Act III. Scene I.


Britain. A Hall in CYMBELINE’S Palace.
   
 
Enter at one door CYMBELINE, QUEEN, CLOTEN, and Lords; and at another CAIUS LUCIUS and Attendants.
   
  Cym.  Now say what would Augustus Cæsar with us?   
  Luc.  When Julius Cæsar—whose remembrance yet      4
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      8
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.     12
  Queen.        And, to kill the marvel,   
Shall be so ever.   
  Clo.        There be many Cæsars   
Ere such another Julius. Britain is     16
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,     20
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, ribbed and paled in     24
With rocks unscaleable and roaring waters,   
With sands, that will not bear your enemies’ boats,   
But suck them up to the topmast. A kind of conquest   
Cæsar made here, but made not here his brag     28
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,     32
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,     36
Made Lud’s town with rejoicing-fires bright,   
And Britons strut with courage.   
  Clo.  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 crooked noses, but to owe such straight arms, none.   
  Cym.  Son, let your mother end.     40
  Clo.  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.   
  Cym.  You must know,   
Till the injurious Romans did extort   
This tribute from us, we were free; Cæsar’s ambition—     44
Which swell’d so much that it did almost stretch   
The sides o’ the world—against all colour here   
Did put the yoke upon ’s; which to shake off   
Becomes a war-like people, whom we reckon     48
Ourselves to be. We do 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     52
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     56
Himself a king.   
  Luc.        I am sorry, Cymbeline,   
That I am to pronounce Augustus Cæsar—   
Cæsar, that hath more kings his servants than     60
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,     64
I thank thee for myself.   
  Cym.        Thou art welcome, Caius.   
Thy Cæsar knighted me; my youth I spent   
Much under him; of him I gather’d honour;     68
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     72
Which not to read would show the Britons cold:   
So Cæsar shall not find them.   
  Luc.        Let proof speak.   
  Clo.  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.     76
  Luc.  So, sir.   
  Cym.  I know your master’s pleasure and he mine:   
All the remain is ‘Welcome!’  [Exeunt.

Act III. Scene II.


Another Room in the Same.
   
 
Enter PISANIO, reading a letter.
   
  Pis.  How! of adultery! Wherefore write you not   
What monster’s her accuser? Leonatus!      4
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:      8
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     12
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     16
Let me be counted serviceable. How look I,   
That I should seem to lack humanity   
So much as this fact comes to?—Do ’t: the letter   
That I have sent her by her own command     20
Shall give thee opportunity:—O damn’d paper!   
Black as the ink that’s on thee. Senseless bauble,   
Art thou a feodary for this act, and look’st   
So virgin-like without? Lo! here she comes.     24
I am ignorant in what I am commanded.   
 
Enter IMOGEN.
   
  Imo.  How now, Pisanio!   
  Pis.  Madam, here is a letter from my lord.     28
  Imo.  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,     32
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,     36
For it doth physic love,—of his content,   
All but in that! Good wax, thy leave. Bless’d be   
You bees that make these locks of counsel! Lovers   
And men in dangerous bonds pray not alike;     40
Though forfeiters you cast in prison, yet   
You clasp young Cupid’s tables. Good news, gods!   
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 not 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?     44
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,—     48
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;—     52
Love’s counsellor should fill the bores of hearing,   
To the smothering of the sense,—how far it is   
To this same blessed Milford; and, by the way,   
Tell me how Wales was made so happy as     56
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 hencegoing   
And our return, to excuse; but first, how get hence.     60
Why should excuse be born or ere begot?   
We’ll talk of that hereafter. Prithee, speak,   
How many score of miles may we well ride   
’Twixt hour and hour?     64
  Pis.        One score ’twixt sun and sun,   
Madam, ’s enough for you, and too much too.   
  Imo.  Why, one that rode to ’s execution, man,   
Could never go so slow: I have heard of riding wagers,     68
Where horses have been nimbler than the sands   
That run i’ the clock’s behalf. But this is foolery;   
Go bid my woman feign a sickness; say   
She’ll home to her father; and provide me presently     72
A riding-suit, no costlier than would fit   
A franklin’s housewife.   
  Pis.        Madam, you’re best consider.   
  Imo.  I see before me, man; nor here, nor here,     76
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. 80

Act III. Scene III.


Wales. A mountainous Country with a Cave.
   
 
Enter from the Cave, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS.
   
  Bel.  A goodly day not to keep house, with such   
Whose roof’s as low as ours! Stoop, boys; this gate      4
Instructs you how to 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      8
Good morrow to the sun. Hail, thou fair heaven!   
We house i’ the rock, yet use thee not so hardly   
As prouder livers do.   
  Gui.        Hail, heaven!     12
  Arv.        Hail, heaven!   
  Bel.  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,     16
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,     20
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     24
Than is the full-wing’d eagle. O! this life   
Is nobler than attending for a check,   
Richer than doing nothing for a bribe,   
Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk;     28
Such gain the cap of him that makes ’em fine,   
Yet keeps his book uncross’d; no life to ours.   
  Gui.  Out of your proof you speak; we, poor unfledg’d,   
Have never wing’d from view o’ the nest, nor know not     32
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     36
A cell of ignorance, travelling a-bea.   
A prison for a debtor, that not dares   
To stride a limit.   
  Arv.        What should we speak of     40
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;     44
We are beastly, subtle as the fox for prey,   
Like war-like as the wolf for what we eat;   
Our valour is to chase what flies; our cage   
We make a quire, as doth the prison’d bird,     48
And sing our bondage freely.   
  Bel        How you speak!   
Did you but know the city’s usuries   
And felt them knowingly; the art o’ the court,     52
As hard to leave as keep, whose top to climb   
Is certain falling, or so slippery that   
The fear’s as bad as falling; the toil of the war,   
A pain that only seems to seek out danger     56
I’ the name of fame and honour; which dies i’ the search,   
And hath as oft a slanderous epitaph   
As record of fair act; nay, many times,   
Doth ill deserve by doing well; what’s worse,     60
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,     64
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,     68
Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves,   
And left me bare to weather.   
  Gui.        Uncertain favour!   
  Bel.  My fault being nothing,—as I have told you oft,—     72
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     76
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 the mountains!     80
This is not hunter’s language. He that strikes   
The venison first shall be the lord o’ the feast;   
To him the other two shall minister;   
And we will fear no poison which attends     84
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 the king;   
Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive.     88
They think they are mine; and, though train’d up thus meanly   
I’ the 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     92
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     96
The war-like 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,    100
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    104
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,    108
Thinking to bar thee of succession, as   
Thou reft’st me of my lands. Euriphile,   
Thou wast their nurse; they took thee for their mother,   
And every day do honour to her grave:    112
Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call’d,   
They take for natural father. The game is up.  [Exit.

Act III. Scene IV.


Near Milford-Haven.
   
 
Enter PISANIO and IMOGEN.
   
  Imo.  Thou told’st me, when we came from horse, the place   
Was near at hand: ne’er long’d my mother so      4
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 the inward of thee? One, but painted thus,      8
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?     12
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!     16
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.     20
  Pis.        Please you, read;   
And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing   
The most disdain’d of fortune.   
  Imo.  Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath played 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.     24
  Pis.  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     28
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?     32
  Imo.  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,     36
And cry myself awake? that’s false to ’s bed, is it?   
  Pis.  Alas! good lady.   
  Imo.  I false! Thy conscience witness! Iachimo,   
Thou didst accuse him of incontinency;     40
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,     44
And, for I am richer than to hang by the 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     48
Put on for villany; not born where ’t grows,   
But worn a bait for ladies.   
  Pis.        Good madam, hear me.   
  Imo.  True honest men being heard, like false Æneas,     52
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;     56
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!     60
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     64
The riches of it: do his bidding; strike.   
Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause,   
But now thou seem’st a coward.   
  Pis.        Hence, vile instrument!     68
Thou shalt not damn my hand.   
  Imo.        Why, I must die;   
And if I do not by thy hand, thou art   
No servant of thy master’s. Against self-slaughter     72
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?     76
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     80
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, thou that didst set up     84
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     88
A strain of rareness; and I grieve myself   
To think, when thou shalt be disedg’d by her   
That now thou tir’st on, how thy memory   
Will then be pang’d by me. Prithee, dispatch;     92
The lamb entreats the butcher; where’s thy knife?   
Thou art too slow to do thy master’s bidding,   
When I desire it too.   
  Pis.        O, gracious lady!     96
Since I receiv’d command to do this business   
I have not slept one wink.   
  Imo.        Do ’t, and to bed then.   
  Pis.  I’ll wake mine eyeballs blind first.    100
  Imo.        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?    104
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,    108
The elected deer before thee?   
  Pis.        But to win time   
To lose so bad employment, in the which   
I have consider’d of a course. Good lady,    112
Hear me with patience.   
  Imo.        Talk thy tongue weary; speak:   
I have heard I am a strumpet, and mine ear,   
Therein false struck, can take no greater wound,    116
Nor tent to bottom that. But speak.   
  Pis.        Then, madam,   
I thought you would not back again.   
  Imo.        Most like,    120
Bringing me here to kill me.   
  Pis.        Not so, neither;   
But if I were as wise as honest, then   
My purpose would prove well. It cannot be    124
But that my master is abus’d; some villain,   
Some villain, ay, and singular in his art,   
Hath done you both this cursed injury.   
  Imo.  Some Roman courtezan.    128
  Pis.        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,    132
And that will well confirm it.   
  Imo.        Why, good fellow,   
What shall I do the while? where bide? how live?   
Or in my life what comfort, when I am    136
Dead to my husband?   
  Pis.        If you’ll back to the court,—   
  Imo.  No court, no father; nor no more ado   
With that harsh, noble, simple nothing Cloten!    140
That Cloten, whose love-suit hath been to me   
As fearful as a siege.   
  Pis.        If not at court,   
Then not in Britain must you bide.    144
  Imo.        Where then?   
Hath Britain all the sun that shines? Day, night,   
Are they not but in Britain? I’ the world’s volume   
Our Britain seems as of it, but not in ’t;    148
In a great pool a swan’s nest: prithee, think   
There’s livers out of Britain.   
  Pis.        I am most glad   
You think of other place. The ambassador,    152
Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford-Haven   
To-morrow; now, if you could wear a mind   
Dark as your fortune is, and but disguise   
That which, t’ appear itself, must not yet be    156
But by self-danger, you should tread a course   
Pretty, and full of view; yea, haply, near   
The residence of Posthumus; so nigh at least   
That though his actions were not visible, yet    160
Report should render him hourly to your ear   
As truly as he moves.   
  Imo.        O! for such means:   
Though peril to my modesty, not death on ’t,    164
I would adventure.   
  Pis.        Well, then, here’s the point:   
You must forget to be a woman; change   
Command into obedience; fear and niceness—    168
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    172
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    176
Your laboursome and dainty trims, wherein   
You made great Juno angry.   
  Imo.        Nay, be brief:   
I see into thy end, and am almost    180
A man already.   
  Pis.        First, make yourself but like one.   
Forethinking this, I have already fit—   
’Tis in my cloak-bag—doublet, hat, hose, all    184
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    188
Wherein you are happy,—which you’ll 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,    192
You have me, rich; and I will never fail   
Beginning nor supplyment.   
  Imo.        Thou art all the comfort   
The gods will diet me with. Prithee, away;    196
There’s more to be consider’d, but we’ll even   
All that good time will give us; this attempt   
I’m soldier to, and will abide it with   
A prince’s courage. Away, I prithee.    200
  Pis.  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,    204
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    208
Direct you to the best!   
  Imo.        Amen. I thank thee.  [Exeunt.

Act III. Scene V.


A Room in CYMBELINE’S Palace.
   
 
Enter CYMBELINE, QUEEN, CLOTEN, LUCIUS, Lords, and Attendants.
   
  Cym.  Thus far; and so farewell.   
  Luc.        Thanks, royal sir.      4
My emperor hath wrote, I must from hence;   
And am right sorry that I must report ye   
My master’s enemy.   
  Cym.        Our subjects, sir,      8
Will not endure his yoke; and for ourself   
To show less sovereignty than they, must needs   
Appear unking-like.   
  Luc.        So, sir: I desire of you     12
A conduct over land to Milford-Haven.   
Madam, all joy befall your Grace.   
  Queen.        And you!   
  Cym.  My lords, you are appointed for that office;     16
The due of honour in no point omit.   
So, farewell, noble Lucius.   
  Luc.        Your hand, my lord.   
  Clo.  Receive it friendly; but from this time forth     20
I wear it as your enemy.   
  Luc.        Sir, the event   
Is yet to name the winner. Fare you well.   
  Cym.  Leave not the worthy Lucius, good my lords,     24
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.   
  Clo.        ’Tis all the better;     28
Your valiant Britons have their wishes in it.   
  Cym.  Lucius hath wrote already to the emperor   
How it goes here. It fits us therefore ripely   
Our chariots and horsemen be in readiness;     32
The powers 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;     36
But must be look’d to speedily and strongly.   
  Cym.  Our expectation that it would be thus   
Hath made us forward. But, my gentle queen,   
Where is our daughter? She hath not appear’d     40
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     44
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,     48
’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.     52
 
Re-enter Attendant.
   
  Cym.        Where is she, sir? How   
Can her contempt be answer’d?   
  Atten.        Please you, sir,     56
Her chambers are all lock’d, and there’s no answer   
That will be given to the loudest noise we make.   
  Queen.  My lord, when last I went to visit her,   
She pray’d me to excuse her keeping close,     60
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     64
Made me to blame in memory.   
  Cym.        Her doors lock’d!.   
Not seen of late! Grant, heavens, that which I fear   
Prove false!  [Exit.     68
  Queen.  Son, I say, follow the king.   
  Clo.  That man of hers, Pisanio, her old servant,   
I have not seen these two days.   
  Queen.        Go, look after.  [Exit CLOTEN.     72
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,     76
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     80
Can make good use of either; she being down,   
I have the placing of the British crown.   
 
Re-enter CLOTEN.
   
How now, my son!     84
  Clo.        ’Tis certain she is fled.   
Go in and cheer the king; he rages, none   
Dare come about him.   
  Queen.        [Aside.] All the better; may     88
This night forestall him of the coming day!  [Exit.   
  Clo.  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     92
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 judgment     96
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—    100
 
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    104
Thou art straightway with the fiends.   
  Pis.        O! good my lord.   
  Clo.  Where is thy lady? or, by Jupiter   
I will not ask again. Close villain,    108
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.    112
  Pis.        Alas! my lord,   
How can she be with him? When was she miss’d?   
He is in Rome.   
  Clo.        Where is she, sir? Come nearer,    116
No further halting; satisfy me home   
What is become of her?   
  Pis.  O! my all-worthy lord.   
  Clo.        All-worthy villain!    120
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.    124
  Pis.        Then, sir,   
This paper is the history of my knowledge   
Touching her flight.  [Presenting a letter.   
  Clo.        Let’s see ’t. I will pursue her    128
Even to Augustus’ throne.   
  Pis.        [Aside.] Or this, or perish.   
She’s far enough; and what he learns by this   
May prove his travel, not her danger.    132
  Clo.        Hum!   
  Pis.  [Aside.] I’ll write to my lord she’s dead. O Imogen!   
Safe mayst thou wander, safe return agen!   
  Clo.  Sirrah, is this letter true?    136
  Pis.  Sir, as I think.   
  Clo.  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 villany 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.   
  Pis.  Well, my good lord.   
  Clo.  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?    140
  Pis.  Sir, I will.   
  Clo.  Give me thy hand; here’s my purse. Hast any of thy late master’s garments in thy possession?   
  Pis.  I have, my lord, at my lodging, the same suit he wore when he took leave of my lady and mistress.   
  Clo.  The first service thou dost me, fetch that suit hither: let it be thy first service; go.    144
  Pis.  I shall, my lord.  [Exit.   
  Clo.  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 praised,—to the court I’ll knock her back, foot her home again. She hath despised me rejoicingly, and I’ll be merry in my revenge.   
 
Re-enter PISANIO, with the clothes.
   
Be those the garments?    148
  Pis.  Ay, my noble lord.   
  Clo.  How long is ’t since she went to Milford-Haven?   
  Pis.  She can scarce be there yet.   
  Clo.  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.    152
  Pis.  Thou bidd’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 pursu’st. Flow, flow,    156
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, in boy’s clothes.
   
  Imo.  I see a man’s life is a tedious one;   
I have tir’d myself, and for two nights together      4
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      8
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     12
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!     16
Thou art one o’ the 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;     20
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?     24
If any thing 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.     28
Such a foe, good heavens!  [Exit to the cave.   
 
Enter BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS.
   
  Bel.  You Polydore, have prov’d best woodman, and   
Are master of the feast; Cadwal and I     32
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     36
Can snore upon the flint when resty sloth   
Finds the down pillow hard. Now, peace be here,   
Poor house, that keep’st thyself!   
  Gui.        I am throughly weary.     40
  Arv.  I am weak with toil, yet strong in appetite.   
  Gui.  There is cold meat i’ the cave; we’ll browse on that,   
Whilst what we have kill’d be cook’d.   
  Bel.  [Looking into the cave.] Stay; come not in;     44
But that it eats our victuals, I should think   
Here were a fairy.   
  Gui.        What’s the matter, sir?   
  Bel.  By Jupiter, an angel! or, if not,     48
An earthly paragon! Behold divineness   
No elder than a boy!   
 
Re-enter IMOGEN.
   
  Imo.  Good masters, harm me not:     52
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’ the floor. Here’s money for my meat;     56
I would have left it on the board so soon   
As I had made my meal, and parted   
With prayers for the provider.   
  Gui.        Money, youth?     60
  Arv.  All gold and silver rather turn to dirt!   
As ’tis no better reckon’d but of those   
Who worship dirty gods.   
  Imo.        I see you’re angry.     64
Know, if you kill me for my fault, I should   
Have died had I not made it.   
  Bel.        Whither bound?   
  Imo.  To Milford-Haven.     68
  Bel.  What’s your name?   
  Imo.  Fidele, sir. I have a kinsman who   
Is bound for Italy; he embark’d at Milford:   
To whom being going, almost spent with hunger,     72
I am fall’n in this offence.   
  Bel.        Prithee, fair youth,   
Think us no churls, nor measure our good minds   
By this rude place we live in. Well encounter’d!     76
’Tis almost night; you shall have better cheer   
Ere you depart, and thanks to stay and eat it.   
Boys, bid him welcome.   
  Gui.        Were you a woman, youth,     80
I should woo hard but be your groom. In honesty,   
I bid for you, as I do buy.   
  Arv.        I’ll make ’t my comfort   
He is a man; I’ll love him as my brother;     84
And such a welcome as I’d give to him   
After a long absence, such is yours: most welcome!   
Be sprightly, for you fall ’mongst friends.   
  Imo.        ’Mongst friends,     88
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.     92
  Bel.        He wrings at some distress.   
  Gui.  Would I could free ’t!   
  Arv.        Or I, whate’er it be,   
What pain it cost, what danger. Gods!     96
  Bel.        Hark, boys.  [Whispering.   
  Imo.  Great men,   
That had a court no bigger than this cave,   
That did attend themselves and had the virtue    100
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,    104
Since Leonatus’ false.   
  Bel.        It shall be so.   
Boys, we’ll go dress our hunt. Fair youth, come in:   
Discourse is heavy, fasting; when we have supp’d,    108
We’ll mannerly demand thee of thy story,   
So far as thou wilt speak it.   
  Gui.        Pray, draw near.   
  Arv.  The night to the owl and morn to the lark less welcome.    112
  Imo.  Thanks, sir.   
  Arv.        I pray, draw near.  [Exeunt.

Act III. Scene VII.


Rome. A Public Place.
   
 
Enter two Senators and Tribunes.
   
  First Sen.  This is the tenour of the emperor’s writ:   
That since the common men are now in action      4
’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      8
The gentry to this business. He creates   
Lucius pro-consul; and to you the tribunes,   
For this immediate levy, he commends   
His absolute commission. Long live Cæsar!     12
  First Tri.  Is Lucius general of the forces?   
  Sec. Sen.        Ay.   
  First Tri.  Remaining now in Gallia?   
  First Sen.        With those legions     16
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.     20
  First Tri.  We will discharge our duty.  [Exeunt.   

Act IV. Scene I.


Wales. The Forest, near the Cave of BELARIUS.
   
 
Enter CLOTEN.
   
  Clo.  I am near to the place where they should meet, if Pisanio have mapped 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 thy 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.


Before the Cave of BELARIUS.
   
 
Enter, from the Cave, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS, and IMOGEN.
   
  Bel.  [To IMOGEN.] You are not well; remain here in the cave;   
We’ll come to you after hunting.      4
  Arv.        [ToIMOGEN.] Brother, stay here;   
Are we not brothers?   
  Imo.        So man and man should be,   
But clay and clay differs in dignity,      8
Whose dust is both alike. I am very sick.   
  Gui.  Go you to hunting; I’ll abide with him.   
  Imo.  So sick I am not, yet I am not well;   
But not so citizen a wanton as     12
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     16
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.     20
  Gui.        I love thee; I have spoke it;   
How much the quantity, the weight as much,   
As I do love my father.   
  Bel.        What! how! how!     24
  Arv.  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,     28
And a demand who is ’t shall die, I’d say   
‘My father, not this youth.’   
  Bel.        [Aside.] O noble strain!   
O worthiness of nature! breed of greatness!     32
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.     36
’Tis the ninth hour o’ the morn.   
  Arv.        Brother, farewell.   
  Imo.  I wish ye sport.   
  Arv.        You health. So please you, sir.     40
  Imo.  [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.   
The imperious seas breed monsters, for the dish     44
Poor tributary rivers as sweet fish.   
I am sick still, heart-sick. Pisanio,   
I’ll now taste of thy drug.  [Swallows some.   
  Gui.        I could not stir him;     48
He said he was gentle, but unfortunate;   
Dishonestly afflicted, but yet honest.   
  Arv.  Thus did he answer me; yet said hereafter   
I might know more.     52
  Bel.        To the field, to the field!   
[To IMOGEN.] We’ll leave you for this time; go in and rest.   
  Arv.  We’ll not be long away.   
  Bel.        Pray, be not sick,     56
For you must be our housewife.   
  Imo.        Well or ill,   
I am bound to you.   
  Bel        And shalt be ever.  [Exit IMOGEN.     60
This youth, howe’er distress’d, appears he hath had   
Good ancestors.   
  Arv.        How angel-like he sings!   
  Gui.  But his neat cookery! he cut our roots     64
In characters,   
And sauc’d our broths as Juno had been sick   
And he her dieter.   
  Arv.        Nobly he yokes     68
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     72
With winds that sailors rail at.   
  Gui.        I do note   
That grief and patience rooted in him, both   
Mingle their spurs together.     76
  Arv.        Grow, patience!   
And let the stinking-elder, grief, untwine   
His perishing root with the increasing vine!   
  Bel.  It is great morning. Come, away!—Who’s there?     80
 
Enter CLOTEN.
   
  Clo.  I cannot find those runagates; that villain   
Hath mock’d me. I am faint.   
  Bel.         ‘Those runagates!’     84
Means he not us? I partly know him; ’tis   
Cloten, the son o’ the queen. I fear some ambush.   
I saw him not these many years, and yet   
I know ’tis he. We are held as outlaws: hence!     88
  Gui.  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.   
  Clo.        Soft! What are you     92
That fly me thus? some villain mountainers?   
I have heard of such. What slave art thou?   
  Gui.        A thing   
More slavish did I ne’er than answering     96
A ‘slave’ without a knock.   
  Clo.        Thou art a robber,   
A law-breaker, a villain. Yield thee, thief.   
  Gui.  To who? to thee? What art thou? Have not I    100
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?    104
  Clo.        Thou villain base,   
Know’st me not by my clothes?   
  Gui.        No, nor thy tailor, rascal,   
Who is thy grandfather: he made those clothes,    108
Which, as it seems, make thee.   
  Clo.        Thou precious varlet,   
My tailor made them not.   
  Gui.        Hence then, and thank    112
The man that gave them thee. Thou art some fool;   
I am loath to beat thee.   
  Clo.        Thou injurious thief,   
Hear but my name, and tremble.    116
  Gui.        What’s thy name?   
  Clo.  Cloten, thou villain.   
  Gui.  Cloten, thou double villain, be thy name,   
I cannot tremble at it; were it Toad, or Adder, Spider,    120
’Twould move me sooner.   
  Clo.        To thy further fear,   
Nay, to thy mere confusion, thou shalt know   
I am son to the queen.    124
  Gui.        I’m sorry for ’t, not seeming   
So worthy as thy birth.   
  Clo.        Art not afeard?   
  Gui.  Those that I reverence those I fear, the wise;    128
At fools I laugh, not fear them.   
  Clo.        Die the death:   
When I have slain thee with my proper hand,   
I’ll follow those that even now fled hence,    132
And on the gates of Lud’s town set your heads:   
Yield, rustic mountaineer.  [Exeunt fighting.   
 
Re-enter BELARIUS and ARVIRAGUS.
   
  Bel.  No companies abroad.    136
  Arv.  None in the world. You did mistake him, sure.   
  Bel.  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,    140
And burst of speaking, were as his. I am absolute   
’Twas very Cloten.   
  Arv.        In this place we left them:   
I wish my brother make good time with him,    144
You say he is so fell.   
  Bel.        Being scarce made up,   
I mean, to man, he had not apprehension   
Of roaring terrors; for defect of judgment    148
Is oft the cease of fear. But see, thy brother.   
 
Re-enter GUIDERIUS, with CLOTEN’S head.
   
  Gui.  This Cloten was a fool, an empty purse,   
There was no money in ’t. Not Hercules    152
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.   
  Bel.        What hast thou done?    156
  Gui.  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,    160
Displace our heads where—thank the gods!—they grow,   
And set them on Lud’s town.   
  Bel.        We are all undone.   
  Gui.  Why, worthy father, what have we to lose,    164
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,    168
For we do fear the law? What company   
Discover you abroad?   
  Bel.        No single soul   
Can we set eye on; but in all safe reason    172
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    176
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,—    180
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,    184
If we do fear this body hath a tail   
More perilous than the head.   
  Arv.        Let ordinance   
Come as the gods foresay it; howsoe’er,    188
My brother hath done well.   
  Bel.        I had no mind   
To hunt this day; the boy Fidele’s sickness   
Did make my way long forth.    192
  Gui.        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,    196
And tell the fishes he’s the queen’s son, Cloten:   
That’s all I reck.  [Exit.   
  Bel.        I fear ’twill be reveng’d.   
Would, Polydore, thou hadst not done ’t! though valour    200
Becomes thee well enough.   
  Arv.        Would I had done ’t   
So the revenge alone pursu’d me! Polydore,   
I love thee brotherly, but envy much    204
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.   
  Bel.        Well, ’tis done.—    208
We’ll hunt no more to-day, 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    212
To dinner presently.   
  Arv.        Poor sick Fidele!   
I’ll willingly to him; to gain his colour   
I’d let a parish of such Clotens blood,    216
And praise myself for charity.  [Exit.   
  Bel.        O thou goddess!   
Thou divine Nature, how thyself thou blazon’st   
In these two princely boys. They are as gentle    220
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,    224
And make him stoop to the vale. ’Tis wonder   
That an invisible instinct should frame them   
To royalty unlearn’d, honour untaught,   
Civility not seen from other, valour    228
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.    232
 
Re-enter GUIDERIUS.
   
  Gui.        Where’s my brother?   
I have sent Cloten’s clotpoll down the stream,   
In embassy to his mother; his body’s hostage    236
For his return.  [Solemn music.   
  Bel.        My ingenious instrument!   
Hark! Polydore, it sounds; but what occasion   
Hath Cadwal now to give it motion? Hark!    240
  Gui.  Is he at home?   
  Bel.        He went hence even now.   
  Gui.  What does he mean? since death of my dear’st mother   
It did not speak before. All solemn things    244
Should answer solemn accidents. The matter?   
Triumphs for nothing and lamenting toys   
Is jollity for apes and grief for boys.   
Is Cadwal mad?    248
 
Re-enter ARVIRAGUS, with IMOGEN, as dead, bearing her in his arms.
   
  Bel.        Look! here he comes,   
And brings the dire occasion in his arms   
Of what we blame him for.    252
  Arv.        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,    256
Than have seen this.   
  Gui.        O, sweetest, fairest lily!   
My brother wears thee not the one half so well   
As when thou grew’st thyself.    260
  Bel.        O melancholy!   
Who ever yet could sound thy bottom? find   
The ooze, to show what coast thy sluggish crare   
Might easiliest harbour in? Thou blessed thing!    264
Jove knows what man thou mightst have made; but I,   
Thou diedst, a most rare boy, of melancholy.   
How found you him?   
  Arv.        Stark, as you see:    268
Thus smiling, as some fly had tickled slumber,   
Not as death’s dart, being laugh’d at; his right cheek   
Reposing on a cushion.   
  Gui.        Where?    272
  Arv.        O’ the 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.    276
  Gui.        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.    280
  Arv.        With fairest flowers   
While 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    284
The azur’d hare-bell, like thy veins, no, nor   
The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander,   
Out-sweeten’d not thy breath: the ruddock would,   
With charitable bill,—O bill! sore-shaming    288
Those rich-left heirs, that let their fathers lie   
Without a monument,—bring thee all this;   
Yea, and furr’d moss besides, when flowers are none,   
To winter-ground thy corse.    292
  Gui.        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    296
Is now due debt. To the grave!   
  Arv.        Say, where shall ’s lay him?   
  Gui.  By good Euriphile, our mother.   
  Arv.        Be ’t so:    300
And let us, Polydore, though now our voices   
Have got the mannish crack, sing him to the ground,   
As once our mother; use like note and words,   
Save that Euriphile must be Fidele.    304
  Gui.  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.    308
  Arv.        We’ll speak it then.   
  Bel.  Great griefs, I see, medicine the less, for Cloten   
Is quite forgot. He was a queen’s son, boys,   
And though he came our enemy, remember    312
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,    316
And though you took his life, as being our foe,   
Yet bury him as a prince.   
  Gui.        Pray you, fetch him hither.   
Thersites’ body is as good as Ajax’    320
When neither are alive.   
  Arv.        If you’ll go fetch him,   
We’ll say our song the whilst. Brother, begin.  [Exit BELARIUS.   
  Gui.  Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to the east;    324
My father hath a reason for ’t.   
  Arv.        ’Tis true.   
  Gui.  Come on then, and remove him.   
  Arv.        So, begin.    328
  Gui.  Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,   
    Nor the furious winter’s rages;   
Thou thy worldly task hast done,   
    Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages;    332
Golden lads and girls all must,   
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.   
  Arv.  Fear no more the frown o’ the great,   
    Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke:    336
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.    340
  Gui.  Fear no more the lightning-flash,   
  Arv.      Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;   
  Gui.  Fear not slander, censure rash;   
  Arv.      Thou hast finish’d joy and moan:    344
  Both.  All lovers young, all lovers must   
    Consign to thee, and come to dust.   
  Gui.  No exorciser harm thee!   
  Arv.      Nor no witchcraft charm thee!    348
  Gui.  Ghost unlaid forbear thee!   
  Arv.      Nothing ill come near thee!   
  Both.  Quiet consummation have;   
    And renowned be thy grave!    352
 
Re-enter BELARIUS, with the body of CLOTEN.
   
  Gui.  We have done our obsequies. Come, lay him down.   
  Bel.  Here’s a few flowers, but ’bout mid-night, more;   
The herbs that have on them cold dew o’ the night    356
Are strewings fitt’st for graves. Upon their faces   
You were as flowers, now wither’d; even so   
These herblets shall, which we upon you strew.   
Come on, away; apart upon our knees.    360
The ground that gave them first has them again;   
Their pleasures here are past, so is their pain.  [Exeunt BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS.   
  Imo.  [Awaking.] Yes, sir, to Milford-Haven; which is the way?   
I thank you. By yond bush? Pray, how far thither?    364
’Ods pittikins! can it be six mile yet?   
I have gone all night: Faith, I’ll lie down and sleep.   
[Seeing the body of CLOTEN.] But, soft! no bed-fellow! O gods and goddesses!   
These flowers are like the pleasures of the world;    368
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,    372
Which the brain makes of fumes. Our very eyes   
Are sometimes like our judgments, blind. Good faith,   
I tremble still with fear; but if there be   
Yet left in heaven as small a drop of pity    376
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!    380
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,    384
All curses madded Hecuba gave the Greeks,   
And mine to boot, be darted on thee! Thou,   
Conspir’d with that irregulous devil, Cloten,   
Hast here cut off my lord. To write and read    388
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!    392
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    396
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   
Murderous to the senses? That confirms it home;    400
This is Pisanio’s deed, and Cloten’s: 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 on the body.    404
 
Enter LUCIUS, a Captain, other Officers, and a Soothsayer.
   
  Cap.  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:    408
They are in readiness.   
  Luc.        But what from Rome?   
  Cap.  The senate hath stirr’d up the confiners   
And gentlemen of Italy, most willing spirits,    412
That promise noble service; and they come   
Under the conduct of bold Iachimo,   
Sienna’s brother.   
  Luc.        When expect you them?    416
  Cap.  With the next benefit o’ the wind.   
  Luc.        This forwardness   
Makes our hopes fair. Command our present numbers   
Be muster’d; bid the captains look to ’t. Now, sir,    420
What have you dream’d of late of this war’s purpose?   
  Sooth.  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    424
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 the Roman host.    428
  Luc.        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!    432
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.    436
  Cap.        He’s alive, my lord.   
  Luc.  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    440
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 wrack? How came it? Who is it?    444
What art thou?   
  Imo.        I am nothing; or if not,   
Nothing to be were better. This was my master,   
A very valiant Briton and a good,    448
That here by mountaineers lies slain. Alas!   
There are no more such masters; I may wander   
From east to occident, cry out for service,   
Try many, all good, serve truly, never    452
Find such another master.   
  Luc.        ’Lack, good youth!   
Thou mov’st no less with thy complaining than   
Thy master in bleeding. Say his name, good friend.    456
  Imo.  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?   
  Luc.        Thy name?    460
  Imo.        Fidele, sir.   
  Luc.  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    464
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.    468
  Imo.  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,    472
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.    476
  Luc.        Ay, good youth,   
And rather father thee than master thee.   
My friends,   
The boy hath taught us manly duties; let us    480
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    484
As soldiers can. Be cheerful; wipe thine eyes:   
Some falls are means the happier to arise.  [Exeunt.   

Act IV. Scene III.


A Room in CYMBELINE’S Palace.
   
 
Enter CYMBELINE, Lords, PISANIO, and Attendants.
   
  Cym.  Again; and bring me word how ’tis with her.  [Exit an Attendant.   
A fever with the absence of her son,      4
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      8
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     12
Dost seem so ignorant, we’ll enforce it from thee   
By a sharp torture.   
  Pis.        Sir, my life is yours,   
I humbly set it at your will; but, for my mistress,     16
I nothing know where she remains, why gone,   
Nor when she purposes return. Beseech your highness,   
Hold me your loyal servant.   
  First Lord.        Good my liege,     20
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,     24
And will, no doubt, be found.   
  Cym.        The time is troublesome.   
[To PISANIO.] We’ll slip you for a season; but our jealousy   
Does yet depend.     28
  First 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.     32
  Cym.  Now for the counsel of my son and queen!   
I am amaz’d with matter.   
  First Lord.        Good my liege,   
Your preparation can affront no less     36
Than what you hear of; come more, for more you’re ready:   
The want is, but to put those powers in motion   
That long to move.   
  Cym.        I thank you. Let’s withdraw;     40
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.   
  Pis.  I heard no letter from my master since     44
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     48
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’ the king, or I’ll fall in them.     52
All other doubts, by time let them be clear’d;   
Fortune brings in some boats that are not steer’d.  [Exit.