The Oxford Shakespeare: The Complete Works

by William Shakespeare

  That have a sharper known; well corresponding

  With your stiff age, but unto us it is

  A cell of ignorance, travelling abed,

  A prison for a debtor, that not dares

  To stride a limit.

  ARVIRAGUS (to Belarius) What should we speak of

  When we are old as you? When we shall hear

  The rain and wind beat dark December, how,

  In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse

  The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing.

  We are beastly: subtle as the fox for prey,

  Like warlike as the wolf for what we eat.

  Our valour is to chase what flies; our cage

  We make a choir, as doth the prisoned bird,

  And sing our bondage freely.

  BELARIUS

  How you speak!

  Did you but know the city’s usuries,

  And felt them knowingly; the art o‘th’ court,

  As hard to leave as keep, whose top to climb

  Is certain falling, or so slipp’ry that

  The fear’s as bad as falling; the toil o‘th’ war,

  A pain that only seems to seek out danger

  I’th’ name of fame and honour, which dies i‘th’ search

  And hath as oft a sland’rous epitaph

  As record of fair act; nay, many times

  Doth ill deserve by doing well; what’s worse,

  Must curtsy at the censure. O boys, this story

  The world may read in me. My body’s marked

  With Roman swords, and my report was once

  First with the best of note. Cymbeline loved me,

  And when a soldier was the theme my name

  Was not far off. Then was I as a tree

  Whose boughs did bend with fruit; but in one night

  A storm or robbery, call it what you will,

  Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves,

  And left me bare to weather.

  GUIDERIUS

  Uncertain favour!

  BELARIUS

  My fault being nothing, as I have told you oft,

  But that two villains, whose false oaths prevailed

  Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline

  I was confederate with the Romans. So

  Followed my banishment, and this twenty years

  This rock and these demesnes have been my world,

  Where I have lived 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,

  To him the other two shall minister,

  And we will fear no poison which attends

  In place of greater state. I’ll meet you in the valleys.

  Exeunt Guiderius and Arviragus

  How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature!

  These boys know little they are sons to th’ King,

  Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive.

  They think they are mine, and though trained up

  thus meanly

  I‘th’ cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit

  The roofs of palaces, and nature prompts them

  In simple and low things to prince it much

  Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore,

  The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, who

  The King his father called Guiderius—Jove,

  When on my three-foot stool I sit and tell

  The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out

  Into my story: say ‘Thus mine enemy fell,

  And thus I set my foot on ’s neck’, even then

  The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats,

  Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture

  That acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal,

  Once Arviragus, in as like a figure

  Strikes life into my speech, and shows much more

  His own conceiving.

  ⌈A hunting-horn sounds⌉

  Hark, the game is roused!

  O Cymbeline, heaven and my conscience knows

  Thou didst unjustly banish me, whereon

  At three and two years old I stole these babes,

  Thinking to bar thee of succession as

  Thou 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.

  Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan called,

  They take for natural father.

  ⌈A hunting-horn sounds⌉

  The game is up.

  Exit

  3.4 Enter Pisanio, and Innogen in a riding-suit

  INNOGEN

  Thou told‘st me when we came from horse the place

  Was near at hand. Ne’er longed my mother so

  To see me first as I have now. Pisanio, man,

  Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind

  That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that

  sigh

  From th’inward of thee? One but painted thus

  Would be interpreted a thing perplexed

  Beyond self-explication. Put thyself

  Into a haviour of less fear, ere wildness

  Vanquish my staider senses. What’s the matter?

  Pisanio gives her a letter

  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-damned Italy hath out-craftied him,

  And he’s at some hard point. Speak, man. Thy tongue

  May take off some extremity which to read

  Would be even mortal to me.

  PISANIO

  Please you read,

  And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing

  The most disdained of fortune.

  INNOGEN (reads) ‘Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath played the strumpet in my bed, the testimonies whereof lies 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 pander to her dishonour and equally to me disloyal.’

  PISANIO (aside)

  What shall I need to draw my sword? The paper

  Hath cut her throat already. No, ’tis slander,

  Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue

  Outvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath

  Rides on the posting winds and doth belie

  All corners of the world. Kings, queens, and states,

  Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave

  This viperous slander enters. (To Innogen) What cheer,

  madam?

  INNOGEN

  False to his bed? What is it to be false?

  To lie in watch there and to think on him?

  To weep ’twixt clock and clock? If sleep charge nature,

  To break it with a fearful dream of him

  And cry myself awake? That’s false to ’s bed, is it?

  PISANIO Alas, good lady.

  INNOGEN

  I false? Thy conscience witness, Giacomo,

  Thou didst accuse him of incontinency.

  Thou then lookedst like a villain; now, methinks,

  Thy favour’s good enough. Some jay of Italy,

  Whose mother was her painting, hath betrayed him.

  Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion,

  And for I am richer than to hang by th’ walls

  I must be ripped. To pieces with
me! O,

  Men’s vows are women’s traitors. All good seeming,

  By thy revolt, O husband, shall be thought

  Put on for villainy; not born where’t grows,

  But worn a bait for ladies.

  PISANIO

  Good madam, hear me.

  INNOGEN

  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,

  Wilt lay the leaven on all proper men.

  Goodly and gallant shall be false and perjured

  From thy great fail. (To Pisanio) Come, fellow, be thou

  honest,

  Do thou thy master’s bidding. When thou seest

  him,

  A little witness my obedience. Look,

  I draw the sword myself. Take it, and hit

  The innocent mansion of my love, my heart.

  Fear not, ‘tis empty of all things but grief.

  Thy master is not there, who was indeed

  The riches of it. Do his bidding; strike.

  Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause,

  But now thou seem’st a coward.

  PISANIO

  Hence, vile instrument,

  Thou shalt not damn my hand!

  INNOGEN

  Why, I must die,

  And if I do not by thy hand thou art

  No servant of thy master’s. Against self-slaughter

  There is a prohibition so divine

  That cravens my weak hand. Come, here’s my heart.

  Something’s afore’t. Soft, soft, we’ll no defence;

  Obedient as the scabbard. What is here?

  She takes letters from her bosom

  The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus,

  All turned 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 betrayed

  Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor

  Stands in worse case of woe. And thou, Posthumus,

  That didst set up my disobedience ’gainst the King

  My father, and make me put into contempt the suits

  Of princely fellows, shalt hereafter find

  It is no act of common passage but

  A strain of rareness; and I grieve myself

  To think, when thou shalt be disedged by her

  That now thou tirest on, how thy memory

  Will then be panged by me. (To Pisanio) Prithee,

  dispatch.

  The lamb entreats the butcher. Where’s thy knife?

  Thou art too slow to do thy master’s bidding

  When I desire it too.

  PISANIO

  O gracious lady,

  Since I received command to do this business

  I have not slept one wink.

  INNOGEN

  Do’t, and to bed, then.

  PISANIO

  I’ll wake mine eyeballs out first.

  INNOGEN

  Wherefore then

  Didst undertake it? Why hast thou abused

  So many miles with a pretence?—this place,

  Mine action, and thine own? Our horses’ labour,

  The time inviting thee? The perturbed court,

  For my being absent, whereunto I never

  Purpose return? Why hast thou gone so far

  To be unbent when thou hast ta‘en thy stand,

  Th’elected deer before thee?

  PISANIO

  But to win time

  To lose so bad employment, in the which

  I have considered of a course. Good lady,

  Hear me with patience.

  INNOGEN

  Talk thy tongue weary. Speak.

  I have heard I am a strumpet, and mine ear,

  Therein false struck, can take no greater wound,

  Nor tent to bottom that. But speak.

  PISANIO

  Then, madam,

  I thought you would not back again.

  INNOGEN 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 abused. Some villain,

  Ay, and singular in his art, hath done you both

  This cursed injury.

  INNOGEN Some Roman courtesan.

  PISANIO No, on my life.

  I’ll give but notice you are dead, and send him

  Some bloody sign of it, for ’tis commanded

  I should do so. You shall be missed at court,

  And that will well confirm it.

  INNOGEN

  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—

  INNOGEN

  No court, no father, nor no more ado

  With that harsh, churlish, 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.

  INNOGEN

  Where then?

  Hath Britain all the sun that shines? Day, night,

  Are they not but in Britain? I‘th’ world’s volume

  Our Britain seems as of it but not in’t,

  In a great pool a swan’s nest. Prithee, think

  There’s livers out of Britain.

  PISANIO

  I am most glad

  You think of other place. Th‘ambassador,

  Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford Haven

  Tomorrow. Now if you could wear a mind

  Dark as your fortune is, and but disguise

  That which t’appear itself must not yet be

  But by self-danger, you should tread a course

  Pretty and full of view; yea, 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

  As truly as he moves.

  INNOGEN

  O, for such means,

  Though peril to my modesty, not death on’t,

  I would adventure.

  PISANIO

  Well then, here’s the point:

  You must forget to be a woman; change

  Command into obedience, fear and niceness—

  The handmaids of all women, or more truly

  Woman it pretty self—into a waggish courage,

  Ready in gibes, quick-answered, saucy and

  As quarrelous as the weasel. Nay, you must

  Forget that rarest treasure of your cheek,

  Exposing it—but O, the harder heart!—

  Alack, no remedy—to the greedy touch

  Of common-kissing Titan, and forget

  Your laboursome and dainty trims wherein

  You made great Juno angry.

  INNOGEN

  Nay, be brief.

  I see into thy end, and am almost

  A man already.

  PISANIO

  First, make yourself but like one.

  Forethinking this, I have already fit—

  ’Tis in my cloak-bag—doublet, hat, hose, all

  That answer to them. Would you in their serving,

  And with what imitation you can borrow

  From youth of such a season, fore noble Lucius

  Present yourself, desire his service, tell him

  Wherein you’re happy—which will make him know

  If that his head have ear in music—doubtless

  With joy he will embrace you, for h
e’s honourable,

  And, doubling that, most holy. Your means abroad—

  You have me, rich, and I will never fail

  Beginning nor supplyment.

  INNOGEN

  Thou art all the comfort

  The gods will diet me with. Prithee away.

  There’s more to be considered, but we’ll even

  All that good time will give us. This attempt

  I am soldier to, and will abide it with

  A prince’s courage. Away, I prithee.

  PISANIO

  Well, madam, we must take a short farewell

  Lest, being missed, I be suspected of

  Your carriage from the court. My noble mistress,

  Here is a box. I had it from the Queen.

  What’s in’t is precious. If you are sick at sea

  Or stomach-qualmed at land, a dram of this

  Will drive away distemper. To some shade,

  And fit you to your manhood. May the gods

  Direct you to the best.

  INNOGEN

  Amen. I thank thee.

  Exeunt severally

  3.5 ⌈Flourish.⌉ Enter Cymbeline, the Queen, Cloten, Lucius, and lords

  CYMBELINE (to Lucius)

  Thus far, and so farewell.

  LUCIUS Thanks, royal sir.

  My emperor hath wrote I must from hence;

  And am right sorry that I must report ye

  My master’s enemy.

  CYMBELINE

  Our subjects, sir,

  Will not endure his yoke, and for ourself

  To show less sovereignty than they must needs

  Appear unkinglike.

  LUCIUS

  So, sir, I desire of you

  A conduct over land to Milford Haven.

  (To the Queen) Madam, all joy befall your grace, ⌈to Cloten⌉ and you.

  CYMBELINE

  My lords, you are appointed for that office.

  The due of honour in no point omit.

  So farewell, noble Lucius.

  LUCIUS

  Your hand, my lord.

  CLOTEN

  Receive it friendly, but from this time forth

  I wear it as your enemy.

  LUCIUS

  Sir, the event

  Is yet to name the winner. Fare you well.

  CYMBELINE

  Leave not the worthy Lucius, good my lords,

  Till he have crossed the Severn. Happiness.

  Exeunt Lucius and lords

  QUEEN

  He goes hence frowning, but it honours us

  That we have given him cause.

  CLOTEN

  ’Tis all the better.

  Your valiant Britons have their wishes in it.

  CYMBELINE

  Lucius hath wrote already to the Emperor

  How it goes here. It fits us therefore ripely