Or this or perish. She’s far enough; and what he learns by this May prove his travel, not her danger.
CLOTEN. Humh!
PISANIO. [Aside.] I’ll write to my lord she’s dead. O Imogen, Safe mayst thou wander, safe return again!
CLOTEN. Sirrah, is this letter true?
PISANIO. Sir, as I think.
CLOTEN. It is Posthumus’ hand; I know’t. Sirrah, if thou wouldst not be a villain, but do me true service, undergo those employments wherein I should have cause to use thee with a serious industry—that is, what villainy soe’er I bid thee do, to perform it directly and truly—I would think thee an honest man; thou shouldst neither want my means for thy relief nor my voice for thy preferment.
PISANIO. Well, my good lord.
CLOTEN. Wilt thou serve me? For since patiently and constantly thou hast stuck to the bare fortune of that beggar Posthumus, thou canst not, in the course of gratitude, but be a diligent follower of mine. Wilt thou serve me?
PISANIO. Sir, I will.
CLOTEN. Give me thy hand; here’s my purse. Hast any of thy late master’s garments in thy possession?
PISANIO. I have, my lord, at my lodging, the same suit he wore when he took leave of my lady and mistress.
CLOTEN. The first service thou dost me, fetch that suit hither. Let it be thy first service; go.
PISANIO. I shall, my lord.
[Exit.]
CLOTEN. Meet thee at Milford Haven! I forgot to ask him one thing; I’ll remember’t anon. Even there, thou villain Posthumus, will I kill thee. I would these garments were come. She said upon a time—the bitterness of it I now belch from my heart—that she held the very garment of Posthumus in more respect than my noble and natural person, together with the adornment of my qualities. With that suit upon my back will I ravish her; first kill him, and in her eyes. There shall she see my valour, which will then be a torment to her contempt. He on the ground, my speech of insultment ended on his dead body, and when my lust hath dined—which, as I say, to vex her I will execute in the clothes that she so prais’d—to the court I’ll knock her back, foot her home again. She hath despis’d me rejoicingly, and I’ll be merry in my revenge.
Enter Pisanio with the clothes.
Be those the garments?
PISANIO. Ay, my noble lord.
CLOTEN. How long is’t since she went to Milford Haven?
PISANIO. She can scarce be there yet.
CLOTEN. Bring this apparel to my chamber; that is the second thing that I have commanded thee. The third is that thou wilt be a voluntary mute to my design. Be but duteous and true, preferment shall tender itself to thee. My revenge is now at Milford, would I had wings to follow it! Come, and be true.
[Exit.]
PISANIO. Thou bid’st me to my loss; for true to thee Were to prove false, which I will never be, To him that is most true. To Milford go, And find not her whom thou pursuest. Flow, flow, You heavenly blessings, on her! This fool’s speed Be cross’d with slowness! Labour be his meed!
[Exit.]
Act III, Scene VI — Wales. Before the cave of Belarius
Enter Imogen alone, in boy’s clothes.
IMOGEN. I see a man’s life is a tedious one. I have tir’d myself, and for two nights together Have made the ground my bed. I should be sick But that my resolution helps me. Milford, When from the mountain-top Pisanio show’d thee, Thou wast within a ken. O Jove! I think Foundations fly the wretched; such, I mean, Where they should be reliev’d. Two beggars told me I could not miss my way. Will poor folks lie, That have afflictions on them, knowing ’tis A punishment or trial? Yes; no wonder, When rich ones scarce tell true. To lapse in fulness Is sorer than to lie for need; and falsehood Is worse in kings than beggars. My dear lord! Thou art one o’ th’ false ones. Now I think on thee My hunger’s gone; but even before, I was At point to sink for food. But what is this? Here is a path to’t; ’tis some savage hold. I were best not call; I dare not call. Yet famine, Ere clean it o’erthrow nature, makes it valiant. Plenty and peace breeds cowards; hardness ever Of hardiness is mother. Ho! who’s here? If anything that’s civil, speak; if savage, Take or lend. Ho! No answer? Then I’ll enter. Best draw my sword; and if mine enemy But fear the sword, like me, he’ll scarcely look on’t. Such a foe, good heavens!
[Exit into the cave.]
Act III, Scene VII — The same
Enter Belarius, Guiderius and Arviragus.
BELARIUS. You, Polydore, have prov’d best woodman and Are master of the feast. Cadwal and I Will play the cook and servant; ’tis our match. The sweat of industry would dry and die But for the end it works to. Come, our stomachs Will make what’s homely savoury; weariness Can snore upon the flint, when resty sloth Finds the down pillow hard. Now, peace be here, Poor house, that keep’st thyself!
GUIDERIUS. I am thoroughly weary.
ARVIRAGUS. I am weak with toil, yet strong in appetite.
GUIDERIUS. There is cold meat i’ th’ cave; we’ll browse on that Whilst what we have kill’d be cook’d.
BELARIUS. [Looking into the cave.] Stay, come not in. But that it eats our victuals, I should think Here were a fairy.
GUIDERIUS. What’s the matter, sir?
BELARIUS. By Jupiter, an angel! or, if not, An earthly paragon! Behold divineness No elder than a boy!
Enter Imogen.
IMOGEN. Good masters, harm me not. Before I enter’d here I call’d, and thought To have begg’d or bought what I have took. Good troth, I have stol’n nought; nor would not though I had found Gold strew’d i’ th’ floor. Here’s money for my meat. I would have left it on the board, so soon As I had made my meal, and parted With pray’rs for the provider.
GUIDERIUS. Money, youth?
ARVIRAGUS. All gold and silver rather turn to dirt, As ’tis no better reckon’d but of those Who worship dirty gods.
IMOGEN. I see you’re angry. Know, if you kill me for my fault, I should Have died had I not made it.
BELARIUS. Whither bound?
IMOGEN. To Milford Haven.
BELARIUS. What’s your name?
IMOGEN. Fidele, sir. I have a kinsman who Is bound for Italy; he embark’d at Milford; To whom being going, almost spent with hunger, I am fall’n in this offence.
BELARIUS. Prithee, fair youth, Think us no churls, nor measure our good minds By this rude place we live in. Well encounter’d! ’Tis almost night; you shall have better cheer Ere you depart, and thanks to stay and eat it. Boys, bid him welcome.
GUIDERIUS. Were you a woman, youth, I should woo hard but be your groom. In honesty I bid for you as I’d buy.
ARVIRAGUS. I’ll make’t my comfort He is a man. I’ll love him as my brother; And such a welcome as I’d give to him After long absence, such is yours. Most welcome! Be sprightly, for you fall ’mongst friends.
IMOGEN. ’Mongst friends, If brothers. [Aside.] Would it had been so that they Had been my father’s sons! Then had my prize Been less, and so more equal ballasting To thee, Posthumus.
BELARIUS. He wrings at some distress.
GUIDERIUS. Would I could free’t!
ARVIRAGUS. Or I, whate’er it be, What pain it cost, what danger! Gods!
BELARIUS. [Whispering.] Hark, boys.
IMOGEN. [Aside.] Great men, That had a court no bigger than this cave, That did attend themselves, and had the virtue Which their own conscience seal’d them, laying by That nothing-gift of differing multitudes, Could not out-peer these twain. Pardon me, gods! I’d change my sex to be companion with them, Since Leonatus false.
BELARIUS. It shall be so. Boys, we’ll go dress our hunt. Fair youth, come in. Discourse is heavy, fasting; when we have supp’d, We’ll mannerly demand thee of thy story, So far as thou wilt speak it.
GUIDERIUS. Pray draw near.
ARVIRAGUS. The night to th’ owl and morn to th’ lark less welcome.
IMOGEN. Thanks, sir.
ARVIRAGUS. I pray draw near.
[Exeunt.]
Act III, Scene VIII — Rome. A public place
Enter two Roman Senators and Tribunes.
FIRST SENATOR. This is the tenour of the Emperor’s writ: That since the common men are now in action ’Gainst the Pannonians and Dalmatians, And that the legions now in Gallia are Full weak to undertake our wars against The fall’n-off Britons, that we do incite The gentry to this business. He creates Lucius proconsul; and to you, the tribunes, For this immediate levy, he commands His absolute commission. Long live Cæsar!
TRIBUNE. Is Lucius general of the forces?
SECOND SENATOR. Ay.
TRIBUNE. Remaining now in Gallia?
FIRST SENATOR. With those legions Which I have spoke of, whereunto your levy Must be supplyant. The words of your commission Will tie you to the numbers and the time Of their dispatch.
TRIBUNE. We will discharge our duty.
[Exeunt.]
Act IV, Scene I — Wales. Near the cave of Belarius
Enter Cloten alone.
CLOTEN. I am near to th’ place where they should meet, if Pisanio have mapp’d it truly. How fit his garments serve me! Why should his mistress, who was made by him that made the tailor, not be fit too? The rather, saving reverence of the word, for ’tis said a woman’s fitness comes by fits. Therein I must play the workman. I dare speak it to myself, for it is not vain-glory for a man and his glass to confer in his own chamber; I mean, the lines of my body are as well drawn as his; no less young, more strong, not beneath him in fortunes, beyond him in the advantage of the time, above him in birth, alike conversant in general services, and more remarkable in single oppositions. Yet this imperceiverant thing loves him in my despite. What mortality is! Posthumus, thy head, which now is growing upon thy shoulders, shall within this hour be off; thy mistress enforced; thy garments cut to pieces before her face; and all this done, spurn her home to her father, who may, haply, be a little angry for my so rough usage; but my mother, having power of his testiness, shall turn all into my commendations. My horse is tied up safe. Out, sword, and to a sore purpose! Fortune, put them into my hand. This is the very description of their meeting-place; and the fellow dares not deceive me.
[Exit.]
Act IV, Scene II — Wales. Before the cave of Belarius
Enter from the cave, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus and Imogen.
BELARIUS. [To Imogen.] You are not well. Remain here in the cave; We’ll come to you after hunting.
ARVIRAGUS. [To Imogen.] Brother, stay here. Are we not brothers?
IMOGEN. So man and man should be; But clay and clay differs in dignity, Whose dust is both alike. I am very sick.
GUIDERIUS. Go you to hunting; I’ll abide with him.
IMOGEN. So sick I am not, yet I am not well; But not so citizen a wanton as To seem to die ere sick. So please you, leave me; Stick to your journal course. The breach of custom Is breach of all. I am ill, but your being by me Cannot amend me; society is no comfort To one not sociable. I am not very sick, Since I can reason of it. Pray you trust me here. I’ll rob none but myself; and let me die, Stealing so poorly.
GUIDERIUS. I love thee; I have spoke it. How much the quantity, the weight as much As I do love my father.
BELARIUS. What? how? how?
ARVIRAGUS. If it be sin to say so, sir, I yoke me In my good brother’s fault. I know not why I love this youth, and I have heard you say Love’s reason’s without reason. The bier at door, And a demand who is’t shall die, I’d say ‘My father, not this youth.’
BELARIUS. [Aside.] O noble strain! O worthiness of nature! breed of greatness! Cowards father cowards and base things sire base. Nature hath meal and bran, contempt and grace. I’m not their father; yet who this should be Doth miracle itself, lov’d before me.— ’Tis the ninth hour o’ th’ morn.
ARVIRAGUS. Brother, farewell.
IMOGEN. I wish ye sport.
ARVIRAGUS. Your health. [To Belarius.] So please you, sir.
IMOGEN. [Aside.] These are kind creatures. Gods, what lies I have heard! Our courtiers say all’s savage but at court. Experience, O, thou disprov’st report! Th’ imperious seas breed monsters; for the dish, Poor tributary rivers as sweet fish. I am sick still; heart-sick. Pisanio, I’ll now taste of thy drug.
[Swallows some.]
GUIDERIUS. I could not stir him. He said he was gentle, but unfortunate; Dishonestly afflicted, but yet honest.
ARVIRAGUS. Thus did he answer me; yet said hereafter I might know more.
BELARIUS. To th’ field, to th’ field! We’ll leave you for this time. Go in and rest.
ARVIRAGUS. We’ll not be long away.
BELARIUS. Pray be not sick, For you must be our huswife.
IMOGEN. Well, or ill, I am bound to you.
BELARIUS. And shalt be ever.
[Exit Imogen into the cave.]
This youth, howe’er distress’d, appears he hath had Good ancestors.
ARVIRAGUS. How angel-like he sings!
GUIDERIUS. But his neat cookery! He cut our roots in characters, And sauc’d our broths as Juno had been sick, And he her dieter.
ARVIRAGUS. Nobly he yokes A smiling with a sigh, as if the sigh Was that it was for not being such a smile; The smile mocking the sigh that it would fly From so divine a temple to commix With winds that sailors rail at.
GUIDERIUS. I do note That grief and patience, rooted in him both, Mingle their spurs together.
ARVIRAGUS. Grow patience! And let the stinking elder, grief, untwine His perishing root with the increasing vine!
BELARIUS. It is great morning. Come, away! Who’s there?
Enter Cloten.
CLOTEN. I cannot find those runagates; that villain Hath mock’d me. I am faint.
BELARIUS. Those runagates? Means he not us? I partly know him; ’tis Cloten, the son o’ th’ Queen. I fear some ambush. I saw him not these many years, and yet I know ’tis he. We are held as outlaws. Hence!
GUIDERIUS. He is but one; you and my brother search What companies are near. Pray you away; Let me alone with him.
[Exeunt Belarius and Arviragus.]
CLOTEN. Soft! What are you That fly me thus? Some villain mountaineers? I have heard of such. What slave art thou?
GUIDERIUS. A thing More slavish did I ne’er than answering A slave without a knock.
CLOTEN. Thou art a robber, A law-breaker, a villain. Yield thee, thief.
GUIDERIUS. To who? To thee? What art thou? Have not I An arm as big as thine, a heart as big? Thy words, I grant, are bigger, for I wear not My dagger in my mouth. Say what thou art; Why I should yield to thee.
CLOTEN. Thou villain base, Know’st me not by my clothes?
GUIDERIUS. No, nor thy tailor, rascal, Who is thy grandfather; he made those clothes, Which, as it seems, make thee.
CLOTEN. Thou precious varlet, My tailor made them not.
GUIDERIUS. Hence, then, and thank The man that gave them thee. Thou art some fool; I am loath to beat thee.
CLOTEN. Thou injurious thief, Hear but my name, and tremble.
GUIDERIUS. What’s thy name?
CLOTEN. Cloten, thou villain.
GUIDERIUS. Cloten, thou double villain, be thy name, I cannot tremble at it. Were it Toad, or Adder, Spider, ’Twould move me sooner.
CLOTEN. To thy further fear, Nay, to thy mere confusion, thou shalt know I am son to th’ Queen.
GUIDERIUS. I’m sorry for’t; not seeming So worthy as thy birth.
CLOTEN. Art not afeard?
GUIDERIUS. Those that I reverence, those I fear—the wise; At fools I laugh, not fear them.
CLOTEN. Die the death. When I have slain thee with my proper hand, I’ll follow those that even now fled hence, And on the gates of Lud’s Town set your heads. Yield, rustic mountaineer.
[Exeunt, fighting.]
Enter Belarius and Arviragus.
BELARIUS. No company’s abroad?
ARVIRAGUS. None in the world; you did mistake him, sure.
BELARIUS. I cannot tell; long is it since I saw him, But time hath nothing blurr’d those lines of favour Which then he wore; the snatches in his voice, And burst of speaking, were as his. I am absolute ’Twas very Cloten.
ARVIRAGUS. In this place we left them. I wish my brother make good time with him, You say he is so fell.
BELARIUS. Being scarce made up, I mean to man, he had not apprehension Or roaring terrors; for defect of judgement Is oft the cease of fear.
Enter Guiderius with Cloten’s head.
But, see, thy brother.
GUIDERIUS. This Cloten was a fool, an empty purse; There was no money in’t. Not Hercules Could have knock’d out his brains, for he had none; Yet I not doing this, the fool had borne My head as I do his.
BELARIUS. What hast thou done?
GUIDERIUS. I am perfect what: cut off one Cloten’s head, Son to the Queen, after his own report; Who call’d me traitor, mountaineer, and swore With his own single hand he’d take us in, Displace our heads where, thank the gods, they grow, And set them on Lud’s Town.
BELARIUS. We are all undone.
GUIDERIUS. Why, worthy father, what have we to lose But that he swore to take, our lives? The law Protects not us; then why should we be tender To let an arrogant piece of flesh threat us, Play judge and executioner all himself, For we do fear the law? What company Discover you abroad?
BELARIUS. No single soul Can we set eye on, but in all safe reason He must have some attendants. Though his humour Was nothing but mutation, ay, and that From one bad thing to worse, not frenzy, not Absolute madness could so far have rav’d, To bring him here alone. Although perhaps It may be heard at court that such as we Cave here, hunt here, are outlaws, and in time May make some stronger head, the which he hearing, As it is like him, might break out and swear He’d fetch us in; yet is’t not probable To come alone, either he so undertaking Or they so suffering. Then on good ground we fear, If we do fear this body hath a tail More perilous than the head.
ARVIRAGUS. Let ordinance Come as the gods foresay it. Howsoe’er, My brother hath done well.
BELARIUS. I had no mind To hunt this day; the boy Fidele’s sickness Did make my way long forth.
GUIDERIUS. With his own sword, Which he did wave against my throat, I have ta’en His head from him. I’ll throw’t into the creek Behind our rock, and let it to the sea And tell the fishes he’s the Queen’s son, Cloten. That’s all I reck.
[Exit.]
BELARIUS. I fear ’twill be reveng’d. Would, Polydore, thou hadst not done’t! though valour Becomes thee well enough.
ARVIRAGUS. Would I had done’t, So the revenge alone pursu’d me! Polydore, I love thee brotherly, but envy much Thou hast robb’d me of this deed. I would revenges, That possible strength might meet, would seek us through, And put us to our answer.
BELARIUS. Well, ’tis done. We’ll hunt no more today, nor seek for danger Where there’s no profit. I prithee to our rock. You and Fidele play the cooks; I’ll stay Till hasty Polydore return, and bring him To dinner presently.
ARVIRAGUS. Poor sick Fidele! I’ll willingly to him; to gain his colour I’d let a parish of such Cloten’s blood, And praise myself for charity.
[Exit.]
BELARIUS. O thou goddess, Thou divine Nature, thou thyself thou blazon’st In these two princely boys! They are as gentle As zephyrs blowing below the violet, Not wagging his sweet head; and yet as rough, Their royal blood enchaf’d, as the rud’st wind That by the top doth take the mountain pine And make him stoop to th’ vale. ’Tis wonder That an invisible instinct should frame them To royalty unlearn’d, honour untaught, Civility not seen from other, valour That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop As if it had been sow’d. Yet still it’s strange What Cloten’s being here to us portends, Or what his death will bring us.
Enter Guiderius.
GUIDERIUS. Where’s my brother? I have sent Cloten’s clotpoll down the stream, In embassy to his mother; his body’s hostage For his return.
[Solemn music.]
BELARIUS. My ingenious instrument! Hark, Polydore, it sounds. But what occasion Hath Cadwal now to give it motion? Hark!
GUIDERIUS. Is he at home?
BELARIUS. He went hence even now.
GUIDERIUS. What does he mean? Since death of my dear’st mother It did not speak before. All solemn things Should answer solemn accidents. The matter? Triumphs for nothing and lamenting toys Is jollity for apes and grief for boys. Is Cadwal mad?
Enter Arviragus with Imogen as dead, bearing her in his arms.
BELARIUS. Look, here he comes, And brings the dire occasion in his arms Of what we blame him for!
ARVIRAGUS. The bird is dead That we have made so much on. I had rather Have skipp’d from sixteen years of age to sixty, To have turn’d my leaping time into a crutch, Than have seen this.
GUIDERIUS. O sweetest, fairest lily! My brother wears thee not the one half so well As when thou grew’st thyself.
BELARIUS. O melancholy! Who ever yet could sound thy bottom? find The ooze to show what coast thy sluggish crare Might’st easiliest harbour in? Thou blessed thing! Jove knows what man thou mightst have made; but I, Thou diedst, a most rare boy, of melancholy. How found you him?
ARVIRAGUS. Stark, as you see; Thus smiling, as some fly had tickled slumber, Not as death’s dart, being laugh’d at; his right cheek Reposing on a cushion.
GUIDERIUS. Where?
ARVIRAGUS. O’ th’ floor; His arms thus leagu’d. I thought he slept, and put My clouted brogues from off my feet, whose rudeness Answer’d my steps too loud.
GUIDERIUS. Why, he but sleeps. If he be gone he’ll make his grave a bed; With female fairies will his tomb be haunted, And worms will not come to thee.
ARVIRAGUS. With fairest flowers, Whilst summer lasts and I live here, Fidele, I’ll sweeten thy sad grave. Thou shalt not lack The flower that’s like thy face, pale primrose; nor The azur’d hare-bell, like thy veins; no, nor The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, Out-sweet’ned not thy breath. The ruddock would, With charitable bill (O bill, sore shaming Those rich-left heirs that let their fathers lie Without a monument!) bring thee all this; Yea, and furr’d moss besides, when flow’rs are none, To winter-ground thy corse—
GUIDERIUS. Prithee have done, And do not play in wench-like words with that Which is so serious. Let us bury him, And not protract with admiration what Is now due debt. To th’ grave.
ARVIRAGUS. Say, where shall’s lay him?
GUIDERIUS. By good Euriphile, our mother.
ARVIRAGUS. Be’t so; And let us, Polydore, though now our voices Have got the mannish crack, sing him to th’ ground, As once to our mother; use like note and words, Save that Euriphile must be Fidele.
GUIDERIUS. Cadwal, I cannot sing. I’ll weep, and word it with thee; For notes of sorrow out of tune are worse Than priests and fanes that lie.
ARVIRAGUS. We’ll speak it, then.
BELARIUS. Great griefs, I see, med’cine the less, for Cloten Is quite forgot. He was a queen’s son, boys; And though he came our enemy, remember He was paid for that. Though mean and mighty rotting Together have one dust, yet reverence, That angel of the world, doth make distinction Of place ’tween high and low. Our foe was princely; And though you took his life, as being our foe, Yet bury him as a prince.
GUIDERIUS. Pray you fetch him hither. Thersites’ body is as good as Ajax’, When neither are alive.
ARVIRAGUS. If you’ll go fetch him, We’ll say our song the whilst. Brother, begin.
[Exit Belarius.]
GUIDERIUS. Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to th’ East; My father hath a reason for’t.
ARVIRAGUS. ’Tis true.
GUIDERIUS. Come on, then, and remove him.
ARVIRAGUS. So. Begin.
SONG
GUIDERIUS. _ Fear no more the heat o’ th’ sun, Nor the furious winter’s rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages. Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust._
ARVIRAGUS. _ Fear no more the frown o’ th’ great; Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke. Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak. The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this and come to dust._
GUIDERIUS. Fear no more the lightning flash.
ARVIRAGUS. Nor th’ all-dreaded thunder-stone.
GUIDERIUS. Fear not slander, censure rash;
ARVIRAGUS. Thou hast finish’d joy and moan.
BOTH. _ All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee and come to dust._
GUIDERIUS. No exorciser harm thee!
ARVIRAGUS. Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
GUIDERIUS. Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
ARVIRAGUS. Nothing ill come near thee!
BOTH. _ Quiet consummation have, And renowned be thy grave!_
Enter Belarius with the body of Cloten.
GUIDERIUS. We have done our obsequies. Come, lay him down.
BELARIUS. Here’s a few flowers; but ’bout midnight, more. The herbs that have on them cold dew o’ th’ night Are strewings fit’st for graves. Upon their faces. You were as flow’rs, now wither’d. Even so These herblets shall which we upon you strew. Come on, away. Apart upon our knees. The ground that gave them first has them again. Their pleasures here are past, so is their pain.
[Exeunt all but Imogen.]
IMOGEN. [Awaking.] Yes, sir, to Milford Haven. Which is the way? I thank you. By yond bush? Pray, how far thither? ’Ods pittikins! can it be six mile yet? I have gone all night. Faith, I’ll lie down and sleep. But, soft! no bedfellow. O gods and goddesses!
[Seeing the body.]
These flow’rs are like the pleasures of the world; This bloody man, the care on’t. I hope I dream; For so I thought I was a cave-keeper, And cook to honest creatures. But ’tis not so; ’Twas but a bolt of nothing, shot at nothing, Which the brain makes of fumes. Our very eyes Are sometimes, like our judgements, blind. Good faith, I tremble still with fear; but if there be Yet left in heaven as small a drop of pity As a wren’s eye, fear’d gods, a part of it! The dream’s here still. Even when I wake it is Without me, as within me; not imagin’d, felt. A headless man? The garments of Posthumus? I know the shape of’s leg; this is his hand, His foot Mercurial, his Martial thigh, The brawns of Hercules; but his Jovial face— Murder in heaven! How! ’Tis gone. Pisanio, All curses madded Hecuba gave the Greeks, And mine to boot, be darted on thee! Thou, Conspir’d with that irregulous devil, Cloten, Hath here cut off my lord. To write and read Be henceforth treacherous! Damn’d Pisanio Hath with his forged letters (damn’d Pisanio) From this most bravest vessel of the world Struck the main-top. O Posthumus! alas, Where is thy head? Where’s that? Ay me! where’s that? Pisanio might have kill’d thee at the heart, And left this head on. How should this be? Pisanio? ’Tis he and Cloten; malice and lucre in them Have laid this woe here. O, ’tis pregnant, pregnant! The drug he gave me, which he said was precious And cordial to me, have I not found it Murd’rous to th’ senses? That confirms it home. This is Pisanio’s deed, and Cloten. O! Give colour to my pale cheek with thy blood, That we the horrider may seem to those Which chance to find us. O, my lord, my lord!
[Falls fainting on the body.]
Enter Lucius, Captains and a Soothsayer.
CAPTAIN. To them the legions garrison’d in Gallia, After your will, have cross’d the sea, attending You here at Milford Haven; with your ships, They are in readiness.
LUCIUS. But what from Rome?
CAPTAIN. The Senate hath stirr’d up the confiners And gentlemen of Italy, most willing spirits, That promise noble service; and they come Under the conduct of bold Iachimo, Sienna’s brother.
LUCIUS. When expect you them?
CAPTAIN. With the next benefit o’ th’ wind.
LUCIUS. This forwardness Makes our hopes fair. Command our present numbers Be muster’d; bid the captains look to’t. Now, sir, What have you dream’d of late of this war’s purpose?
SOOTHSAYER. Last night the very gods show’d me a vision (I fast and pray’d for their intelligence) thus: I saw Jove’s bird, the Roman eagle, wing’d From the spongy south to this part of the west, There vanish’d in the sunbeams; which portends, Unless my sins abuse my divination, Success to th’ Roman host.
LUCIUS. Dream often so, And never false. Soft, ho! what trunk is here Without his top? The ruin speaks that sometime It was a worthy building. How? a page? Or dead or sleeping on him? But dead, rather; For nature doth abhor to make his bed With the defunct, or sleep upon the dead. Let’s see the boy’s face.
CAPTAIN. He’s alive, my lord.
LUCIUS. He’ll then instruct us of this body. Young one, Inform us of thy fortunes; for it seems They crave to be demanded. Who is this Thou mak’st thy bloody pillow? Or who was he That, otherwise than noble nature did, Hath alter’d that good picture? What’s thy interest In this sad wreck? How came’t? Who is’t? What art thou?
IMOGEN. I am nothing; or if not, Nothing to be were better. This was my master, A very valiant Briton and a good, That here by mountaineers lies slain. Alas! There is no more such masters. I may wander From east to occident; cry out for service; Try many, all good; serve truly; never Find such another master.
LUCIUS. ’Lack, good youth! Thou mov’st no less with thy complaining than Thy master in bleeding. Say his name, good friend.
IMOGEN. Richard du Champ. [Aside.] If I do lie, and do No harm by it, though the gods hear, I hope They’ll pardon it.—Say you, sir?
LUCIUS. Thy name?
IMOGEN. Fidele, sir.
LUCIUS. Thou dost approve thyself the very same; Thy name well fits thy faith, thy faith thy name. Wilt take thy chance with me? I will not say Thou shalt be so well master’d; but, be sure, No less belov’d. The Roman Emperor’s letters, Sent by a consul to me, should not sooner Than thine own worth prefer thee. Go with me.
IMOGEN. I’ll follow, sir. But first, an’t please the gods, I’ll hide my master from the flies, as deep As these poor pickaxes can dig; and when With wild wood-leaves and weeds I ha’ strew’d his grave, And on it said a century of prayers, Such as I can, twice o’er, I’ll weep and sigh; And leaving so his service, follow you, So please you entertain me.
LUCIUS. Ay, good youth; And rather father thee than master thee. My friends, The boy hath taught us manly duties; let us Find out the prettiest daisied plot we can, And make him with our pikes and partisans A grave. Come, arm him. Boy, he is preferr’d By thee to us; and he shall be interr’d As soldiers can. Be cheerful; wipe thine eyes. Some falls are means the happier to arise.
[Exeunt.]
Act IV, Scene III — Britain. Cymbeline’s palace
Enter Cymbeline, Lords, Pisanio and Attendants.
CYMBELINE. Again! and bring me word how ’tis with her.
[Exit an Attendant.]
A fever with the absence of her son; A madness, of which her life’s in danger. Heavens, How deeply you at once do touch me! Imogen, The great part of my comfort, gone; my queen Upon a desperate bed, and in a time When fearful wars point at me; her son gone, So needful for this present. It strikes me past The hope of comfort. But for thee, fellow, Who needs must know of her departure and Dost seem so ignorant, we’ll enforce it from thee By a sharp torture.
PISANIO. Sir, my life is yours; I humbly set it at your will; but for my mistress, I nothing know where she remains, why gone, Nor when she purposes return. Beseech your Highness, Hold me your loyal servant.
LORD. Good my liege, The day that she was missing he was here. I dare be bound he’s true and shall perform All parts of his subjection loyally. For Cloten, There wants no diligence in seeking him, And will no doubt be found.
CYMBELINE. The time is troublesome. [To Pisanio.] We’ll slip you for a season; but our jealousy Does yet depend.
LORD. So please your Majesty, The Roman legions, all from Gallia drawn, Are landed on your coast, with a supply Of Roman gentlemen by the Senate sent.
CYMBELINE. Now for the counsel of my son and queen! I am amaz’d with matter.
LORD. Good my liege, Your preparation can affront no less Than what you hear of. Come more, for more you’re ready. The want is but to put those pow’rs in motion That long to move.
CYMBELINE. I thank you. Let’s withdraw, And meet the time as it seeks us. We fear not What can from Italy annoy us; but We grieve at chances here. Away!
[Exeunt all but Pisanio.]
PISANIO. I heard no letter from my master since I wrote him Imogen was slain. ’Tis strange. Nor hear I from my mistress, who did promise To yield me often tidings. Neither know I What is betid to Cloten, but remain Perplex’d in all. The heavens still must work. Wherein I am false I am honest; not true, to be true. These present wars shall find I love my country, Even to the note o’ th’ King, or I’ll fall in them. All other doubts, by time let them be clear’d: Fortune brings in some boats that are not steer’d.
[Exit.]
Act IV, Scene IV — Wales. Before the cave of Belarius
Enter Belarius, Guiderius and Arviragus.
GUIDERIUS. The noise is round about us.
BELARIUS. Let us from it.
ARVIRAGUS. What pleasure, sir, find we in life, to lock it From action and adventure?
GUIDERIUS. Nay, what hope Have we in hiding us? This way the Romans Must or for Britons slay us, or receive us For barbarous and unnatural revolts During their use, and slay us after.
BELARIUS. Sons, We’ll higher to the mountains; there secure us. To the King’s party there’s no going. Newness Of Cloten’s death (we being not known, not muster’d Among the bands) may drive us to a render Where we have liv’d, and so extort from’s that Which we have done, whose answer would be death, Drawn on with torture.
GUIDERIUS. This is, sir, a doubt In such a time nothing becoming you Nor satisfying us.
ARVIRAGUS. It is not likely That when they hear the Roman horses neigh, Behold their quarter’d fires, have both their eyes And ears so cloy’d importantly as now, That they will waste their time upon our note, To know from whence we are.
BELARIUS. O, I am known Of many in the army. Many years, Though Cloten then but young, you see, not wore him From my remembrance. And, besides, the King Hath not deserv’d my service nor your loves, Who find in my exile the want of breeding, The certainty of this hard life; aye hopeless To have the courtesy your cradle promis’d, But to be still hot summer’s tanlings and The shrinking slaves of winter.
GUIDERIUS. Than be so, Better to cease to be. Pray, sir, to th’ army. I and my brother are not known; yourself So out of thought, and thereto so o’ergrown, Cannot be questioned.
ARVIRAGUS. By this sun that shines, I’ll thither. What thing is’t that I never Did see man die! scarce ever look’d on blood But that of coward hares, hot goats, and venison! Never bestrid a horse, save one that had A rider like myself, who ne’er wore rowel Nor iron on his heel! I am asham’d To look upon the holy sun, to have The benefit of his blest beams, remaining So long a poor unknown.
GUIDERIUS. By heavens, I’ll go! If you will bless me, sir, and give me leave, I’ll take the better care; but if you will not, The hazard therefore due fall on me by The hands of Romans!
ARVIRAGUS. So say I. Amen.
BELARIUS. No reason I, since of your lives you set So slight a valuation, should reserve My crack’d one to more care. Have with you, boys! If in your country wars you chance to die, That is my bed too, lads, and there I’ll lie. Lead, lead. [Aside.] The time seems long; their blood thinks scorn Till it fly out and show them princes born.
[Exeunt.]
Act V, Scene I — Britain. The Roman camp
Enter Posthumus alone, with a bloody handkerchief.
POSTHUMUS. Yea, bloody cloth, I’ll keep thee; for I wish’d Thou shouldst be colour’d thus. You married ones, If each of you should take this course, how many Must murder wives much better than themselves For wrying but a little! O Pisanio! Every good servant does not all commands; No bond but to do just ones. Gods! if you Should have ta’en vengeance on my faults, I never Had liv’d to put on this; so had you saved The noble Imogen to repent, and struck Me, wretch more worth your vengeance. But alack, You snatch some hence for little faults; that’s love, To have them fall no more. You some permit To second ills with ills, each elder worse, And make them dread it, to the doers’ thrift. But Imogen is your own. Do your best wills, And make me blest to obey. I am brought hither Among th’ Italian gentry, and to fight Against my lady’s kingdom. ’Tis enough That, Britain, I have kill’d thy mistress; peace! I’ll give no wound to thee. Therefore, good heavens, Hear patiently my purpose. I’ll disrobe me Of these Italian weeds, and suit myself As does a Britain peasant. So I’ll fight Against the part I come with; so I’ll die For thee, O Imogen, even for whom my life Is every breath a death. And thus unknown, Pitied nor hated, to the face of peril Myself I’ll dedicate. Let me make men know More valour in me than my habits show. Gods, put the strength o’ th’ Leonati in me! To shame the guise o’ th’ world, I will begin The fashion less without and more within.
[Exit.]
Act V, Scene II — Britain. A field of battle between the British and Roman camps
Enter Lucius, Iachimo and the Roman army at one door, and the British army at another, Leonatus Posthumus following like a poor soldier. They march over and go out. Alarums. Then enter again, in skirmish, Iachimo and Posthumus. He vanquisheth and disarmeth Iachimo and then leaves him.
IACHIMO. The heaviness and guilt within my bosom Takes off my manhood. I have belied a lady, The Princess of this country, and the air on’t Revengingly enfeebles me; or could this carl, A very drudge of nature’s, have subdu’d me In my profession? Knighthoods and honours borne As I wear mine are titles but of scorn. If that thy gentry, Britain, go before This lout as he exceeds our lords, the odds Is that we scarce are men, and you are gods.
[Exit.]
The battle continues; the Britons fly; Cymbeline is taken. Then enter to his rescue Belarius, Guiderius and Arviragus.
BELARIUS. Stand, stand! We have th’ advantage of the ground; The lane is guarded; nothing routs us but The villainy of our fears.
GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS. Stand, stand, and fight!
Enter Posthumus and seconds the Britons; they rescue Cymbeline and exeunt. Then re-enter Lucius and Iachimo with Imogen.
LUCIUS. Away, boy, from the troops, and save thyself; For friends kill friends, and the disorder’s such As war were hoodwink’d.
IACHIMO. ’Tis their fresh supplies.
LUCIUS. It is a day turn’d strangely. Or betimes Let’s reinforce or fly.
[Exeunt.]
Act V, Scene III — Another part of the field
Enter Posthumus and a Briton Lord.
LORD. Cam’st thou from where they made the stand?
POSTHUMUS. I did: Though you, it seems, come from the fliers.
LORD. I did.
POSTHUMUS. No blame be to you, sir, for all was lost, But that the heavens fought. The King himself Of his wings destitute, the army broken, And but the backs of Britons seen, all flying, Through a strait lane; the enemy, full-hearted, Lolling the tongue with slaught’ring, having work More plentiful than tools to do’t, struck down Some mortally, some slightly touch’d, some falling Merely through fear, that the strait pass was damm’d With dead men hurt behind, and cowards living To die with length’ned shame.
LORD. Where was this lane?
POSTHUMUS. Close by the battle, ditch’d, and wall’d with turf, Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier, An honest one, I warrant, who deserv’d So 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 run The country base than to commit such slaughter; With faces fit for masks, or rather fairer Than those for preservation cas’d or shame) Made good the passage, cried to those that fled ‘Our Britain’s harts die flying, not our men. To darkness fleet souls that fly backwards! Stand; Or we are Romans and will give you that, Like beasts, which you shun beastly, and may save But to look back in frown. Stand, stand!’ These three, Three thousand confident, in act as many— For three performers are the file when all The rest do nothing—with this word ‘Stand, stand!’ Accommodated by the place, more charming With their own nobleness, which could have turn’d A distaff to a lance, gilded pale looks, Part shame, part spirit renew’d; that some turn’d coward But by example (O, a sin in war Damn’d in the first beginners) ’gan to look The way that they did and to grin like lions Upon the pikes o’ th’ hunters. Then began A stop i’ th’ chaser, a retire; anon A rout, confusion thick. Forthwith they fly, Chickens, the way which they stoop’d eagles; slaves, The strides they victors made; and now our cowards, Like fragments in hard voyages, became The life o’ th’ need. Having found the back-door open Of the unguarded hearts, heavens, how they wound! Some slain before, some dying, some their friends O’erborne i’ th’ former wave. Ten chas’d by one Are now each one the slaughterman of twenty. Those that would die or ere resist are grown The mortal bugs o’ th’ field.
LORD. This was strange chance: A narrow lane, an old man, and two boys.
POSTHUMUS. Nay, do not wonder at it; you are made Rather to wonder at the things you hear Than to work any. Will you rhyme upon’t, And vent it for a mock’ry? Here is one:
‘Two boys, an old man (twice a boy), a lane, Preserv’d the Britons, was the Romans’ bane.’
LORD. Nay, be not angry, sir.
POSTHUMUS. ’Lack, to what end? Who dares not stand his foe I’ll be his friend; For if he’ll do as he is made to do, I know he’ll quickly fly my friendship too. You have put me into rhyme.
LORD. Farewell; you’re angry.
[Exit.]
POSTHUMUS. Still going? This is a lord! O noble misery, To be i’ th’ field and ask ‘What news?’ of me! Today how many would have given their honours To have sav’d their carcasses! took heel to do’t, And yet died too! I, in mine own woe charm’d, Could not find death where I did hear him groan, Nor feel him where he struck. Being an ugly monster, ’Tis strange he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds, Sweet words; or hath moe ministers than we That draw his knives i’ th’ war. Well, I will find him; For being now a favourer to the Briton, No more a Briton, I have resum’d again The part I came in. Fight I will no more, But yield me to the veriest hind that shall Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is Here made by th’ Roman; great the answer be Britons must take. For me, my ransom’s death; On either side I come to spend my breath, Which neither here I’ll keep nor bear again, But end it by some means for Imogen.
Enter two British Captains and soldiers.
FIRST CAPTAIN. Great Jupiter be prais’d! Lucius is taken. ’Tis thought the old man and his sons were angels.
SECOND CAPTAIN. There was a fourth man, in a silly habit, That gave th’ affront with them.
FIRST CAPTAIN. So ’tis reported; But none of ’em can be found. Stand! who’s there?
POSTHUMUS. A Roman, Who had not now been drooping here if seconds Had answer’d him.
SECOND CAPTAIN. Lay hands on him; a dog! A leg of Rome shall not return to tell What crows have peck’d them here. He brags his service, As if he were of note. Bring him to th’ King.
Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanio and Roman captives. The Captains present Posthumus to Cymbeline, who delivers him over to a gaoler.
[Exeunt omnes.]
Act V, Scene IV — Britain. A prison
Enter Posthumus and two Gaolers.
FIRST GAOLER. You shall not now be stol’n, you have locks upon you; So graze as you find pasture.
SECOND GAOLER. Ay, or a stomach.
[Exeunt Gaolers.]
POSTHUMUS. Most welcome, bondage! for thou art a way, I think, to liberty. Yet am I better Than one that’s sick o’ th’ gout, since he had rather Groan so in perpetuity than be cur’d By th’ sure physician death, who is the key T’ unbar these locks. My conscience, thou art fetter’d More than my shanks and wrists; you good gods, give me The penitent instrument to pick that bolt, Then, free for ever! Is’t enough I am sorry? So children temporal fathers do appease; Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent, I cannot do it better than in gyves, Desir’d more than constrain’d. To satisfy, If of my freedom ’tis the main part, take No stricter render of me than my all. I know you are more clement than vile men, Who of their broken debtors take a third, A sixth, a tenth, letting them thrive again On their abatement; that’s not my desire. For Imogen’s dear life take mine; and though ’Tis not so dear, yet ’tis a life; you coin’d it. ’Tween man and man they weigh not every stamp; Though light, take pieces for the figure’s sake; You rather mine, being yours. And so, great pow’rs, If you will take this audit, take this life, And cancel these cold bonds. O Imogen! I’ll speak to thee in silence.
[Sleeps.]
Solemn music. Enter, as in an apparition, Sicilius Leonatus, father to Posthumus, an old man attired like a warrior; leading in his hand an ancient matron, his wife and Mother to Posthumus, with music before them. Then, after other music, follows the two young Leonati, brothers to Posthumus, with wounds, as they died in the wars. They circle Posthumus round as he lies sleeping.
SICILIUS. No more, thou thunder-master, show Thy spite on mortal flies. With Mars fall out, with Juno chide, That thy adulteries Rates and revenges. Hath my poor boy done aught but well, Whose face I never saw? I died whilst in the womb he stay’d Attending nature’s law; Whose father then, as men report Thou orphans’ father art, Thou shouldst have been, and shielded him From this earth-vexing smart.
MOTHER. Lucina lent not me her aid, But took me in my throes, That from me was Posthumus ripp’d, Came crying ’mongst his foes, A thing of pity.
SICILIUS. Great Nature like his ancestry Moulded the stuff so fair That he deserv’d the praise o’ th’ world As great Sicilius’ heir.
FIRST BROTHER. When once he was mature for man, In Britain where was he That could stand up his parallel, Or fruitful object be In eye of Imogen, that best Could deem his dignity?
MOTHER. With marriage wherefore was he mock’d, To be exil’d and thrown From Leonati seat and cast From her his dearest one, Sweet Imogen?
SICILIUS. Why did you suffer Iachimo, Slight thing of Italy, To taint his nobler heart and brain With needless jealousy, And to become the geck and scorn O’ th’ other’s villainy?
SECOND BROTHER. For this from stiller seats we came, Our parents and us twain, That, striking in our country’s cause, Fell bravely and were slain, Our fealty and Tenantius’ right With honour to maintain.
FIRST BROTHER. Like hardiment Posthumus hath To Cymbeline perform’d. Then, Jupiter, thou king of gods, Why hast thou thus adjourn’d The graces for his merits due, Being all to dolours turn’d?
SICILIUS. Thy crystal window ope; look out; No longer exercise Upon a valiant race thy harsh And potent injuries.
MOTHER. Since, Jupiter, our son is good, Take off his miseries.
SICILIUS. Peep through thy marble mansion. Help! Or we poor ghosts will cry To th’ shining synod of the rest Against thy deity.
BROTHERS. Help, Jupiter! or we appeal, And from thy justice fly.
Jupiter descends in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an eagle. He throws a thunderbolt. The Ghosts fall on their knees.
JUPITER. No more, you petty spirits of region low, Offend our hearing; hush! How dare you ghosts Accuse the Thunderer whose bolt, you know, Sky-planted, batters all rebelling coasts? Poor shadows of Elysium, hence and rest Upon your never-withering banks of flow’rs. Be not with mortal accidents opprest: No care of yours it is; you know ’tis ours. Whom best I love I cross; to make my gift, The more delay’d, delighted. Be content; Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift; His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent. Our Jovial star reign’d at his birth, and in Our temple was he married. Rise and fade! He shall be lord of Lady Imogen, And happier much by his affliction made. This tablet lay upon his breast, wherein Our pleasure his full fortune doth confine; And so, away; no farther with your din Express impatience, lest you stir up mine. Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline.
[Ascends.]
SICILIUS. He came in thunder; his celestial breath Was sulphurous to smell; the holy eagle Stoop’d as to foot us. His ascension is More sweet than our blest fields. His royal bird Prunes the immortal wing, and cloys his beak, As when his god is pleas’d.
ALL. Thanks, Jupiter!
SICILIUS. The marble pavement closes, he is enter’d His radiant roof. Away! and, to be blest, Let us with care perform his great behest.
[Ghosts vanish.]
POSTHUMUS. [Waking.] Sleep, thou has been a grandsire and begot A father to me; and thou hast created A mother and two brothers. But, O scorn, Gone! They went hence so soon as they were born. And so I am awake. Poor wretches, that depend On greatness’ favour, dream as I have done; Wake and find nothing. But, alas, I swerve; Many dream not to find, neither deserve, And yet are steep’d in favours; so am I, That have this golden chance, and know not why. What fairies haunt this ground? A book? O rare one! Be not, as is our fangled world, a garment Nobler than that it covers. Let thy effects So follow to be most unlike our courtiers, As good as promise.
[Reads.] When as a lion’s whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embrac’d by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopp’d branches which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate and flourish in peace and plenty.
’Tis still a dream, or else such stuff as madmen Tongue, and brain not; either both or nothing, Or senseless speaking, or a speaking such As sense cannot untie. Be what it is, The action of my life is like it, which I’ll keep, if but for sympathy.
Enter Gaoler.
GAOLER. Come, sir, are you ready for death?
POSTHUMUS. Over-roasted rather; ready long ago.
GAOLER. Hanging is the word, sir; if you be ready for that, you are well cook’d.
POSTHUMUS. So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators, the dish pays the shot.
GAOLER. A heavy reckoning for you, sir. But the comfort is, you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more tavern bills, which are often the sadness of parting, as the procuring of mirth. You come in faint for want of meat, depart reeling with too much drink; sorry that you have paid too much, and sorry that you are paid too much; purse and brain both empty; the brain the heavier for being too light, the purse too light, being drawn of heaviness. O, of this contradiction you shall now be quit. O, the charity of a penny cord! It sums up thousands in a trice. You have no true debitor and creditor but it; of what’s past, is, and to come, the discharge. Your neck, sir, is pen, book, and counters; so the acquittance follows.
POSTHUMUS. I am merrier to die than thou art to live.
GAOLER. Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the toothache. But a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would change places with his officer; for look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go.
POSTHUMUS. Yes indeed do I, fellow.
GAOLER. Your death has eyes in’s head, then; I have not seen him so pictur’d. You must either be directed by some that take upon them to know, or to take upon yourself that which I am sure you do not know, or jump the after-inquiry on your own peril. And how you shall speed in your journey’s end, I think you’ll never return to tell one.
POSTHUMUS. I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes to direct them the way I am going, but such as wink and will not use them.
GAOLER. What an infinite mock is this, that a man should have the best use of eyes to see the way of blindness! I am sure hanging’s the way of winking.
Enter a Messenger.
MESSENGER. Knock off his manacles; bring your prisoner to the King.
POSTHUMUS. Thou bring’st good news: I am call’d to be made free.
GAOLER. I’ll be hang’d then.
POSTHUMUS. Thou shalt be then freer than a gaoler; no bolts for the dead.
[Exeunt Posthumus and Messenger.]
GAOLER. Unless a man would marry a gallows and beget young gibbets, I never saw one so prone. Yet, on my conscience, there are verier knaves desire to live, for all he be a Roman; and there be some of them too that die against their wills; so should I, if I were one. I would we were all of one mind, and one mind good. O, there were desolation of gaolers and gallowses! I speak against my present profit, but my wish hath a preferment in’t.
[Exit.]