The Arden Shakespeare Complete Works
Page 111
A storm, or robbery (call it what you will)
Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves,
And left me bare to weather.
GUIDERIUS Uncertain favour!
BELARIUS
My fault being nothing (as I have told you oft)
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But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail’d
Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline
I was confederate with the Romans: so
Follow’d my banishment, and this twenty years
This rock, and these demesnes, have been my world,
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Where I have liv’d at honest freedom, paid
More pious debts to heaven than in all
The fore-end of my time. But up to th’ mountains!
This is not hunter’s language; he that strikes
The venison first shall be the lord o’th’ feast,
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To him the other two shall minister,
And we will fear no poison, which attends
In place of greater state. I’ll meet you in the valleys.
Exeunt Guiderius and Arviragus.
How hard it is to hide the sparks of Nature!
These boys know little they are sons to th’ king,
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Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive.
They think they are mine, and though train’d up
thus meanly,
I’th’ cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit
The roofs of palaces, and Nature prompts them
In simple and low things to prince it, much
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Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore,
The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, who
The king his father call’d Guiderius, – Jove!
When on my three-foot stool I sit, and tell
The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out
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Into my story: say ‘Thus mine enemy fell,
And thus I set my foot on’s neck,’ even then
The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats,
Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture
That acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal,
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Once Arviragus, in as like a figure
Strikes life into my speech, and shows much more
His own conceiving. Hark, the game is rous’d!
O Cymbeline, heaven and my conscience knows
Thou didst unjustly banish me: whereon,
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At three and two years old, I stole these babes,
Thinking to bar thee of succession as
Thou refts me of my lands. Euriphile,
Thou wast their nurse, they took thee for their
mother,
And every day do honour to her grave:
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Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call’d,
They take for natural father. The game is up. Exit.
3.4 Enter PISANIO and IMOGEN.
IMOGEN
Thou told’st me when we came from horse, the place
Was near at hand: ne’er long’d my mother so
To see me first, as I have now – Pisanio! man!
Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind
That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that
sigh
5
From th’inward of thee? One but painted thus
Would be interpreted a thing perplex’d
Beyond self-explication. Put thyself
Into a haviour of less fear, ere wildness
Vanquish my staider senses. What’s the matter?
10
Why tender’st thou that paper to me, with
A look untender? If ’t be summer news,
Smile to’t before: if winterly, thou need’st
But keep that count’nance still. My husband’s hand?
That drug-damn’d Italy hath out-craftied him,
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And he’s at some hard point. Speak, man, thy tongue
May take off some extremity, which to read
Would be even mortal to me.
PISANIO Please you read;
And you shall find me (wretched man) a thing
The most disdain’d of fortune.
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IMOGEN [Reads.] 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
25
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.
30
PISANIO
What shall I need to draw my sword? the paper
Hath cut her throat already. No, ’tis slander,
Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue
Outvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath
Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie
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All corners of the world. Kings, queens, and states,
Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave
This viperous slander enters. What cheer, madam?
IMOGEN False to his bed? What is it to be false?
To lie in watch there, and to think on him?
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To weep ’twixt clock and clock? If sleep charge
Nature,
To break it with a fearful dream of him,
And cry myself awake? That’s false to’s bed, is it?
PISANIO Alas, good lady!
IMOGEN I false? Thy conscience witness: Iachimo,
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Thou didst accuse him of incontinency;
Thou then look’dst like a villain: now, methinks,
Thy favour’s good enough. Some jay of Italy
(Whose mother was her painting) hath betray’d him:
Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion,
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And, for I am richer than to hang by th’ walls,
I must be ripp’d: – to pieces with me! – O,
Men’s vows are women’s traitors! All good seeming,
By thy revolt, O husband, shall be thought
Put on for villainy; not born where’t grows,
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But worn a bait for ladies.
PISANIO Good madam, hear me.
IMOGEN
True honest men, being heard like false Aeneas,
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
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Wilt lay the leaven on all proper men;
Goodly and gallant shall be false and perjur’d
From thy great fail. Come fellow, be thou honest
Do thou thy master’s bidding. When thou see’st him,
A little witness my obedience. Look,
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I draw the sword myself, take it, and hit
The innocent mansion of my love, my heart:
Fear not, ’tis empty of all things, but grief:
Thy master is not there, who was indeed
The riches of it. Do his bidding, strike.
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Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause;
But now thou seem’st a coward.
PISANIO Hence, vile instrument!
Thou shalt not damn my hand.
IMOGEN Why, I must die:
And if I do not by thy hand, thou art
No servant of thy master’s. Against self-slaughter
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There is a prohibition so divine
That cravens my weak hand. Come, here’s my heart,
(Something’s afore’t, – soft, soft! we’ll no defence)
Obedient as the scabbard. What is here?
The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus,
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All turn’d to heresy? Away, away,
Corrupters of my faith! you shall no more
Be stomachers to my heart: thus may poor fools
Believe false teachers: though those that are betray’d
Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor
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Stands in worse case of woe.
And thou, Posthumus, thou that didst set up
My disobedience ’gainst the king my father,
And make me put into contempt the suits
Of princely fellows, shalt hereafter find
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It is no act of common passage, but
A strain of rareness: and I grieve myself
To think, when thou shalt be disedg’d by her
That now thou tirest on, how thy memory
Will then be pang’d by me. Prithee, dispatch:
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The lamb entreats the butcher. Where’s thy knife?
Thou art too slow to do thy master’s bidding
When I desire it too.
PISANIO O gracious lady:
Since I received command to do this business
I have not slept one wink.
IMOGEN Do’t, and to bed then.
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PISANIO I’ll wake mine eye-balls out first.
IMOGEN Wherefore then
Didst undertake it? Why hast thou abus’d
So many miles, with a pretence? This place?
Mine action, and thine own? Our horses’ labour?
The time inviting thee? The perturb’d court
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For my being absent? whereunto I never
Purpose return. Why hast thou gone so far,
To be unbent when thou hast ta’en thy stand,
Th’elected deer before thee?
PISANIO But to win time
To lose so bad employment, in the which
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I have consider’d of a course: good lady,
Hear me with patience.
IMOGEN Talk thy tongue weary, speak:
I have heard I am a strumpet, and mine ear,
Therein false struck, can take no greater wound,
Nor tent, to bottom that. But speak.
PISANIO Then, madam,
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I thought you would not back again.
IMOGEN Most like,
Bringing me here to kill me.
PISANIO Not so, neither:
But if I were as wise as honest, then
My purpose would prove well: it cannot be
But that my master is abus’d: some villain,
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Ay, and singular in his art, hath done you both
This cursed injury.
IMOGEN Some Roman courtezan?
PISANIO No, on my life:
I’ll give but notice you are dead, and send him
Some bloody sign of it. For ’tis commanded
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I should do so: you shall be miss’d at court,
And that will well confirm it.
IMOGEN Why, good fellow,
What shall I do the while? Where bide? How live?
Or in my life what comfort, when I am
Dead to my husband?
PISANIO If you’ll back to th’ court –
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IMOGEN No court, no father, nor no more ado
With that harsh, noble, simple nothing,
That Cloten, whose love-suit hath been to me
As fearful as a siege.
PISANIO If not at court,
Then not in Britain must you bide.
IMOGEN Where then?
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Hath Britain all the sun that shines? Day? Night?
Are they not but in Britain? I’th’ world’s volume
Our Britain seems as of it, but not in’t:
In a great pool, a swan’s nest: prithee think
There’s livers out of Britain.
PISANIO I am most glad
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You think of other place: th’ambassador,
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
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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
Report should render him hourly to your ear