Act IV, Scene VI — Rome. A public place…

Act IV, Scene VI — Rome. A public place

Enter the two Tribunes. Sicinius and Brutus.

SICINIUS. We hear not of him, neither need we fear him. His remedies are tame—the present peace, And quietness of the people, which before Were in wild hurry. Here do we make his friends Blush that the world goes well, who rather had, Though they themselves did suffer by’t, behold Dissentious numbers pest’ring streets than see Our tradesmen singing in their shops and going About their functions friendly.

BRUTUS. We stood to’t in good time.

Enter Menenius.

Is this Menenius?

SICINIUS. ’Tis he, ’tis he. O, he is grown most kind Of late.—Hail, sir!

MENENIUS. Hail to you both.

SICINIUS. Your Coriolanus is not much missed But with his friends. The commonwealth doth stand, And so would do were he more angry at it.

MENENIUS. All’s well, and might have been much better if He could have temporized.

SICINIUS. Where is he, hear you?

MENENIUS. Nay, I hear nothing; His mother and his wife hear nothing from him.

Enter three or four Citizens.

ALL CITIZENS. The gods preserve you both!

SICINIUS. Good e’en, our neighbours.

BRUTUS. Good e’en to you all, good e’en to you all.

FIRST CITIZEN. Ourselves, our wives, and children, on our knees Are bound to pray for you both.

SICINIUS. Live and thrive!

BRUTUS. Farewell, kind neighbours. We wished Coriolanus Had loved you as we did.

CITIZENS. Now the gods keep you!

BOTH TRIBUNES. Farewell, farewell.

[Exeunt Citizens.]

SICINIUS. This is a happier and more comely time Than when these fellows ran about the streets Crying confusion.

BRUTUS. Caius Martius was A worthy officer i’ th’ war, but insolent, O’ercome with pride, ambitious, past all thinking Self-loving.

SICINIUS. And affecting one sole throne, without assistance.

MENENIUS. I think not so.

SICINIUS. We should by this, to all our lamentation, If he had gone forth consul, found it so.

BRUTUS. The gods have well prevented it, and Rome Sits safe and still without him.

Enter an Aedile.

AEDILE. Worthy tribunes, There is a slave, whom we have put in prison, Reports the Volsces with two several powers Are entered in the Roman territories, And with the deepest malice of the war Destroy what lies before ’em.

MENENIUS. ’Tis Aufidius, Who, hearing of our Martius’ banishment, Thrusts forth his horns again into the world, Which were inshelled when Martius stood for Rome, And durst not once peep out.

SICINIUS. Come, what talk you of Martius?

BRUTUS. Go see this rumourer whipped. It cannot be The Volsces dare break with us.

MENENIUS. Cannot be? We have record that very well it can, And three examples of the like hath been Within my age. But reason with the fellow Before you punish him, where he heard this, Lest you shall chance to whip your information And beat the messenger who bids beware Of what is to be dreaded.

SICINIUS. Tell not me. I know this cannot be.

BRUTUS. Not possible.

Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER. The nobles in great earnestness are going All to the Senate House. Some news is coming That turns their countenances.

SICINIUS. ’Tis this slave— Go whip him ’fore the people’s eyes—his raising, Nothing but his report.

MESSENGER. Yes, worthy sir, The slave’s report is seconded, and more, More fearful, is delivered.

SICINIUS. What more fearful?

MESSENGER. It is spoke freely out of many mouths— How probable I do not know—that Martius, Joined with Aufidius, leads a power ’gainst Rome And vows revenge as spacious as between The young’st and oldest thing.

SICINIUS. This is most likely!

BRUTUS. Raised only that the weaker sort may wish Good Martius home again.

SICINIUS. The very trick on ’t.

MENENIUS. This is unlikely; He and Aufidius can no more atone Than violent’st contrariety.

Enter a Second Messenger.

SECOND MESSENGER. You are sent for to the Senate. A fearful army, led by Caius Martius Associated with Aufidius, rages Upon our territories, and have already O’erborne their way, consumed with fire and took What lay before them.

Enter Cominius.

COMINIUS. O, you have made good work!

MENENIUS. What news? What news?

COMINIUS. You have holp to ravish your own daughters and To melt the city leads upon your pates, To see your wives dishonoured to your noses—

MENENIUS. What’s the news? What’s the news?

COMINIUS. Your temples burned in their cement, and Your franchises, whereon you stood, confined Into an auger’s bore.

MENENIUS. Pray now, your news?— You have made fair work, I fear me.—Pray, your news? If Martius should be joined with Volscians—

COMINIUS. If? He is their god; he leads them like a thing Made by some other deity than Nature, That shapes man better; and they follow him Against us brats with no less confidence Than boys pursuing summer butterflies Or butchers killing flies.

MENENIUS. You have made good work, You and your apron-men, you that stood so much Upon the voice of occupation and The breath of garlic eaters!

COMINIUS. He’ll shake your Rome about your ears.

MENENIUS. As Hercules did shake down mellow fruit. You have made fair work.

BRUTUS. But is this true, sir?

COMINIUS. Ay, and you’ll look pale Before you find it other. All the regions Do smilingly revolt, and who resists Are mocked for valiant ignorance And perish constant fools. Who is’t can blame him? Your enemies and his find something in him.

MENENIUS. We are all undone unless The noble man have mercy.

COMINIUS. Who shall ask it? The Tribunes cannot do’t for shame; the people Deserve such pity of him as the wolf Does of the shepherds. For his best friends, if they Should say “Be good to Rome,” they charged him even As those should do that had deserved his hate And therein showed like enemies.

MENENIUS. ’Tis true. If he were putting to my house the brand That should consume it, I have not the face To say “Beseech you, cease.”—You have made fair hands, You and your crafts! You have crafted fair!

COMINIUS. You have brought A trembling upon Rome such as was never S’ incapable of help.

TRIBUNES. Say not we brought it.

MENENIUS. How? Was it we? We loved him, but like beasts And cowardly nobles, gave way unto your clusters, Who did hoot him out o’ th’ city.

COMINIUS. But I fear They’ll roar him in again. Tullus Aufidius, The second name of men, obeys his points As if he were his officer. Desperation Is all the policy, strength, and defence That Rome can make against them.

Enter a troop of Citizens.

MENENIUS. Here comes the clusters.— And is Aufidius with him? You are they That made the air unwholesome when you cast Your stinking, greasy caps in hooting at Coriolanus’ exile. Now he’s coming, And not a hair upon a soldier’s head Which will not prove a whip. As many coxcombs As you threw caps up will he tumble down And pay you for your voices. ’Tis no matter. If he could burn us all into one coal We have deserved it.

ALL CITIZENS. Faith, we hear fearful news.

FIRST CITIZEN. For mine own part, When I said banish him, I said ’twas pity.

SECOND CITIZEN. And so did I.

THIRD CITIZEN. And so did I. And, to say the truth, so did very many of us. That we did we did for the best; and though we willingly consented to his banishment, yet it was against our will.

COMINIUS. You are goodly things, you voices!

MENENIUS. You have made good work, you and your cry!— Shall’s to the Capitol?

COMINIUS. O, ay, what else?

[Exeunt Cominius and Menenius.]

SICINIUS. Go, masters, get you home. Be not dismayed. These are a side that would be glad to have This true which they so seem to fear. Go home, And show no sign of fear.

FIRST CITIZEN. The gods be good to us! Come, masters, let’s home. I ever said we were i’ th’ wrong when we banished him.

SECOND CITIZEN. So did we all. But, come, let’s home.

[Exeunt Citizens.]

BRUTUS. I do not like this news.

SICINIUS. Nor I.

BRUTUS. Let’s to the Capitol. Would half my wealth Would buy this for a lie!

SICINIUS. Pray let’s go.

[Exeunt.]

Act IV, Scene VII — A camp at a short distance from Rome

Enter Aufidius with his Lieutenant.

AUFIDIUS. Do they still fly to th’ Roman?

LIEUTENANT. I do not know what witchcraft’s in him, but Your soldiers use him as the grace ’fore meat, Their talk at table, and their thanks at end; And you are dark’ned in this action, sir, Even by your own.

AUFIDIUS. I cannot help it now, Unless by using means I lame the foot Of our design. He bears himself more proudlier, Even to my person, than I thought he would When first I did embrace him. Yet his nature In that’s no changeling, and I must excuse What cannot be amended.

LIEUTENANT. Yet I wish, sir— I mean for your particular—you had not Joined in commission with him, but either Had borne the action of yourself or else To him had left it solely.

AUFIDIUS. I understand thee well, and be thou sure, When he shall come to his account, he knows not What I can urge against him, although it seems, And so he thinks and is no less apparent To th’ vulgar eye, that he bears all things fairly, And shows good husbandry for the Volscian state, Fights dragonlike, and does achieve as soon As draw his sword; yet he hath left undone That which shall break his neck or hazard mine Whene’er we come to our account.

LIEUTENANT. Sir, I beseech you, think you he’ll carry Rome?

AUFIDIUS. All places yield to him ere he sits down, And the nobility of Rome are his; The Senators and Patricians love him too. The Tribunes are no soldiers, and their people Will be as rash in the repeal as hasty To expel him thence. I think he’ll be to Rome As is the osprey to the fish, who takes it By sovereignty of nature. First, he was A noble servant to them, but he could not Carry his honours even. Whether ’twas pride, Which out of daily fortune ever taints The happy man; whether defect of judgment, To fail in the disposing of those chances Which he was lord of; or whether nature, Not to be other than one thing, not moving From th’ casque to th’ cushion, but commanding peace Even with the same austerity and garb As he controlled the war; but one of these— As he hath spices of them all—not all, For I dare so far free him—made him feared, So hated, and so banished. But he has a merit To choke it in the utt’rance. So our virtues Lie in th’ interpretation of the time, And power, unto itself most commendable, Hath not a tomb so evident as a chair T’ extol what it hath done. One fire drives out one fire, one nail one nail; Rights by rights falter; strengths by strengths do fail. Come, let’s away. When, Caius, Rome is thine, Thou art poor’st of all; then shortly art thou mine.

[Exeunt.]

Act V, Scene I — Rome. A public place

Enter Menenius, Cominius, Sicinius, Brutus (the two Tribunes), with others.

MENENIUS. No, I’ll not go. You hear what he hath said Which was sometime his general, who loved him In a most dear particular. He called me father, But what o’ that? Go you that banished him; A mile before his tent, fall down, and knee The way into his mercy. Nay, if he coyed To hear Cominius speak, I’ll keep at home.

COMINIUS. He would not seem to know me.

MENENIUS. Do you hear?

COMINIUS. Yet one time he did call me by my name. I urged our old acquaintance, and the drops That we have bled together. “Coriolanus” He would not answer to, forbade all names. He was a kind of nothing, titleless, Till he had forged himself a name i’ th’ fire Of burning Rome.

MENENIUS. Why, so; you have made good work! A pair of tribunes that have wracked Rome To make coals cheap! A noble memory!

COMINIUS. I minded him how royal ’twas to pardon When it was less expected. He replied It was a bare petition of a state To one whom they had punished.

MENENIUS. Very well. Could he say less?

COMINIUS. I offered to awaken his regard For’s private friends. His answer to me was He could not stay to pick them in a pile Of noisome musty chaff. He said ’twas folly For one poor grain or two to leave unburnt And still to nose th’ offence.

MENENIUS. For one poor grain or two! I am one of those! His mother, wife, his child, And this brave fellow too, we are the grains; You are the musty chaff, and you are smelt Above the moon. We must be burnt for you.

SICINIUS. Nay, pray, be patient. If you refuse your aid In this so-never-needed help, yet do not Upbraid’s with our distress. But sure, if you Would be your country’s pleader, your good tongue, More than the instant army we can make, Might stop our countryman.

MENENIUS. No, I’ll not meddle.

SICINIUS. Pray you, go to him.

MENENIUS. What should I do?

BRUTUS. Only make trial what your love can do For Rome, towards Martius.

MENENIUS. Well, and say that Martius Return me, as Cominius is returned, unheard, What then? But as a discontented friend, Grief-shot with his unkindness? Say’t be so?

SICINIUS. Yet your good will Must have that thanks from Rome after the measure As you intended well.

MENENIUS. I’ll undertake’t. I think he’ll hear me. Yet to bite his lip And hum at good Cominius much unhearts me. He was not taken well; he had not dined. The veins unfilled, our blood is cold, and then We pout upon the morning, are unapt To give or to forgive; but when we have stuffed These pipes and these conveyances of our blood With wine and feeding, we have suppler souls Than in our priestlike fasts. Therefore I’ll watch him Till he be dieted to my request, And then I’ll set upon him.

BRUTUS. You know the very road into his kindness And cannot lose your way.

MENENIUS. Good faith, I’ll prove him, Speed how it will. I shall ere long have knowledge Of my success.

[Exit.]

COMINIUS. He’ll never hear him.

SICINIUS. Not?

COMINIUS. I tell you, he does sit in gold, his eye Red as ’twould burn Rome; and his injury The jailer to his pity. I kneeled before him; ’Twas very faintly he said “Rise”; dismissed me Thus with his speechless hand. What he would do He sent in writing after me; what he Would not, bound with an oath to yield to his Conditions. So that all hope is vain Unless his noble mother and his wife, Who, as I hear, mean to solicit him For mercy to his country. Therefore let’s hence And with our fair entreaties haste them on.

[Exeunt.]

Act V, Scene II — An Advanced post of the Volscian camp before Rome

Enter Menenius to the Watch, or Guard.

FIRST WATCH. Stay! Whence are you?

SECOND WATCH. Stand, and go back.

MENENIUS. You guard like men; ’tis well. But by your leave, I am an officer of state and come To speak with Coriolanus.

FIRST WATCH. From whence?

MENENIUS. From Rome.

FIRST WATCH. You may not pass; you must return. Our general Will no more hear from thence.

SECOND WATCH. You’ll see your Rome embraced with fire before You’ll speak with Coriolanus.

MENENIUS. Good my friends, If you have heard your general talk of Rome And of his friends there, it is lots to blanks My name hath touched your ears. It is Menenius.

FIRST WATCH. Be it so; go back. The virtue of your name Is not here passable.

MENENIUS. I tell thee, fellow, Thy general is my lover. I have been The book of his good acts, whence men have read His fame unparalleled happily amplified; For I have ever verified my friends— Of whom he’s chief—with all the size that verity Would without lapsing suffer. Nay, sometimes, Like to a bowl upon a subtle ground, I have tumbled past the throw, and in his praise Have almost stamped the leasing. Therefore, fellow, I must have leave to pass.

FIRST WATCH. Faith, sir, if you had told as many lies in his behalf as you have uttered words in your own, you should not pass here, no, though it were as virtuous to lie as to live chastely. Therefore, go back.

MENENIUS. Prithee, fellow, remember my name is Menenius, always factionary on the party of your general.

SECOND WATCH. Howsoever you have been his liar, as you say you have, I am one that, telling true under him, must say you cannot pass. Therefore go back.

MENENIUS. Has he dined, can’st thou tell? For I would not speak with him till after dinner.

FIRST WATCH. You are a Roman, are you?

MENENIUS. I am, as thy general is.

FIRST WATCH. Then you should hate Rome as he does. Can you, when you have pushed out your gates the very defender of them, and, in a violent popular ignorance given your enemy your shield, think to front his revenges with the easy groans of old women, the virginal palms of your daughters, or with the palsied intercession of such a decayed dotant as you seem to be? Can you think to blow out the intended fire your city is ready to flame in with such weak breath as this? No, you are deceived. Therefore back to Rome and prepare for your execution. You are condemned. Our general has sworn you out of reprieve and pardon.

MENENIUS. Sirrah, if thy captain knew I were here, he would use me with estimation.

SECOND WATCH. Come, my captain knows you not.

MENENIUS. I mean thy general.

FIRST WATCH. My general cares not for you. Back, I say, go, lest I let forth your half pint of blood. Back! That’s the utmost of your having. Back!

MENENIUS. Nay, but fellow, fellow—

Enter Coriolanus with Aufidius.

CORIOLANUS. What’s the matter?

MENENIUS. Now, you companion, I’ll say an errand for you. You shall know now that I am in estimation; you shall perceive that a Jack guardant cannot office me from my son Coriolanus. Guess but by my entertainment with him if thou stand’st not i’ th’ state of hanging or of some death more long in spectatorship and crueller in suffering; behold now presently, and swoon for what’s to come upon thee. [to Coriolanus.] The glorious gods sit in hourly synod about thy particular prosperity and love thee no worse than thy old father Menenius does! O my son, my son! Thou art preparing fire for us; look thee, here’s water to quench it. I was hardly moved to come to thee; but being assured none but myself could move thee, I have been blown out of your gates with sighs, and conjure thee to pardon Rome and thy petitionary countrymen. The good gods assuage thy wrath and turn the dregs of it upon this varlet here, this, who, like a block, hath denied my access to thee.

CORIOLANUS. Away!

MENENIUS. How? Away?

CORIOLANUS. Wife, mother, child, I know not. My affairs Are servanted to others. Though I owe My revenge properly, my remission lies In Volscian breasts. That we have been familiar, Ingrate forgetfulness shall poison rather Than pity note how much. Therefore begone. Mine ears against your suits are stronger than Your gates against my force. Yet, for I loved thee, Take this along; I writ it for thy sake,

[He gives Menenius a paper.]

And would have sent it. Another word, Menenius, I will not hear thee speak.—This man, Aufidius, Was my beloved in Rome; yet thou behold’st.

AUFIDIUS. You keep a constant temper.

[They exit.]

[The Guard and Menenius remain.]

FIRST WATCH. Now, sir, is your name Menenius?

SECOND WATCH. ’Tis a spell, you see, of much power. You know the way home again.

FIRST WATCH. Do you hear how we are shent for keeping your Greatness back?

SECOND WATCH. What cause do you think I have to swoon?

MENENIUS. I neither care for th’ world nor your general. For such things as you, I can scarce think there’s any, you’re so slight. He that hath a will to die by himself fears it not from another. Let your general do his worst. For you, be that you are, long; and your misery increase with your age! I say to you, as I was said to, away!

[Exit.]

FIRST WATCH. A noble fellow, I warrant him.

SECOND WATCH. The worthy fellow is our general. He is the rock, the oak not to be wind-shaken.

[Exeunt.]

Act V, Scene III — The tent of Coriolanus

Enter Coriolanus and Aufidius.

CORIOLANUS. We will before the walls of Rome tomorrow Set down our host. My partner in this action, You must report to th’ Volscian lords how plainly I have borne this business.

AUFIDIUS. Only their ends You have respected, stopped your ears against The general suit of Rome; never admitted A private whisper, no, not with such friends That thought them sure of you.

CORIOLANUS. This last old man, Whom with cracked heart I have sent to Rome, Loved me above the measure of a father, Nay, godded me indeed. Their latest refuge Was to send him, for whose old love I have— Though I showed sourly to him—once more offered The first conditions, which they did refuse And cannot now accept, to grace him only That thought he could do more. A very little I have yielded to. Fresh embassies and suits, Nor from the state nor private friends, hereafter Will I lend ear to.

[Shout within.]

Ha? What shout is this? Shall I be tempted to infringe my vow In the same time ’tis made? I will not.

Enter Virgilia, Volumnia, Valeria, young Martius with attendants.

My wife comes foremost, then the honoured mold Wherein this trunk was framed, and in her hand The grandchild to her blood. But out, affection! All bond and privilege of nature, break! Let it be virtuous to be obstinate. What is that curtsy worth? Or those doves’ eyes, Which can make gods forsworn? I melt and am not Of stronger earth than others. My mother bows, As if Olympus to a molehill should In supplication nod; and my young boy Hath an aspect of intercession which Great Nature cries “Deny not!” Let the Volsces Plough Rome and harrow Italy, I’ll never Be such a gosling to obey instinct, but stand As if a man were author of himself, And knew no other kin.

VIRGILIA. My lord and husband.

CORIOLANUS. These eyes are not the same I wore in Rome.

VIRGILIA. The sorrow that delivers us thus changed Makes you think so.

CORIOLANUS. Like a dull actor now, I have forgot my part, and I am out, Even to a full disgrace. Best of my flesh, Forgive my tyranny, but do not say For that, “Forgive our Romans.”

[They kiss.]

O, a kiss Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge! Now, by the jealous queen of heaven, that kiss I carried from thee, dear, and my true lip Hath virgined it e’er since. You gods! I prate And the most noble mother of the world Leave unsaluted. Sink, my knee, i’ th’ earth;

[Kneels.]

Of thy deep duty more impression show Than that of common sons.

VOLUMNIA. O, stand up blest,

[He rises.]

Whilst with no softer cushion than the flint I kneel before thee and unproperly Show duty, as mistaken all this while Between the child and parent.

[She kneels.]

CORIOLANUS. What is this? Your knees to me? To your corrected son?

[He raises her up.]

Then let the pebbles on the hungry beach Fillip the stars! Then let the mutinous winds Strike the proud cedars ’gainst the fiery sun, Murdering impossibility to make What cannot be slight work.

VOLUMNIA. Thou art my warrior; I holp to frame thee. Do you know this lady?

CORIOLANUS. The noble sister of Publicola, The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle That’s curdied by the frost from purest snow And hangs on Dian’s temple!—Dear Valeria.

VOLUMNIA. This is a poor epitome of yours, Which by th’ interpretation of full time May show like all yourself.

CORIOLANUS. The god of soldiers, With the consent of supreme Jove, inform Thy thoughts with nobleness, that thou mayst prove To shame unvulnerable, and stick i’ th’ wars Like a great seamark standing every flaw And saving those that eye thee.

VOLUMNIA. [To young Martius.] Your knee, sirrah.

[He kneels.]

CORIOLANUS. That’s my brave boy!

VOLUMNIA. Even he, your wife, this lady, and myself Are suitors to you.

[Young Martius rises.]

CORIOLANUS. I beseech you, peace; Or, if you’d ask, remember this before: The thing I have forsworn to grant may never Be held by you denials. Do not bid me Dismiss my soldiers or capitulate Again with Rome’s mechanics. Tell me not Wherein I seem unnatural; desire not T’ allay my rages and revenges with Your colder reasons.

VOLUMNIA. O, no more, no more! You have said you will not grant us anything; For we have nothing else to ask but that Which you deny already. Yet we will ask, That if you fail in our request, the blame May hang upon your hardness. Therefore hear us.

CORIOLANUS. Aufidius, and you Volsces, mark, for we’ll Hear naught from Rome in private. Your request?

VOLUMNIA. Should we be silent and not speak, our raiment And state of bodies would bewray what life We have led since thy exile. Think with thyself How more unfortunate than all living women Are we come hither; since that thy sight, which should Make our eyes flow with joy, hearts dance with comforts, Constrains them weep and shake with fear and sorrow, Making the mother, wife, and child to see The son, the husband, and the father tearing His country’s bowels out. And to poor we Thine enmity’s most capital. Thou barr’st us Our prayers to the gods, which is a comfort That all but we enjoy. For how can we— Alas, how can we—for our country pray, Whereto we are bound, together with thy victory, Whereto we are bound? Alack, or we must lose The country, our dear nurse, or else thy person, Our comfort in the country. We must find An evident calamity, though we had Our wish, which side should win, for either thou Must as a foreign recreant be led With manacles through our streets, or else Triumphantly tread on thy country’s ruin And bear the palm for having bravely shed Thy wife and children’s blood. For myself, son, I purpose not to wait on fortune till These wars determine. If I cannot persuade thee Rather to show a noble grace to both parts Than seek the end of one, thou shalt no sooner March to assault thy country than to tread— Trust to’t, thou shalt not—on thy mother’s womb That brought thee to this world.

VIRGILIA. Ay, and mine, That brought you forth this boy to keep your name Living to time.

YOUNG MARTIUS. He shall not tread on me. I’ll run away till I am bigger, but then I’ll fight.

CORIOLANUS. Not of a woman’s tenderness to be Requires nor child nor woman’s face to see.— I have sat too long.

[He rises.]

VOLUMNIA. Nay, go not from us thus. If it were so, that our request did tend To save the Romans, thereby to destroy The Volsces whom you serve, you might condemn us As poisonous of your honour. No, our suit Is that you reconcile them, while the Volsces May say “This mercy we have showed,” the Romans “This we received,” and each in either side Give the all-hail to thee and cry, “Be blessed For making up this peace!” Thou know’st, great son, The end of war’s uncertain, but this certain, That, if thou conquer Rome, the benefit Which thou shalt thereby reap is such a name Whose repetition will be dogged with curses, Whose chronicle thus writ: “The man was noble, But with his last attempt he wiped it out; Destroyed his country, and his name remains To th’ ensuing age abhorred.” Speak to me, son. Thou hast affected the fine strains of honour To imitate the graces of the gods, To tear with thunder the wide cheeks o’ th’ air And yet to charge thy sulphur with a bolt That should but rive an oak. Why dost not speak? Think’st thou it honourable for a noble man Still to remember wrongs?—Daughter, speak you. He cares not for your weeping.—Speak thou, boy. Perhaps thy childishness will move him more Than can our reasons.—There’s no man in the world More bound to’s mother, yet here he lets me prate Like one i’ th’ stocks. Thou hast never in thy life Showed thy dear mother any courtesy When she, poor hen, fond of no second brood, Has clucked thee to the wars and safely home, Loaden with honour. Say my request’s unjust And spurn me back; but if it be not so, Thou art not honest, and the gods will plague thee That thou restrain’st from me the duty which To a mother’s part belongs.—He turns away.— Down, ladies! Let us shame him with our knees. To his surname Coriolanus ’longs more pride Than pity to our prayers. Down! An end.

[They kneel.]

This is the last. So we will home to Rome And die among our neighbours.—Nay, behold’s. This boy that cannot tell what he would have, But kneels and holds up hands for fellowship, Does reason our petition with more strength Than thou hast to deny’t.—Come, let us go.

[They rise.]

This fellow had a Volscian to his mother, His wife is in Corioles, and his child Like him by chance.—Yet give us our dispatch. I am hushed until our city be afire, And then I’ll speak a little.

[He holds her by the hand, silent.]

CORIOLANUS. O mother, mother! What have you done? Behold, the heavens do ope, The gods look down, and this unnatural scene They laugh at. O my mother, mother, O! You have won a happy victory to Rome, But, for your son—believe it, O, believe it!— Most dangerously you have with him prevailed, If not most mortal to him. But let it come.— Aufidius, though I cannot make true wars, I’ll frame convenient peace. Now, good Aufidius, Were you in my stead, would you have heard A mother less? Or granted less, Aufidius?

AUFIDIUS. I was moved withal.

CORIOLANUS. I dare be sworn you were. And, sir, it is no little thing to make Mine eyes to sweat compassion. But, good sir, What peace you’ll make, advise me. For my part, I’ll not to Rome, I’ll back with you; and pray you, Stand to me in this cause.—O mother!—Wife!

[He speaks with them aside.]

AUFIDIUS. [Aside.] I am glad thou hast set thy mercy and thy honour At difference in thee. Out of that I’ll work Myself a former fortune.

CORIOLANUS. [To the Women.] Ay, by and by; But we’ll drink together, and you shall bear A better witness back than words, which we, On like conditions, will have countersealed. Come, enter with us. Ladies, you deserve To have a temple built you. All the swords In Italy, and her confederate arms, Could not have made this peace.

[Exeunt.]

Act V, Scene IV — Rome. A public place

Enter Menenius and Sicinius.

MENENIUS. See you yond coign o’ the Capitol, yond cornerstone?

SICINIUS. Why, what of that?

MENENIUS. If it be possible for you to displace it with your little finger, there is some hope the ladies of Rome, especially his mother, may prevail with him. But I say there is no hope in’t. Our throats are sentenced and stay upon execution.

SICINIUS. Is’t possible that so short a time can alter the condition of a man?

MENENIUS. There is differency between a grub and a butterfly, yet your butterfly was a grub. This Martius is grown from man to dragon. He has wings; he’s more than a creeping thing.

SICINIUS. He loved his mother dearly.

MENENIUS. So did he me; and he no more remembers his mother now than an eight-year-old horse. The tartness of his face sours ripe grapes. When he walks, he moves like an engine, and the ground shrinks before his treading. He is able to pierce a corslet with his eye, talks like a knell, and his hum is a battery. He sits in his state as a thing made for Alexander. What he bids be done is finished with his bidding. He wants nothing of a god but eternity and a heaven to throne in.

SICINIUS. Yes, mercy, if you report him truly.

MENENIUS. I paint him in the character. Mark what mercy his mother shall bring from him. There is no more mercy in him than there is milk in a male tiger. That shall our poor city find, and all this is long of you.

SICINIUS. The gods be good unto us.

MENENIUS. No, in such a case the gods will not be good unto us. When we banished him, we respected not them; and he returning to break our necks, they respect not us.

Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER. Sir, if you’d save your life, fly to your house. The plebeians have got your fellow tribune And hale him up and down, all swearing if The Roman ladies bring not comfort home, They’ll give him death by inches.

Enter another Messenger.

SICINIUS. What’s the news?

SECOND MESSENGER. Good news, good news! The ladies have prevailed. The Volscians are dislodged and Martius gone. A merrier day did never yet greet Rome, No, not th’ expulsion of the Tarquins.

SICINIUS. Friend, Art thou certain this is true? Is’t most certain?

SECOND MESSENGER. As certain as I know the sun is fire. Where have you lurked that you make doubt of it? Ne’er through an arch so hurried the blown tide As the recomforted through th’ gates. Why, hark you!

[Trumpets, hautboys, drums beat, all together.]

The trumpets, sackbuts, psalteries, and fifes, Tabors and cymbals, and the shouting Romans Make the sun dance. Hark you!

[A shout within.]

MENENIUS. This is good news. I will go meet the ladies. This Volumnia Is worth of consuls, senators, patricians A city full; of tribunes such as you A sea and land full. You have prayed well today. This morning for ten thousand of your throats I’d not have given a doit. Hark, how they joy!

[Sound still with the shouts.]

SICINIUS. First, the gods bless you for your tidings; next, accept my thankfulness.

SECOND MESSENGER. Sir, we have all great cause to give great thanks.

SICINIUS. They are near the city?

MESSENGER. Almost at point to enter.

SICINIUS. We’ll meet them, and help the joy.

[Exeunt.]

Act V, Scene V — Rome. A street near the gate

Enter two Senators, with Ladies (Volumnia, Virgilia, Valeria) passing over the stage, with other Lords.

SENATOR. Behold our patroness, the life of Rome! Call all your tribes together, praise the gods, And make triumphant fires. Strew flowers before them, Unshout the noise that banished Martius, Repeal him with the welcome of his mother. Cry “Welcome, ladies, welcome!”

ALL. Welcome, ladies, welcome!

[A flourish with drums and trumpets.]

[Exeunt.]

Act V, Scene VI — Antium. A public place

Enter Tullus Aufidius with Attendants.

AUFIDIUS. Go tell the lords o’ th’ city I am here. Deliver them this paper.

[He gives them a paper.]

Having read it, Bid them repair to th’ marketplace, where I, Even in theirs and in the commons’ ears, Will vouch the truth of it. Him I accuse The city ports by this hath entered and Intends t’ appear before the people, hoping To purge himself with words. Dispatch.

[Exeunt Attendants.]

Enter three or four Conspirators of Aufidius’s faction.

Most welcome!

FIRST CONSPIRATOR. How is it with our general?

AUFIDIUS. Even so As with a man by his own alms empoisoned And with his charity slain.

SECOND CONSPIRATOR. Most noble sir, If you do hold the same intent wherein You wished us parties, we’ll deliver you Of your great danger.

AUFIDIUS. Sir, I cannot tell. We must proceed as we do find the people.

THIRD CONSPIRATOR. The people will remain uncertain whilst ’Twixt you there’s difference, but the fall of either Makes the survivor heir of all.

AUFIDIUS. I know it, And my pretext to strike at him admits A good construction. I raised him, and I pawned Mine honour for his truth, who being so heightened, He watered his new plants with dews of flattery, Seducing so my friends; and to this end, He bowed his nature, never known before But to be rough, unswayable, and free.

THIRD CONSPIRATOR. Sir, his stoutness When he did stand for consul, which he lost By lack of stooping—

AUFIDIUS. That I would have spoke of. Being banished for’t, he came unto my hearth, Presented to my knife his throat. I took him, Made him joint servant with me, gave him way In all his own desires; nay, let him choose Out of my files, his projects to accomplish, My best and freshest men; served his designments In mine own person; holp to reap the fame Which he did end all his; and took some pride To do myself this wrong; till at the last I seemed his follower, not partner; and He waged me with his countenance as if I had been mercenary.

FIRST CONSPIRATOR. So he did, my lord. The army marvelled at it, and, in the last, When he had carried Rome and that we looked For no less spoil than glory—

AUFIDIUS. There was it For which my sinews shall be stretched upon him. At a few drops of women’s rheum, which are As cheap as lies, he sold the blood and labour Of our great action. Therefore shall he die, And I’ll renew me in his fall. But, hark!

[Drums and trumpets sound, with great shouts of the people.]

FIRST CONSPIRATOR. Your native town you entered like a post And had no welcomes home, but he returns Splitting the air with noise.

SECOND CONSPIRATOR. And patient fools, Whose children he hath slain, their base throats tear With giving him glory.

THIRD CONSPIRATOR. Therefore at your vantage, Ere he express himself or move the people With what he would say, let him feel your sword, Which we will second. When he lies along, After your way his tale pronounced shall bury His reasons with his body.

AUFIDIUS. Say no more. Here come the lords.

Enter the Lords of the city.

ALL LORDS. You are most welcome home.

AUFIDIUS. I have not deserved it. But, worthy lords, have you with heed perused What I have written to you?

ALL LORDS. We have.

FIRST LORD. And grieve to hear’t. What faults he made before the last, I think Might have found easy fines, but there to end Where he was to begin and give away The benefit of our levies, answering us With our own charge, making a treaty where There was a yielding—this admits no excuse.

Enter Coriolanus marching with Drum and Colours, the Commoners being with him.

AUFIDIUS. He approaches. You shall hear him.

CORIOLANUS. Hail, lords! I am returned your soldier, No more infected with my country’s love Than when I parted hence, but still subsisting Under your great command. You are to know That prosperously I have attempted, and With bloody passage led your wars even to The gates of Rome. Our spoils we have brought home Doth more than counterpoise a full third part The charges of the action. We have made peace With no less honour to the Antiates Than shame to th’ Romans, and we here deliver, Subscribed by th’ Consuls and patricians, Together with the seal o’ th’ Senate, what We have compounded on.

[He offers the lords a paper.]

AUFIDIUS. Read it not, noble lords, But tell the traitor in the highest degree He hath abused your powers.

CORIOLANUS. “Traitor?” How now?

AUFIDIUS. Ay, traitor, Martius.

CORIOLANUS. Martius?

AUFIDIUS. Ay, Martius, Caius Martius. Dost thou think I’ll grace thee with that robbery, thy stol’n name Coriolanus, in Corioles? You lords and heads o’ th’ state, perfidiously He has betrayed your business and given up For certain drops of salt your city Rome— I say your city—to his wife and mother, Breaking his oath and resolution like A twist of rotten silk, never admitting Counsel o’ th’ war, but at his nurse’s tears He whined and roared away your victory, That pages blushed at him and men of heart Looked wond’ring each at other.

CORIOLANUS. Hear’st thou, Mars?

AUFIDIUS. Name not the god, thou boy of tears.

CORIOLANUS. Ha?

AUFIDIUS. No more.

CORIOLANUS. Measureless liar, thou hast made my heart Too great for what contains it. “Boy”? O slave!— Pardon me, lords, ’tis the first time that ever I was forced to scold. Your judgments, my grave lords, Must give this cur the lie; and his own notion— Who wears my stripes impressed upon him, that Must bear my beating to his grave—shall join To thrust the lie unto him.

FIRST LORD. Peace, both, and hear me speak.

CORIOLANUS. Cut me to pieces, Volsces. Men and lads, Stain all your edges on me. “Boy”? False hound! If you have writ your annals true, ’tis there, That like an eagle in a dovecote, I Fluttered your Volscians in Corioles, Alone I did it. “Boy”!

AUFIDIUS. Why, noble lords, Will you be put in mind of his blind fortune, Which was your shame, by this unholy braggart, ’Fore your own eyes and ears?

ALL CONSPIRATORS. Let him die for’t.

ALL PEOPLE Tear him to pieces! Do it presently! He killed my son! My daughter! He killed my cousin Marcus! He killed my father!

SECOND LORD. Peace, ho! No outrage! Peace! The man is noble, and his fame folds in This orb o’ th’ Earth. His last offences to us Shall have judicious hearing. Stand, Aufidius, And trouble not the peace.

CORIOLANUS. O that I had him, With six Aufidiuses, or more, his tribe, To use my lawful sword.

AUFIDIUS. Insolent villain!

ALL CONSPIRATORS. Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill him!

[Draw the Conspirators, and kills Martius, who falls. Aufidius stands on him.]

LORDS. Hold, hold, hold, hold!

AUFIDIUS. My noble masters, hear me speak.

FIRST LORD. O Tullus!

SECOND LORD. Thou hast done a deed whereat valour will weep.

THIRD LORD. Tread not upon him.—Masters, all be quiet.— Put up your swords.

AUFIDIUS. My lords, when you shall know—as in this rage, Provoked by him, you cannot—the great danger Which this man’s life did owe you, you’ll rejoice That he is thus cut off. Please it your Honours To call me to your senate, I’ll deliver Myself your loyal servant, or endure Your heaviest censure.

FIRST LORD. Bear from hence his body, And mourn you for him. Let him be regarded As the most noble corse that ever herald Did follow to his urn.

SECOND LORD. His own impatience Takes from Aufidius a great part of blame. Let’s make the best of it.

AUFIDIUS. My rage is gone, And I am struck with sorrow.—Take him up. Help, three o’ th’ chiefest soldiers; I’ll be one.— Beat thou the drum that it speak mournfully.— Trail your steel pikes. Though in this city he Hath widowed and unchilded many a one, Which to this hour bewail the injury, Yet he shall have a noble memory. Assist.

[Exeunt, bearing the body of Martius. A dead march sounded.]

CYMBELINE

Dramatis Personæ

CYMBELINE, King of Britain CLOTEN, son to the Queen by a former husband POSTHUMUS LEONATUS, a gentleman, husband to Imogen BELARIUS, a banished lord, disguised under the name of Morgan GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS, sons to Cymbeline, disguised under the names of POLYDORE and CADWAL, supposed sons to Belarius PHILARIO, Italian, friend to Posthumus IACHIMO, Italian, friend to Philario CAIUS LUCIUS, General of the Roman forces PISANIO, servant to Posthumus CORNELIUS, a physician A SOOTHSAYER A ROMAN CAPTAIN TWO BRITISH CAPTAINS A FRENCH GENTLEMAN, friend to Philario TWO LORDS of Cymbeline’s court TWO GENTLEMEN of the same TWO GAOLERS

QUEEN, wife to Cymbeline IMOGEN, daughter to Cymbeline by a former queen HELEN, a lady attending on Imogen

APPARITIONS

Lords, Ladies, Roman Senators, Tribunes, a Dutch Gentleman, a Spanish Gentleman, Musicians, Officers, Captains, Soldiers, Messengers, and Attendants

SCENE: Britain; Italy.

Act I, Scene I — Britain. The garden of Cymbeline’s palace

Enter two Gentlemen.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. You do not meet a man but frowns; our bloods No more obey the heavens than our courtiers Still seem as does the King’s.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. But what’s the matter?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. His daughter, and the heir of’s kingdom, whom He purpos’d to his wife’s sole son—a widow That late he married—hath referr’d herself Unto a poor but worthy gentleman. She’s wedded; Her husband banish’d; she imprison’d. All Is outward sorrow, though I think the King Be touch’d at very heart.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. None but the King?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. He that hath lost her too. So is the Queen, That most desir’d the match. But not a courtier, Although they wear their faces to the bent Of the King’s looks, hath a heart that is not Glad at the thing they scowl at.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. And why so?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. He that hath miss’d the Princess is a thing Too bad for bad report; and he that hath her— I mean that married her, alack, good man! And therefore banish’d—is a creature such As, to seek through the regions of the earth For one his like, there would be something failing In him that should compare. I do not think So fair an outward and such stuff within Endows a man but he.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. You speak him far.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. I do extend him, sir, within himself; Crush him together rather than unfold His measure duly.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. What’s his name and birth?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. I cannot delve him to the root; his father Was call’d Sicilius, who did join his honour Against the Romans with Cassibelan, But had his titles by Tenantius, whom He serv’d with glory and admir’d success, So gain’d the sur-addition Leonatus; And had, besides this gentleman in question, Two other sons, who, in the wars o’ th’ time, Died with their swords in hand; for which their father, Then old and fond of issue, took such sorrow That he quit being; and his gentle lady, Big of this gentleman, our theme, deceas’d As he was born. The King he takes the babe To his protection, calls him Posthumus Leonatus, Breeds him and makes him of his bed-chamber, Puts to him all the learnings that his time Could make him the receiver of; which he took, As we do air, fast as ’twas minist’red, And in’s spring became a harvest, liv’d in court— Which rare it is to do—most prais’d, most lov’d, A sample to the youngest; to th’ more mature A glass that feated them; and to the graver A child that guided dotards. To his mistress, For whom he now is banish’d, her own price Proclaims how she esteem’d him and his virtue; By her election may be truly read What kind of man he is.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. I honour him Even out of your report. But pray you tell me, Is she sole child to th’ King?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. His only child. He had two sons—if this be worth your hearing, Mark it—the eldest of them at three years old, I’ th’ swathing clothes the other, from their nursery Were stol’n; and to this hour no guess in knowledge Which way they went.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. How long is this ago?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Some twenty years.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. That a king’s children should be so convey’d, So slackly guarded, and the search so slow That could not trace them!

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Howsoe’er ’tis strange, Or that the negligence may well be laugh’d at, Yet is it true, sir.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. I do well believe you.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. We must forbear; here comes the gentleman, The Queen, and Princess.

[Exeunt.]

Act I, Scene II — The same

Enter Queen, Posthumus and Imogen.

QUEEN. No, be assur’d you shall not find me, daughter, After the slander of most stepmothers, Evil-ey’d unto you. You’re my prisoner, but Your gaoler shall deliver you the keys That lock up your restraint. For you, Posthumus, So soon as I can win th’ offended King, I will be known your advocate. Marry, yet The fire of rage is in him, and ’twere good You lean’d unto his sentence with what patience Your wisdom may inform you.

POSTHUMUS. Please your Highness, I will from hence today.

QUEEN. You know the peril. I’ll fetch a turn about the garden, pitying The pangs of barr’d affections, though the King Hath charg’d you should not speak together.

[Exit.]

IMOGEN. O dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant Can tickle where she wounds! My dearest husband, I something fear my father’s wrath, but nothing (Always reserv’d my holy duty) what His rage can do on me. You must be gone; And I shall here abide the hourly shot Of angry eyes, not comforted to live But that there is this jewel in the world That I may see again.

POSTHUMUS. My queen! my mistress! O lady, weep no more, lest I give cause To be suspected of more tenderness Than doth become a man. I will remain The loyal’st husband that did e’er plight troth; My residence in Rome at one Philario’s, Who to my father was a friend, to me Known but by letter; thither write, my queen, And with mine eyes I’ll drink the words you send, Though ink be made of gall.

Enter Queen.

QUEEN. Be brief, I pray you. If the King come, I shall incur I know not How much of his displeasure. [Aside.] Yet I’ll move him To walk this way. I never do him wrong But he does buy my injuries, to be friends; Pays dear for my offences.

[Exit.]

POSTHUMUS. Should we be taking leave As long a term as yet we have to live, The loathness to depart would grow. Adieu!

IMOGEN. Nay, stay a little. Were you but riding forth to air yourself, Such parting were too petty. Look here, love: This diamond was my mother’s; take it, heart; But keep it till you woo another wife, When Imogen is dead.

POSTHUMUS. How, how? Another? You gentle gods, give me but this I have, And sear up my embracements from a next With bonds of death! Remain, remain thou here

[Puts on the ring.]

While sense can keep it on. And, sweetest, fairest, As I my poor self did exchange for you, To your so infinite loss, so in our trifles I still win of you. For my sake wear this; It is a manacle of love; I’ll place it Upon this fairest prisoner.

[Puts a bracelet on her arm.]

IMOGEN. O the gods! When shall we see again?

Enter Cymbeline and Lords.

POSTHUMUS. Alack, the King!

CYMBELINE. Thou basest thing, avoid; hence from my sight If after this command thou fraught the court With thy unworthiness, thou diest. Away! Thou’rt poison to my blood.

POSTHUMUS. The gods protect you, And bless the good remainders of the court! I am gone.

[Exit.]

IMOGEN. There cannot be a pinch in death More sharp than this is.

CYMBELINE. O disloyal thing, That shouldst repair my youth, thou heap’st A year’s age on me!

IMOGEN. I beseech you, sir, Harm not yourself with your vexation. I am senseless of your wrath; a touch more rare Subdues all pangs, all fears.

CYMBELINE. Past grace? obedience?

IMOGEN. Past hope, and in despair; that way past grace.

CYMBELINE. That mightst have had the sole son of my queen!

IMOGEN. O blessed that I might not! I chose an eagle, And did avoid a puttock.

CYMBELINE. Thou took’st a beggar, wouldst have made my throne A seat for baseness.

IMOGEN. No; I rather added A lustre to it.

CYMBELINE. O thou vile one!

IMOGEN. Sir, It is your fault that I have lov’d Posthumus. You bred him as my playfellow, and he is A man worth any woman; overbuys me Almost the sum he pays.

CYMBELINE. What, art thou mad?

IMOGEN. Almost, sir. Heaven restore me! Would I were A neat-herd’s daughter, and my Leonatus Our neighbour shepherd’s son!

Enter Queen.

CYMBELINE. Thou foolish thing! [To the Queen.] They were again together. You have done Not after our command. Away with her, And pen her up.

QUEEN. Beseech your patience. Peace, Dear lady daughter, peace!—Sweet sovereign, Leave us to ourselves, and make yourself some comfort Out of your best advice.

CYMBELINE. Nay, let her languish A drop of blood a day and, being aged, Die of this folly.

[Exit with Lords.]

Enter Pisanio.

QUEEN. Fie! you must give way. Here is your servant. How now, sir! What news?

PISANIO. My lord your son drew on my master.

QUEEN. Ha! No harm, I trust, is done?

PISANIO. There might have been, But that my master rather play’d than fought, And had no help of anger; they were parted By gentlemen at hand.

QUEEN. I am very glad on’t.

IMOGEN. Your son’s my father’s friend; he takes his part To draw upon an exile! O brave sir! I would they were in Afric both together; Myself by with a needle, that I might prick The goer-back. Why came you from your master?

PISANIO. On his command. He would not suffer me To bring him to the haven; left these notes Of what commands I should be subject to, When’t pleas’d you to employ me.

QUEEN. This hath been Your faithful servant. I dare lay mine honour He will remain so.

PISANIO. I humbly thank your Highness.

QUEEN. Pray walk awhile.

IMOGEN. About some half-hour hence, Pray you speak with me. You shall at least go see my lord aboard. For this time leave me.

[Exeunt.]

Act I, Scene III — Britain. A public place

Enter Cloten and two Lords.

FIRST LORD. Sir, I would advise you to shift a shirt; the violence of action hath made you reek as a sacrifice. Where air comes out, air comes in; there’s none abroad so wholesome as that you vent.

CLOTEN. If my shirt were bloody, then to shift it. Have I hurt him?

SECOND LORD. [Aside.] No, faith; not so much as his patience.

FIRST LORD. Hurt him! His body’s a passable carcass if he be not hurt. It is a throughfare for steel if it be not hurt.

SECOND LORD. [Aside.] His steel was in debt; it went o’ th’ backside the town.

CLOTEN. The villain would not stand me.

SECOND LORD. [Aside.] No; but he fled forward still, toward your face.

FIRST LORD. Stand you? You have land enough of your own; but he added to your having, gave you some ground.

SECOND LORD. [Aside.] As many inches as you have oceans. Puppies!

CLOTEN. I would they had not come between us.

SECOND LORD. [Aside.] So would I, till you had measur’d how long a fool you were upon the ground.

CLOTEN. And that she should love this fellow, and refuse me!

SECOND LORD. [Aside.] If it be a sin to make a true election, she is damn’d.

FIRST LORD. Sir, as I told you always, her beauty and her brain go not together; she’s a good sign, but I have seen small reflection of her wit.

SECOND LORD. [Aside.] She shines not upon fools, lest the reflection should hurt her.

CLOTEN. Come, I’ll to my chamber. Would there had been some hurt done!

SECOND LORD. [Aside.] I wish not so; unless it had been the fall of an ass, which is no great hurt.

CLOTEN. You’ll go with us?

FIRST LORD. I’ll attend your lordship.

CLOTEN. Nay, come, let’s go together.

SECOND LORD. Well, my lord.

[Exeunt.]

Act I, Scene IV — Britain. Cymbeline’s palace

Enter Imogen and Pisanio.

IMOGEN. I would thou grew’st unto the shores o’ th’ haven, And questioned’st every sail; if he should write, And I not have it, ’twere a paper lost, As offer’d mercy is. What was the last That he spake to thee?

PISANIO. It was: his queen, his queen!

IMOGEN. Then wav’d his handkerchief?

PISANIO. And kiss’d it, madam.

IMOGEN. Senseless linen, happier therein than I! And that was all?

PISANIO. No, madam; for so long As he could make me with his eye, or ear Distinguish him from others, he did keep The deck, with glove, or hat, or handkerchief, Still waving, as the fits and stirs of’s mind Could best express how slow his soul sail’d on, How swift his ship.

IMOGEN. Thou shouldst have made him As little as a crow, or less, ere left To after-eye him.

PISANIO. Madam, so I did.

IMOGEN. I would have broke mine eyestrings, crack’d them but To look upon him, till the diminution Of space had pointed him sharp as my needle; Nay, followed him till he had melted from The smallness of a gnat to air, and then Have turn’d mine eye and wept. But, good Pisanio, When shall we hear from him?

PISANIO. Be assur’d, madam, With his next vantage.

IMOGEN. I did not take my leave of him, but had Most pretty things to say. Ere I could tell him How I would think on him at certain hours Such thoughts and such; or I could make him swear The shes of Italy should not betray Mine interest and his honour; or have charg’d him, At the sixth hour of morn, at noon, at midnight, T’ encounter me with orisons, for then I am in heaven for him; or ere I could Give him that parting kiss which I had set Betwixt two charming words, comes in my father, And like the tyrannous breathing of the north Shakes all our buds from growing.

Enter a Lady.

LADY. The Queen, madam, Desires your Highness’ company.

IMOGEN. Those things I bid you do, get them dispatch’d. I will attend the Queen.

PISANIO. Madam, I shall.

[Exeunt.]

Act I, Scene V — Rome. Philario’s house

Enter Philario, Iachimo, a Frenchman, a Dutchman and a Spaniard.

IACHIMO. Believe it, sir, I have seen him in Britain. He was then of a crescent note, expected to prove so worthy as since he hath been allowed the name of. But I could then have look’d on him without the help of admiration, though the catalogue of his endowments had been tabled by his side, and I to peruse him by items.

PHILARIO. You speak of him when he was less furnish’d than now he is with that which makes him both without and within.

FRENCHMAN. I have seen him in France; we had very many there could behold the sun with as firm eyes as he.

IACHIMO. This matter of marrying his king’s daughter, wherein he must be weighed rather by her value than his own, words him, I doubt not, a great deal from the matter.

FRENCHMAN. And then his banishment.

IACHIMO. Ay, and the approbation of those that weep this lamentable divorce under her colours are wonderfully to extend him, be it but to fortify her judgement, which else an easy battery might lay flat, for taking a beggar, without less quality. But how comes it he is to sojourn with you? How creeps acquaintance?

PHILARIO. His father and I were soldiers together, to whom I have been often bound for no less than my life.

Enter Posthumus.

Here comes the Briton. Let him be so entertained amongst you as suits with gentlemen of your knowing to a stranger of his quality. I beseech you all be better known to this gentleman, whom I commend to you as a noble friend of mine. How worthy he is I will leave to appear hereafter, rather than story him in his own hearing.

FRENCHMAN. Sir, we have known together in Orleans.

POSTHUMUS. Since when I have been debtor to you for courtesies, which I will be ever to pay and yet pay still.

FRENCHMAN. Sir, you o’errate my poor kindness. I was glad I did atone my countryman and you; it had been pity you should have been put together with so mortal a purpose as then each bore, upon importance of so slight and trivial a nature.

POSTHUMUS. By your pardon, sir. I was then a young traveller; rather shunn’d to go even with what I heard than in my every action to be guided by others’ experiences; but upon my mended judgement (if I offend not to say it is mended) my quarrel was not altogether slight.

FRENCHMAN. Faith, yes, to be put to the arbitrement of swords, and by such two that would by all likelihood have confounded one the other or have fall’n both.

IACHIMO. Can we, with manners, ask what was the difference?

FRENCHMAN. Safely, I think. ’Twas a contention in public, which may, without contradiction, suffer the report. It was much like an argument that fell out last night, where each of us fell in praise of our country mistresses; this gentleman at that time vouching (and upon warrant of bloody affirmation) his to be more fair, virtuous, wise, chaste, constant, qualified, and less attemptable, than any the rarest of our ladies in France.

IACHIMO. That lady is not now living, or this gentleman’s opinion, by this, worn out.

POSTHUMUS. She holds her virtue still, and I my mind.

IACHIMO. You must not so far prefer her ’fore ours of Italy.

POSTHUMUS. Being so far provok’d as I was in France, I would abate her nothing, though I profess myself her adorer, not her friend.

IACHIMO. As fair and as good—a kind of hand-in-hand comparison—had been something too fair and too good for any lady in Britain. If she went before others I have seen as that diamond of yours outlustres many I have beheld, I could not but believe she excelled many; but I have not seen the most precious diamond that is, nor you the lady.

POSTHUMUS. I prais’d her as I rated her. So do I my stone.

IACHIMO. What do you esteem it at?

POSTHUMUS. More than the world enjoys.

IACHIMO. Either your unparagon’d mistress is dead, or she’s outpriz’d by a trifle.

POSTHUMUS. You are mistaken: the one may be sold or given, if there were wealth enough for the purchase or merit for the gift; the other is not a thing for sale, and only the gift of the gods.

IACHIMO. Which the gods have given you?

POSTHUMUS. Which by their graces I will keep.

IACHIMO. You may wear her in title yours; but you know strange fowl light upon neighbouring ponds. Your ring may be stol’n too. So your brace of unprizable estimations, the one is but frail and the other casual; a cunning thief, or a that-way-accomplish’d courtier, would hazard the winning both of first and last.

POSTHUMUS. Your Italy contains none so accomplish’d a courtier to convince the honour of my mistress, if in the holding or loss of that you term her frail. I do nothing doubt you have store of thieves; notwithstanding, I fear not my ring.

PHILARIO. Let us leave here, gentlemen.

POSTHUMUS. Sir, with all my heart. This worthy signior, I thank him, makes no stranger of me; we are familiar at first.

IACHIMO. With five times so much conversation I should get ground of your fair mistress; make her go back even to the yielding, had I admittance and opportunity to friend.

POSTHUMUS. No, no.

IACHIMO. I dare thereupon pawn the moiety of my estate to your ring, which, in my opinion, o’ervalues it something. But I make my wager rather against your confidence than her reputation; and, to bar your offence herein too, I durst attempt it against any lady in the world.

POSTHUMUS. You are a great deal abus’d in too bold a persuasion, and I doubt not you sustain what y’are worthy of by your attempt.

IACHIMO. What’s that?

POSTHUMUS. A repulse; though your attempt, as you call it, deserve more; a punishment too.

PHILARIO. Gentlemen, enough of this. It came in too suddenly; let it die as it was born, and I pray you be better acquainted.

IACHIMO. Would I had put my estate and my neighbour’s on th’ approbation of what I have spoke!

POSTHUMUS. What lady would you choose to assail?

IACHIMO. Yours, whom in constancy you think stands so safe. I will lay you ten thousand ducats to your ring that, commend me to the court where your lady is, with no more advantage than the opportunity of a second conference, and I will bring from thence that honour of hers which you imagine so reserv’d.

POSTHUMUS. I will wage against your gold, gold to it. My ring I hold dear as my finger; ’tis part of it.

IACHIMO. You are a friend, and therein the wiser. If you buy ladies’ flesh at a million a dram, you cannot preserve it from tainting. But I see you have some religion in you, that you fear.

POSTHUMUS. This is but a custom in your tongue; you bear a graver purpose, I hope.

IACHIMO. I am the master of my speeches, and would undergo what’s spoken, I swear.

POSTHUMUS. Will you? I shall but lend my diamond till your return. Let there be covenants drawn between’s. My mistress exceeds in goodness the hugeness of your unworthy thinking. I dare you to this match: here’s my ring.

PHILARIO. I will have it no lay.

IACHIMO. By the gods, it is one. If I bring you no sufficient testimony that I have enjoy’d the dearest bodily part of your mistress, my ten thousand ducats are yours; so is your diamond too. If I come off, and leave her in such honour as you have trust in, she your jewel, this your jewel, and my gold are yours: provided I have your commendation for my more free entertainment.

POSTHUMUS. I embrace these conditions; let us have articles betwixt us. Only, thus far you shall answer: if you make your voyage upon her, and give me directly to understand you have prevail’d, I am no further your enemy; she is not worth our debate; if she remain unseduc’d, you not making it appear otherwise, for your ill opinion and th’ assault you have made to her chastity you shall answer me with your sword.

IACHIMO. Your hand, a covenant! We will have these things set down by lawful counsel, and straight away for Britain, lest the bargain should catch cold and starve. I will fetch my gold and have our two wagers recorded.

POSTHUMUS. Agreed.

[Exeunt Posthumus and Iachimo.]

FRENCHMAN. Will this hold, think you?

PHILARIO. Signior Iachimo will not from it. Pray let us follow ’em.

[Exeunt.]

Act I, Scene VI — Britain. Cymbeline’s palace

Enter Queen, Ladies and Cornelius.

QUEEN. Whiles yet the dew’s on ground, gather those flowers; Make haste; who has the note of them?

LADY. I, madam.

QUEEN. Dispatch.

[Exeunt Ladies.]

Now, Master Doctor, have you brought those drugs?

CORNELIUS. Pleaseth your Highness, ay. Here they are, madam.

[Presenting a box.]

But I beseech your Grace, without offence, (My conscience bids me ask) wherefore you have Commanded of me these most poisonous compounds Which are the movers of a languishing death, But, though slow, deadly?

QUEEN. I wonder, Doctor, Thou ask’st me such a question. Have I not been Thy pupil long? Hast thou not learn’d me how To make perfumes? distil? preserve? yea, so That our great king himself doth woo me oft For my confections? Having thus far proceeded (Unless thou think’st me devilish) is’t not meet That I did amplify my judgement in Other conclusions? I will try the forces Of these thy compounds on such creatures as We count not worth the hanging (but none human) To try the vigour of them, and apply Allayments to their act, and by them gather Their several virtues and effects.

CORNELIUS. Your Highness Shall from this practice but make hard your heart; Besides, the seeing these effects will be Both noisome and infectious.

QUEEN. O, content thee.

Enter Pisanio.

[Aside.] Here comes a flattering rascal; upon him Will I first work. He’s for his master, An enemy to my son. How now, Pisanio! Doctor, your service for this time is ended; Take your own way.

CORNELIUS. [Aside.] I do suspect you, madam; But you shall do no harm.

QUEEN. [To Pisanio.] Hark thee, a word.

CORNELIUS. [Aside.] I do not like her. She doth think she has Strange ling’ring poisons. I do know her spirit, And will not trust one of her malice with A drug of such damn’d nature. Those she has Will stupefy and dull the sense awhile, Which first perchance she’ll prove on cats and dogs, Then afterward up higher; but there is No danger in what show of death it makes, More than the locking up the spirits a time, To be more fresh, reviving. She is fool’d With a most false effect; and I the truer So to be false with her.

QUEEN. No further service, Doctor, Until I send for thee.

CORNELIUS. I humbly take my leave.

[Exit.]

QUEEN. Weeps she still, say’st thou? Dost thou think in time She will not quench, and let instructions enter Where folly now possesses? Do thou work. When thou shalt bring me word she loves my son, I’ll tell thee on the instant thou art then As great as is thy master; greater, for His fortunes all lie speechless, and his name Is at last gasp. Return he cannot, nor Continue where he is. To shift his being Is to exchange one misery with another, And every day that comes comes to decay A day’s work in him. What shalt thou expect To be depender on a thing that leans, Who cannot be new built, nor has no friends So much as but to prop him?

[The Queen drops the box. Pisanio takes it up.]

Thou tak’st up Thou know’st not what; but take it for thy labour. It is a thing I made, which hath the King Five times redeem’d from death. I do not know What is more cordial. Nay, I prithee take it; It is an earnest of a further good That I mean to thee. Tell thy mistress how The case stands with her; do’t as from thyself. Think what a chance thou changest on; but think Thou hast thy mistress still; to boot, my son, Who shall take notice of thee. I’ll move the King To any shape of thy preferment, such As thou’lt desire; and then myself, I chiefly, That set thee on to this desert, am bound To load thy merit richly. Call my women. Think on my words.

[Exit Pisanio.]

A sly and constant knave, Not to be shak’d; the agent for his master, And the remembrancer of her to hold The hand-fast to her lord. I have given him that Which, if he take, shall quite unpeople her Of liegers for her sweet; and which she after, Except she bend her humour, shall be assur’d To taste of too.

Enter Pisanio and Ladies.

So, so. Well done, well done. The violets, cowslips, and the primroses, Bear to my closet. Fare thee well, Pisanio; Think on my words.

[Exeunt Queen and Ladies.]

PISANIO. And shall do. But when to my good lord I prove untrue I’ll choke myself: there’s all I’ll do for you.

[Exit.]

Act I, Scene VII — Britain. The palace

Enter Imogen alone.

IMOGEN. A father cruel and a step-dame false; A foolish suitor to a wedded lady That hath her husband banish’d. O, that husband! My supreme crown of grief! and those repeated Vexations of it! Had I been thief-stol’n, As my two brothers, happy! but most miserable Is the desire that’s glorious. Blessed be those, How mean soe’er, that have their honest wills, Which seasons comfort. Who may this be? Fie!

Enter Pisanio and Iachimo.

PISANIO. Madam, a noble gentleman of Rome Comes from my lord with letters.

IACHIMO. Change you, madam? The worthy Leonatus is in safety, And greets your Highness dearly.

[Presents a letter.]

IMOGEN. Thanks, good sir. You’re kindly welcome.

IACHIMO. [Aside.] All of her that is out of door most rich! If she be furnish’d with a mind so rare, She is alone th’ Arabian bird, and I Have lost the wager. Boldness be my friend! Arm me, audacity, from head to foot! Or, like the Parthian, I shall flying fight; Rather, directly fly.

IMOGEN. [Reads.] He is one of the noblest note, to whose kindnesses I am most infinitely tied. Reflect upon him accordingly, as you value your trust. LEONATUS.

So far I read aloud; But even the very middle of my heart Is warm’d by th’ rest and takes it thankfully. You are as welcome, worthy sir, as I Have words to bid you; and shall find it so In all that I can do.

IACHIMO. Thanks, fairest lady. What, are men mad? Hath nature given them eyes To see this vaulted arch and the rich crop Of sea and land, which can distinguish ’twixt The fiery orbs above and the twinn’d stones Upon the number’d beach, and can we not Partition make with spectacles so precious ’Twixt fair and foul?

IMOGEN. What makes your admiration?

IACHIMO. It cannot be i’ th’ eye, for apes and monkeys, ’Twixt two such shes, would chatter this way and Contemn with mows the other; nor i’ th’ judgement, For idiots in this case of favour would Be wisely definite; nor i’ th’ appetite; Sluttery, to such neat excellence oppos’d, Should make desire vomit emptiness, Not so allur’d to feed.

IMOGEN. What is the matter, trow?

IACHIMO. The cloyed will— That satiate yet unsatisfied desire, that tub Both fill’d and running—ravening first the lamb, Longs after for the garbage.

IMOGEN. What, dear sir, Thus raps you? Are you well?

IACHIMO. Thanks, madam; well. Beseech you, sir, Desire my man’s abode where I did leave him. He’s strange and peevish.

PISANIO. I was going, sir, To give him welcome.

[Exit.]

IMOGEN. Continues well my lord? His health beseech you?

IACHIMO. Well, madam.

IMOGEN. Is he dispos’d to mirth? I hope he is.

IACHIMO. Exceeding pleasant; none a stranger there So merry and so gamesome. He is call’d The Briton reveller.

IMOGEN. When he was here He did incline to sadness, and oft-times Not knowing why.

IACHIMO. I never saw him sad. There is a Frenchman his companion, one An eminent monsieur that, it seems, much loves A Gallian girl at home. He furnaces The thick sighs from him; whiles the jolly Briton (Your lord, I mean) laughs from’s free lungs, cries “O, Can my sides hold, to think that man, who knows By history, report, or his own proof, What woman is, yea, what she cannot choose But must be, will’s free hours languish for Assured bondage?”

IMOGEN. Will my lord say so?

IACHIMO. Ay, madam, with his eyes in flood with laughter. It is a recreation to be by And hear him mock the Frenchman. But heavens know Some men are much to blame.

IMOGEN. Not he, I hope.

IACHIMO. Not he; but yet heaven’s bounty towards him might Be us’d more thankfully. In himself, ’tis much; In you, which I account his, beyond all talents. Whilst I am bound to wonder, I am bound To pity too.

IMOGEN. What do you pity, sir?

IACHIMO. Two creatures heartily.

IMOGEN. Am I one, sir? You look on me: what wreck discern you in me Deserves your pity?

IACHIMO. Lamentable! What, To hide me from the radiant sun and solace I’ th’ dungeon by a snuff?

IMOGEN. I pray you, sir, Deliver with more openness your answers To my demands. Why do you pity me?

IACHIMO. That others do, I was about to say, enjoy your—But It is an office of the gods to venge it, Not mine to speak on’t.

IMOGEN. You do seem to know Something of me, or what concerns me; pray you, Since doubting things go ill often hurts more Than to be sure they do; for certainties Either are past remedies, or, timely knowing, The remedy then born—discover to me What both you spur and stop.

IACHIMO. Had I this cheek To bathe my lips upon; this hand, whose touch, Whose every touch, would force the feeler’s soul To th’ oath of loyalty; this object, which Takes prisoner the wild motion of mine eye, Fixing it only here; should I, damn’d then, Slaver with lips as common as the stairs That mount the Capitol; join gripes with hands Made hard with hourly falsehood (falsehood as With labour): then by-peeping in an eye Base and illustrious as the smoky light That’s fed with stinking tallow: it were fit That all the plagues of hell should at one time Encounter such revolt.

IMOGEN. My lord, I fear, Has forgot Britain.

IACHIMO. And himself. Not I Inclin’d to this intelligence pronounce The beggary of his change; but ’tis your graces That from my mutest conscience to my tongue Charms this report out.

IMOGEN. Let me hear no more.

IACHIMO. O dearest soul, your cause doth strike my heart With pity that doth make me sick! A lady So fair, and fasten’d to an empery, Would make the great’st king double, to be partner’d With tomboys hir’d with that self exhibition Which your own coffers yield! with diseas’d ventures That play with all infirmities for gold Which rottenness can lend nature! Such boil’d stuff As well might poison poison! Be reveng’d; Or she that bore you was no queen, and you Recoil from your great stock.

IMOGEN. Reveng’d? How should I be reveng’d? If this be true, (As I have such a heart that both mine ears Must not in haste abuse) if it be true, How should I be reveng’d?

IACHIMO. Should he make me Live like Diana’s priest betwixt cold sheets, Whiles he is vaulting variable ramps, In your despite, upon your purse? Revenge it. I dedicate myself to your sweet pleasure, More noble than that runagate to your bed, And will continue fast to your affection, Still close as sure.

IMOGEN. What ho, Pisanio!

IACHIMO. Let me my service tender on your lips.

IMOGEN. Away! I do condemn mine ears that have So long attended thee. If thou wert honourable, Thou wouldst have told this tale for virtue, not For such an end thou seek’st, as base as strange. Thou wrong’st a gentleman who is as far From thy report as thou from honour; and Solicits here a lady that disdains Thee and the devil alike. What ho, Pisanio! The King my father shall be made acquainted Of thy assault. If he shall think it fit A saucy stranger in his court to mart As in a Romish stew, and to expound His beastly mind to us, he hath a court He little cares for, and a daughter who He not respects at all. What ho, Pisanio!

IACHIMO. O happy Leonatus! I may say The credit that thy lady hath of thee Deserves thy trust, and thy most perfect goodness Her assur’d credit. Blessed live you long, A lady to the worthiest sir that ever Country call’d his! and you his mistress, only For the most worthiest fit! Give me your pardon. I have spoke this to know if your affiance Were deeply rooted, and shall make your lord That which he is new o’er; and he is one The truest manner’d, such a holy witch That he enchants societies into him, Half all men’s hearts are his.

IMOGEN. You make amends.

IACHIMO. He sits ’mongst men like a descended god: He hath a kind of honour sets him off More than a mortal seeming. Be not angry, Most mighty Princess, that I have adventur’d To try your taking of a false report, which hath Honour’d with confirmation your great judgement In the election of a sir so rare, Which you know cannot err. The love I bear him Made me to fan you thus; but the gods made you, Unlike all others, chaffless. Pray your pardon.

IMOGEN. All’s well, sir; take my pow’r i’ th’ court for yours.

IACHIMO. My humble thanks. I had almost forgot T’ entreat your Grace but in a small request, And yet of moment too, for it concerns Your lord; myself and other noble friends Are partners in the business.

IMOGEN. Pray what is’t?

IACHIMO. Some dozen Romans of us, and your lord (The best feather of our wing) have mingled sums To buy a present for the Emperor; Which I, the factor for the rest, have done In France. ’Tis plate of rare device, and jewels Of rich and exquisite form, their values great; And I am something curious, being strange, To have them in safe stowage. May it please you To take them in protection?

IMOGEN. Willingly; And pawn mine honour for their safety. Since My lord hath interest in them, I will keep them In my bedchamber.

IACHIMO. They are in a trunk, Attended by my men. I will make bold To send them to you only for this night; I must aboard tomorrow.

IMOGEN. O, no, no.

IACHIMO. Yes, I beseech; or I shall short my word By length’ning my return. From Gallia I cross’d the seas on purpose and on promise To see your Grace.

IMOGEN. I thank you for your pains. But not away tomorrow!

IACHIMO. O, I must, madam. Therefore I shall beseech you, if you please To greet your lord with writing, do’t tonight. I have outstood my time, which is material To th’ tender of our present.

IMOGEN. I will write. Send your trunk to me; it shall safe be kept And truly yielded you. You’re very welcome.

[Exeunt.]

Act II, Scene I — Britain. Before Cymbeline’s palace

Enter Cloten and the two Lords.

CLOTEN. Was there ever man had such luck! When I kiss’d the jack, upon an upcast to be hit away! I had a hundred pound on’t; and then a whoreson jackanapes must take me up for swearing, as if I borrowed mine oaths of him, and might not spend them at my pleasure.

FIRST LORD. What got he by that? You have broke his pate with your bowl.

SECOND LORD. [Aside.] If his wit had been like him that broke it, it would have run all out.

CLOTEN. When a gentleman is dispos’d to swear, it is not for any standers-by to curtail his oaths. Ha?

SECOND LORD. No, my lord; [Aside.] nor crop the ears of them.

CLOTEN. Whoreson dog! I gave him satisfaction. Would he had been one of my rank!

SECOND LORD. [Aside.] To have smell’d like a fool.

CLOTEN. I am not vex’d more at anything in th’ earth. A pox on’t! I had rather not be so noble as I am; they dare not fight with me, because of the Queen my mother. Every jackslave hath his bellyful of fighting, and I must go up and down like a cock that nobody can match.

SECOND LORD. [Aside.] You are cock and capon too; and you crow, cock, with your comb on.

CLOTEN. Sayest thou?

SECOND LORD. It is not fit your lordship should undertake every companion that you give offence to.

CLOTEN. No, I know that; but it is fit I should commit offence to my inferiors.

SECOND LORD. Ay, it is fit for your lordship only.

CLOTEN. Why, so I say.

FIRST LORD. Did you hear of a stranger that’s come to court tonight?

CLOTEN. A stranger, and I not known on’t?

SECOND LORD. [Aside.] He’s a strange fellow himself, and knows it not.

FIRST LORD. There’s an Italian come, and, ’tis thought, one of Leonatus’ friends.

CLOTEN. Leonatus? A banish’d rascal; and he’s another, whatsoever he be. Who told you of this stranger?

FIRST LORD. One of your lordship’s pages.

CLOTEN. Is it fit I went to look upon him? Is there no derogation in’t?

SECOND LORD. You cannot derogate, my lord.

CLOTEN. Not easily, I think.

SECOND LORD. [Aside.] You are a fool granted; therefore your issues, being foolish, do not derogate.

CLOTEN. Come, I’ll go see this Italian. What I have lost today at bowls I’ll win tonight of him. Come, go.

SECOND LORD. I’ll attend your lordship.

[Exeunt Cloten and First Lord.]

That such a crafty devil as is his mother Should yield the world this ass! A woman that Bears all down with her brain; and this her son Cannot take two from twenty, for his heart, And leave eighteen. Alas, poor princess, Thou divine Imogen, what thou endur’st, Betwixt a father by thy step-dame govern’d, A mother hourly coining plots, a wooer More hateful than the foul expulsion is Of thy dear husband, than that horrid act Of the divorce he’d make! The heavens hold firm The walls of thy dear honour, keep unshak’d That temple, thy fair mind, that thou mayst stand T’ enjoy thy banish’d lord and this great land!

[Exit.]

Act II, Scene II — Britain. Imogen’s bedchamber in Cymbeline’s palace; a trunk in one corner

Enter Imogen in her bed, and a Lady attending.

IMOGEN. Who’s there? My woman Helen?

LADY. Please you, madam.

IMOGEN. What hour is it?

LADY. Almost midnight, madam.

IMOGEN. I have read three hours then. Mine eyes are weak; Fold down the leaf where I have left. To bed. Take not away the taper, leave it burning; And if thou canst awake by four o’ th’ clock, I prithee call me. Sleep hath seiz’d me wholly.

[Exit Lady.]

To your protection I commend me, gods. From fairies and the tempters of the night Guard me, beseech ye!

[Sleeps. Iachimo comes from the trunk.]

IACHIMO. The crickets sing, and man’s o’er-labour’d sense Repairs itself by rest. Our Tarquin thus Did softly press the rushes ere he waken’d The chastity he wounded. Cytherea, How bravely thou becom’st thy bed! fresh lily, And whiter than the sheets! That I might touch! But kiss; one kiss! Rubies unparagon’d, How dearly they do’t! ’Tis her breathing that Perfumes the chamber thus. The flame o’ th’ taper Bows toward her and would under-peep her lids To see th’ enclosed lights, now canopied Under these windows white and azure, lac’d With blue of heaven’s own tinct. But my design To note the chamber. I will write all down: Such and such pictures; there the window; such Th’ adornment of her bed; the arras, figures, Why, such and such; and the contents o’ th’ story. Ah, but some natural notes about her body Above ten thousand meaner movables Would testify, t’ enrich mine inventory. O sleep, thou ape of death, lie dull upon her! And be her sense but as a monument, Thus in a chapel lying! Come off, come off;

[Taking off her bracelet.]

As slippery as the Gordian knot was hard! ’Tis mine; and this will witness outwardly, As strongly as the conscience does within, To th’ madding of her lord. On her left breast A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops I’ th’ bottom of a cowslip. Here’s a voucher Stronger than ever law could make; this secret Will force him think I have pick’d the lock and ta’en The treasure of her honour. No more. To what end? Why should I write this down that’s riveted, Screw’d to my memory? She hath been reading late The tale of Tereus; here the leaf’s turn’d down Where Philomel gave up. I have enough. To th’ trunk again, and shut the spring of it. Swift, swift, you dragons of the night, that dawning May bare the raven’s eye! I lodge in fear; Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here.

[Clock strikes.]

One, two, three. Time, time!

[Exit into the trunk.]

Act II, Scene III — Cymbeline’s palace. An ante-chamber adjoining Imogen’s apartments

Enter Cloten and Lords.

FIRST LORD. Your lordship is the most patient man in loss, the most coldest that ever turn’d up ace.

CLOTEN. It would make any man cold to lose.

FIRST LORD. But not every man patient after the noble temper of your lordship. You are most hot and furious when you win.

CLOTEN. Winning will put any man into courage. If I could get this foolish Imogen, I should have gold enough. It’s almost morning, is’t not?

FIRST LORD. Day, my lord.

CLOTEN. I would this music would come. I am advised to give her music a mornings; they say it will penetrate.

Enter Musicians.

Come on, tune. If you can penetrate her with your fingering, so. We’ll try with tongue too. If none will do, let her remain; but I’ll never give o’er. First, a very excellent good-conceited thing; after, a wonderful sweet air, with admirable rich words to it, and then let her consider.

SONG

Hark, hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings, And Phœbus ’gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chalic’d flow’rs that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes. With everything that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise; Arise, arise!

CLOTEN. So, get you gone. If this penetrate, I will consider your music the better; if it do not, it is a vice in her ears which horsehairs and calves’ guts, nor the voice of unpaved eunuch to boot, can never amend.

[Exeunt Musicians.]

Enter Cymbeline and Queen.

SECOND LORD. Here comes the King.

CLOTEN. I am glad I was up so late, for that’s the reason I was up so early. He cannot choose but take this service I have done fatherly.—Good morrow to your Majesty and to my gracious mother.

CYMBELINE. Attend you here the door of our stern daughter? Will she not forth?

CLOTEN. I have assail’d her with musics, but she vouchsafes no notice.

CYMBELINE. The exile of her minion is too new; She hath not yet forgot him; some more time Must wear the print of his remembrance on’t, And then she’s yours.

QUEEN. You are most bound to th’ King, Who lets go by no vantages that may Prefer you to his daughter. Frame yourself To orderly solicits, and be friended With aptness of the season; make denials Increase your services; so seem as if You were inspir’d to do those duties which You tender to her; that you in all obey her, Save when command to your dismission tends, And therein you are senseless.

CLOTEN. Senseless? Not so.

Enter a Messenger.

MESSENGER. So like you, sir, ambassadors from Rome; The one is Caius Lucius.

CYMBELINE. A worthy fellow, Albeit he comes on angry purpose now; But that’s no fault of his. We must receive him According to the honour of his sender; And towards himself, his goodness forespent on us, We must extend our notice. Our dear son, When you have given good morning to your mistress, Attend the Queen and us; we shall have need T’ employ you towards this Roman. Come, our queen.

[Exeunt all but Cloten.]

CLOTEN. If she be up, I’ll speak with her; if not, Let her lie still and dream. By your leave, ho!

[Knocks.]

I know her women are about her; what If I do line one of their hands? ’Tis gold Which buys admittance (oft it doth) yea, and makes Diana’s rangers false themselves, yield up Their deer to th’ stand o’ th’ stealer; and ’tis gold Which makes the true man kill’d and saves the thief; Nay, sometime hangs both thief and true man. What Can it not do and undo? I will make One of her women lawyer to me, for I yet not understand the case myself. By your leave.

[Knocks.]

Enter a Lady.

LADY. Who’s there that knocks?

CLOTEN. A gentleman.

LADY. No more?

CLOTEN. Yes, and a gentlewoman’s son.

LADY. That’s more Than some whose tailors are as dear as yours Can justly boast of. What’s your lordship’s pleasure?

CLOTEN. Your lady’s person; is she ready?

LADY. Ay, To keep her chamber.

CLOTEN. There is gold for you; sell me your good report.

LADY. How? My good name? or to report of you What I shall think is good? The Princess!

Enter Imogen.

CLOTEN. Good morrow, fairest sister. Your sweet hand.

[Exit Lady.]

IMOGEN. Good morrow, sir. You lay out too much pains For purchasing but trouble. The thanks I give Is telling you that I am poor of thanks, And scarce can spare them.

CLOTEN. Still I swear I love you.

IMOGEN. If you but said so, ’twere as deep with me. If you swear still, your recompense is still That I regard it not.

CLOTEN. This is no answer.

IMOGEN. But that you shall not say I yield, being silent, I would not speak. I pray you spare me. Faith, I shall unfold equal discourtesy To your best kindness; one of your great knowing Should learn, being taught, forbearance.

CLOTEN. To leave you in your madness ’twere my sin; I will not.

IMOGEN. Fools are not mad folks.

CLOTEN. Do you call me fool?

IMOGEN. As I am mad, I do; If you’ll be patient, I’ll no more be mad; That cures us both. I am much sorry, sir, You put me to forget a lady’s manners By being so verbal; and learn now, for all, That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce, By th’ very truth of it, I care not for you, And am so near the lack of charity To accuse myself I hate you; which I had rather You felt than make’t my boast.

CLOTEN. You sin against Obedience, which you owe your father. For The contract you pretend with that base wretch, One bred of alms and foster’d with cold dishes, With scraps o’ th’ court, it is no contract, none. And though it be allowed in meaner parties (Yet who than he more mean?) to knit their souls (On whom there is no more dependency But brats and beggary) in self-figur’d knot, Yet you are curb’d from that enlargement by The consequence o’ th’ crown, and must not foil The precious note of it with a base slave, A hilding for a livery, a squire’s cloth, A pantler; not so eminent!

IMOGEN. Profane fellow! Wert thou the son of Jupiter, and no more But what thou art besides, thou wert too base To be his groom. Thou wert dignified enough, Even to the point of envy, if ’twere made Comparative for your virtues to be styl’d The under-hangman of his kingdom, and hated For being preferr’d so well.

CLOTEN. The south fog rot him!

IMOGEN. He never can meet more mischance than come To be but nam’d of thee. His mean’st garment That ever hath but clipp’d his body, is dearer In my respect, than all the hairs above thee, Were they all made such men. How now, Pisanio!

Enter Pisanio.

CLOTEN. ‘His garment’! Now the devil—

IMOGEN. To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently.

CLOTEN. ‘His garment’!

IMOGEN. I am sprited with a fool; Frighted, and ang’red worse. Go bid my woman Search for a jewel that too casually Hath left mine arm. It was thy master’s; shrew me, If I would lose it for a revenue Of any king’s in Europe! I do think I saw’t this morning; confident I am Last night ’twas on mine arm; I kiss’d it. I hope it be not gone to tell my lord That I kiss aught but he.

PISANIO. ’Twill not be lost.

IMOGEN. I hope so. Go and search.

[Exit Pisanio.]

CLOTEN. You have abus’d me. ‘His meanest garment’!

IMOGEN. Ay, I said so, sir. If you will make ’t an action, call witness to ’t.

CLOTEN. I will inform your father.

IMOGEN. Your mother too. She’s my good lady and will conceive, I hope, But the worst of me. So I leave you, sir, To th’ worst of discontent.

[Exit.]

CLOTEN. I’ll be reveng’d. ‘His mean’st garment’! Well.

[Exit.]