Complete Plays, The

by William Shakespeare

  This tribute from us, we were free:

  Caesar’s ambition,

  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 warlike people, whom we reckon

  Ourselves to be.

  Cloten

  Lords

  We do.

  Cymbeline

  Say, then, to Caesar,

  Our ancestor was that Mulmutius which

  Ordain’d our laws, whose use the sword of Caesar

  Hath too much mangled; whose repair and franchise

  Shall, by the power we hold, be our good deed,

  Though Rome be therefore angry: Mulmutius made our laws,

  Who was the first of Britain which did put

  His brows within a golden crown and call’d

  Himself a king.

  Caius Lucius

  I am sorry, Cymbeline,

  That I am to pronounce Augustus Caesar —

  Caesar, that hath more kings his servants than

  Thyself domestic officers — thine enemy:

  Receive it from me, then: war and confusion

  In Caesar’s name pronounce I ’gainst thee: look

  For fury not to be resisted. Thus defied,

  I thank thee for myself.

  Cymbeline

  Thou art welcome, Caius.

  Thy Caesar knighted me; my youth I spent

  Much under him; of him I gather’d honour;

  Which he to seek of me again, perforce,

  Behoves me keep at utterance. I am perfect

  That the Pannonians and Dalmatians for

  Their liberties are now in arms; a precedent

  Which not to read would show the Britons cold:

  So Caesar shall not find them.

  Caius Lucius

  Let proof speak.

  Cloten

  His majesty bids you welcome. Make pastime with us a day or two, or longer: if you seek us afterwards in other terms, you shall find us in our salt-water girdle: if you beat us out of it, it is yours; if you fall in the adventure, our crows shall fare the better for you; and there’s an end.

  Caius Lucius

  So, sir.

  Cymbeline

  I know your master’s pleasure and he mine:

  All the remain is ‘Welcome!’

  Exeunt

  SCENE II. ANOTHER ROOM IN THE PALACE.

  Enter Pisanio, with a letter

  Pisanio

  How? of adultery? Wherefore write you not

  What monster’s her accuser? Leonatus,

  O master! what a strange infection

  Is fall’n into thy ear! What false Italian,

  As poisonous-tongued as handed, hath prevail’d

  On thy too ready hearing? Disloyal! No:

  She’s punish’d for her truth, and undergoes,

  More goddess-like than wife-like, such assaults

  As would take in some virtue. O my master!

  Thy mind to her is now as low as were

  Thy fortunes. How! that I should murder her?

  Upon the love and truth and vows which I

  Have made to thy command? I, her? her blood?

  If it be so to do good service, never

  Let me be counted serviceable. How look I,

  That I should seem to lack humanity

  So much as this fact comes to?

  Reading

  ‘Do’t: the letter

  That I have sent her, by her own command

  Shall give thee opportunity.’ O damn’d paper!

  Black as the ink that’s on thee! Senseless bauble,

  Art thou a feodary for this act, and look’st

  So virgin-like without? Lo, here she comes.

  I am ignorant in what I am commanded.

  Enter Imogen

  Imogen

  How now, Pisanio!

  Pisanio

  Madam, here is a letter from my lord.

  Imogen

  Who? thy lord? that is my lord, Leonatus!

  O, learn’d indeed were that astronomer

  That knew the stars as I his characters;

  He’ld lay the future open. You good gods,

  Let what is here contain’d relish of love,

  Of my lord’s health, of his content, yet not

  That we two are asunder; let that grieve him:

  Some griefs are med’cinable; that is one of them,

  For it doth physic love: of his content,

  All but in that! Good wax, thy leave. Blest be

  You bees that make these locks of counsel! Lovers

  And men in dangerous bonds pray not alike:

  Though forfeiters you cast in prison, yet

  You clasp young Cupid’s tables. Good news, gods!

  Reads

  ‘Justice, and your father’s wrath, should he take me in his dominion, could not be so cruel to me, as you, O the dearest of creatures, would even renew me with your eyes. Take notice that I am in Cambria, at Milford-Haven: what your own love will out of this advise you, follow. So he wishes you all happiness, that remains loyal to his vow, and your, increasing in love, Leonatus Posthumus.’

  O, for a horse with wings! Hear’st thou, Pisanio?

  He is at Milford-Haven: read, and tell me

  How far ’tis thither. If one of mean affairs

  May plod it in a week, why may not I

  Glide thither in a day? Then, true Pisanio,—

  Who long’st, like me, to see thy lord; who long’st,—

  Let me bate,— but not like me — yet long’st,

  But in a fainter kind:— O, not like me;

  For mine’s beyond beyond — say, and speak thick;

  Love’s counsellor should fill the bores of hearing,

  To 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

  To inherit such a haven: but first of all,

  How we may steal from hence, and for the gap

  That we shall make in time, from our hence-going

  And our return, to excuse: but first, how get hence:

  Why should excuse be born or e’er begot?

  We’ll talk of that hereafter. Prithee, speak,

  How many score of miles may we well ride

  ’Twixt hour and hour?

  Pisanio

  One score ’twixt sun and sun,

  Madam, ’s enough for you:

  Aside

  and too much too.

  Imogen

  Why, one that rode to’s execution, man,

  Could never go so slow: I have heard of riding wagers,

  Where horses have been nimbler than the sands

  That run i’ 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

  A riding-suit, no costlier than would fit

  A franklin’s housewife.

  Pisanio

  Madam, you’re best consider.

  Imogen

  I see before me, man: nor here, nor here,

  Nor what ensues, but have a fog in them,

  That I cannot look through. Away, I prithee;

  Do as I bid thee: there’s no more to say,

  Accessible is none but Milford way.

  Exeunt

  SCENE III. WALES: A MOUNTAINOUS COUNTRY WITH A CAVE.

  Enter, from the cave, Belarius; Guiderius, and Arviragus following

  Belarius

  A goodly day not to keep house, with such

  Whose roof’s as low as ours! Stoop, boys; this gate

  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 turba
ns on, without

  Good morrow to the sun. Hail, thou fair heaven!

  We house i’ the rock, yet use thee not so hardly

  As prouder livers do.

  Guiderius

  Hail, heaven!

  Arviragus

  Hail, heaven!

  Belarius

  Now for our mountain sport: up to yond hill;

  Your legs are young; I’ll tread these flats. Consider,

  When you above perceive me like a crow,

  That it is place which lessens and sets off;

  And you may then revolve what tales I have told you

  Of courts, of princes, of the tricks in war:

  This service is not service, so being done,

  But being so allow’d: to apprehend thus,

  Draws us a profit from all things we see;

  And often, to our comfort, shall we find

  The sharded beetle in a safer hold

  Than is the full-wing’d eagle. O, this life

  Is nobler than attending for a cheque,

  Richer than doing nothing for a bauble,

  Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk:

  Such gain the cap of him that makes ’em fine,

  Yet keeps his book uncross’d: no life to ours.

  Guiderius

  Out of your proof you speak: we, poor unfledged,

  Have never wing’d from view o’ the nest, nor know not

  What air’s from home. Haply this life is best,

  If quiet life be best; sweeter to you

  That have a sharper known; well corresponding

  With your stiff age: but unto us it is

  A cell of ignorance; travelling a-bed;

  A prison for a debtor, that not dares

  To stride a limit.

  Arviragus

  What should we speak of

  When we are old as you? when we shall hear

  The rain and wind beat dark December, how,

  In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse

  The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing;

  We are beastly, subtle as the fox for prey,

  Like warlike as the wolf for what we eat;

  Our valour is to chase what flies; our cage

  We make a quire, as doth the prison’d bird,

  And sing our bondage freely.

  Belarius

  How you speak!

  Did you but know the city’s usuries

  And felt them knowingly; the art o’ the court

  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 o’ the war,

  A pain that only seems to seek out danger

  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,

  Must court’sy 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 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 prevail’d

  Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline

  I was confederate with the Romans: so

  Follow’d my banishment, and this twenty years

  This rock and these demesnes have been my world;

  Where I have lived at honest freedom, paid

  More pious debts to heaven than in all

  The fore-end of my time. But up to the mountains!

  This is not hunters’ 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

  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.

  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

  Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore,

  The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, who

  The king his father call’d Guiderius,— Jove!

  When on my three-foot stool I sit and tell

  The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out

  Into my story: say ‘Thus, mine enemy fell,

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

  The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats,

  Strains his young nerves and puts himself in posture

  That acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal,

  Once Arviragus, in as like a figure,

  Strikes life into my speech and shows much more

  His own conceiving.— Hark, the game is 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 call’d,

  They take for natural father. The game is up.

  Exit

  SCENE IV. COUNTRY NEAR MILFORD-HAVEN.

  Enter Pisanio and Imogen

  Imogen

  Thou told’st me, when we came from horse, the place

  Was near at hand: ne’er long’d my mother so

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

  Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind,

  That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that sigh

  From the inward of thee? One, but painted thus,

  Would be interpreted a thing perplex’d

  Beyond self-explication: put thyself

  Into a havior of less fear, ere wildness

  Vanquish my staider senses. What’s the matter?

  Why tender’st thou that paper to me, with

  A look untender? If’t be summer news,

  Smile to’t before; if winterly, thou need’st

  But keep that countenance still. My husband’s hand!

  That drug-damn’d Italy hath out-craftied him,

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

  May take off some extremity, which to read

  Would be even mortal to me.

  Pisanio

  Please you, read;

  And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing

  The most disdain’d of fortune.

  Imogen

  [Reads] ‘Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath 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 d
ishonour and equally to me disloyal.’

  Pisanio

  What shall I need to draw my sword? the paper

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

  Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue

  Outvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath

  Rides on the posting winds and doth belie

  All corners of the world: kings, queens and states,

  Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave

  This viperous slander enters. What cheer, madam?

  Imogen

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

  To lie in watch there and to think on him?

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

  To break it with a fearful dream of him

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

  Pisanio

  Alas, good lady!

  Imogen

  I false! Thy conscience witness: Iachimo,

  Thou didst accuse him of incontinency;

  Thou then look’dst like a villain; now methinks

  Thy favour’s good enough. Some jay of Italy

  Whose mother was her painting, hath betray’d him:

  Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion;

  And, for I am richer than to hang by 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

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

  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,

  Wilt lay the leaven on all proper men;

  Goodly and gallant shall be false and perjured

  From thy great fall. Come, fellow, be thou honest:

  Do thou thy master’s bidding: when thou see’st him,

  A little witness my obedience: look!

  I draw the sword myself: take it, and hit

  The innocent mansion of my love, my heart;

  Fear not; ’tis empty of all things but grief;

  Thy master is not there, who was indeed

  The riches of it: do his bidding; strike

  Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause;

  But now thou seem’st a coward.

  Pisanio

  Hence, vile instrument!

  Thou shalt not damn my hand.

  Imogen

  Why, I must die;

  And if I do not by thy hand, thou art

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

  There is a prohibition so divine

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