Moulded the stuff so fair,
That he deserved the praise o’ the world,
As great Sicilius’ heir.
First Brother
When once he was mature for man,
In Britain where was he
That could stand up his parallel;
Or fruitful object be
In eye of Imogen, that best
Could deem his dignity?
Mother
With marriage wherefore was he mock’d,
To be exiled, and thrown
From Leonati seat, and cast
From her his dearest one,
Sweet Imogen?
Sicilius Leonatus
Why did you suffer Iachimo,
Slight thing of Italy,
To taint his nobler heart and brain
With needless jealosy;
And to become the geck and scorn
O’ th’ other’s villany?
Second Brother
For this from stiller seats we came,
Our parents and us twain,
That striking in our country’s cause
Fell bravely and were slain,
Our fealty and Tenantius’ right
With honour to maintain.
First Brother
Like hardiment Posthumus hath
To Cymbeline perform’d:
Then, Jupiter, thou king of gods,
Why hast thou thus adjourn’d
The graces for his merits due,
Being all to dolours turn’d?
Sicilius Leonatus
Thy crystal window ope; look out;
No longer exercise
Upon a valiant race thy harsh
And potent injuries.
Mother
Since, Jupiter, our son is good,
Take off his miseries.
Sicilius Leonatus
Peep through thy marble mansion; help;
Or we poor ghosts will cry
To the shining synod of the rest
Against thy deity.
First Brother
Second Brother
Help, Jupiter; or we appeal,
And from thy justice fly.
Jupiter descends in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an eagle: he throws a thunderbolt. The Apparitions fall on their knees
Jupiter
No more, you petty spirits of region low,
Offend our hearing; hush! How dare you ghosts
Accuse the thunderer, whose bolt, you know,
Sky-planted batters all rebelling coasts?
Poor shadows of Elysium, hence, and rest
Upon your never-withering banks of flowers:
Be not with mortal accidents opprest;
No care of yours it is; you know ’tis ours.
Whom best I love I cross; to make my gift,
The more delay’d, delighted. Be content;
Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift:
His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent.
Our Jovial star reign’d at his birth, and in
Our temple was he married. Rise, and fade.
He shall be lord of lady Imogen,
And happier much by his affliction made.
This tablet lay upon his breast, wherein
Our pleasure his full fortune doth confine:
And so, away: no further with your din
Express impatience, lest you stir up mine.
Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline.
Ascends
Sicilius Leonatus
He came in thunder; his celestial breath
Was sulphurous to smell: the holy eagle
Stoop’d as to foot us: his ascension is
More sweet than our blest fields: his royal bird
Prunes the immortal wing and cloys his beak,
As when his god is pleased.
All
Thanks, Jupiter!
Sicilius Leonatus
The marble pavement closes, he is enter’d
His radiant root. Away! and, to be blest,
Let us with care perform his great behest.
The Apparitions vanish
Posthumus Leonatus
[Waking] Sleep, thou hast been a grandsire, and begot
A father to me; and thou hast created
A mother and two brothers: but, O scorn!
Gone! they went hence so soon as they were born:
And so I am awake. Poor wretches that depend
On greatness’ favour dream as I have done,
Wake and find nothing. But, alas, I swerve:
Many dream not to find, neither deserve,
And yet are steep’d in favours: so am I,
That have this golden chance and know not why.
What fairies haunt this ground? A book? O rare one!
Be not, as is our fangled world, a garment
Nobler than that it covers: let thy effects
So follow, to be most unlike our courtiers,
As good as promise.
Reads
‘When as a lion’s whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embraced by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopped branches, which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate and flourish in peace and plenty.’
’Tis still a dream, or else such stuff as madmen
Tongue and brain not; either both or nothing;
Or senseless speaking or a speaking such
As sense cannot untie. Be what it is,
The action of my life is like it, which
I’ll keep, if but for sympathy.
Re-enter First Gaoler
First Gaoler
Come, sir, are you ready for death?
Posthumus Leonatus
Over-roasted rather; ready long ago.
First Gaoler
Hanging is the word, sir: if you be ready for that, you are well cooked.
Posthumus Leonatus
So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators, the dish pays the shot.
First Gaoler
A heavy reckoning for you, sir. But the comfort is, you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more tavern-bills; which are often the sadness of parting, as the procuring of mirth: you come in flint for want of meat, depart reeling with too much drink; sorry that you have paid too much, and sorry that you are paid too much; purse and brain both empty; the brain the heavier for being too light, the purse too light, being drawn of heaviness: of this contradiction you shall now be quit. O, the charity of a penny cord! It sums up thousands in a trice: you have no true debitor and creditor but it; of what’s past, is, and to come, the discharge: your neck, sir, is pen, book and counters; so the acquittance follows.
Posthumus Leonatus
I am merrier to die than thou art to live.
First Gaoler
Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the tooth-ache: but a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would change places with his officer; for, look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go.
Posthumus Leonatus
Yes, indeed do I, fellow.
First Gaoler
Your death has eyes in ’s head then; I have not seen him so pictured: you must either be directed by some that take upon them to know, or do take upon yourself that which I am sure you do not know, or jump the after inquiry on your own peril: and how you shall speed in your journey’s end, I think you’ll never return to tell one.
Posthumus Leonatus
I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes to direct them the way I am going, but such as wink and will not use them.
First Gaoler
What an infinite mock is this, that a man should have the best use of eyes to see the way of blindness! I am sure hanging’s the way of winking.
Enter a Messenger
Messenger
Knock off his manacles; bring your prisoner to t
he king.
Posthumus Leonatus
Thou bring’st good news; I am called to be made free.
First Gaoler
I’ll be hang’d then.
Posthumus Leonatus
Thou shalt be then freer than a gaoler; no bolts for the dead.
Exeunt Posthumus Leonatus and Messenger
First Gaoler
Unless a man would marry a gallows and beget young gibbets, I never saw one so prone. Yet, on my conscience, there are verier knaves desire to live, for all he be a Roman: and there be some of them too that die against their wills; so should I, if I were one. I would we were all of one mind, and one mind good; O, there were desolation of gaolers and gallowses! I speak against my present profit, but my wish hath a preferment in ’t.
Exeunt
SCENE V. CYMBELINE’S TENT.
Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanio, Lords, Officers, and Attendants
Cymbeline
Stand by my side, you whom the gods have made
Preservers of my throne. Woe is my heart
That the poor soldier that so richly fought,
Whose rags shamed gilded arms, whose naked breast
Stepp’d before larges of proof, cannot be found:
He shall be happy that can find him, if
Our grace can make him so.
Belarius
I never saw
Such noble fury in so poor a thing;
Such precious deeds in one that promises nought
But beggary and poor looks.
Cymbeline
No tidings of him?
Pisanio
He hath been search’d among the dead and living,
But no trace of him.
Cymbeline
To my grief, I am
The heir of his reward;
To Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus
which I will add
To you, the liver, heart and brain of Britain,
By whom I grant she lives. ’Tis now the time
To ask of whence you are. Report it.
Belarius
Sir,
In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen:
Further to boast were neither true nor modest,
Unless I add, we are honest.
Cymbeline
Bow your knees.
Arise my knights o’ the battle: I create you
Companions to our person and will fit you
With dignities becoming your estates.
Enter Cornelius and Ladies
There’s business in these faces. Why so sadly
Greet you our victory? you look like Romans,
And not o’ the court of Britain.
Cornelius
Hail, great king!
To sour your happiness, I must report
The queen is dead.
Cymbeline
Who worse than a physician
Would this report become? But I consider,
By medicine life may be prolong’d, yet death
Will seize the doctor too. How ended she?
Cornelius
With horror, madly dying, like her life,
Which, being cruel to the world, concluded
Most cruel to herself. What she confess’d
I will report, so please you: these her women
Can trip me, if I err; who with wet cheeks
Were present when she finish’d.
Cymbeline
Prithee, say.
Cornelius
First, she confess’d she never loved you, only
Affected greatness got by you, not you:
Married your royalty, was wife to your place;
Abhorr’d your person.
Cymbeline
She alone knew this;
And, but she spoke it dying, I would not
Believe her lips in opening it. Proceed.
Cornelius
Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to love
With such integrity, she did confess
Was as a scorpion to her sight; whose life,
But that her flight prevented it, she had
Ta’en off by poison.
Cymbeline
O most delicate fiend!
Who is ’t can read a woman? Is there more?
Cornelius
More, sir, and worse. She did confess she had
For you a mortal mineral; which, being took,
Should by the minute feed on life and lingering
By inches waste you: in which time she purposed,
By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to
O’ercome you with her show, and in time,
When she had fitted you with her craft, to work
Her son into the adoption of the crown:
But, failing of her end by his strange absence,
Grew shameless-desperate; open’d, in despite
Of heaven and men, her purposes; repented
The evils she hatch’d were not effected; so
Despairing died.
Cymbeline
Heard you all this, her women?
First Lady
We did, so please your highness.
Cymbeline
Mine eyes
Were not in fault, for she was beautiful;
Mine ears, that heard her flattery; nor my heart,
That thought her like her seeming; it had been vicious
To have mistrusted her: yet, O my daughter!
That it was folly in me, thou mayst say,
And prove it in thy feeling. Heaven mend all!
Enter Lucius, Iachimo, the Soothsayer, and other Roman Prisoners, guarded; Posthumus Leonatus behind, and Imogen
Thou comest not, Caius, now for tribute that
The Britons have razed out, though with the loss
Of many a bold one; whose kinsmen have made suit
That their good souls may be appeased with slaughter
Of you their captives, which ourself have granted:
So think of your estate.
Caius Lucius
Consider, sir, the chance of war: the day
Was yours by accident; had it gone with us,
We should not, when the blood was cool, have threaten’d
Our prisoners with the sword. But since the gods
Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives
May be call’d ransom, let it come: sufficeth
A Roman with a Roman’s heart can suffer:
Augustus lives to think on’t: and so much
For my peculiar care. This one thing only
I will entreat; my boy, a Briton born,
Let him be ransom’d: never master had
A page so kind, so duteous, diligent,
So tender over his occasions, true,
So feat, so nurse-like: let his virtue join
With my request, which I make bold your highness
Cannot deny; he hath done no Briton harm,
Though he have served a Roman: save him, sir,
And spare no blood beside.
Cymbeline
I have surely seen him:
His favour is familiar to me. Boy,
Thou hast look’d thyself into my grace,
And art mine own. I know not why, wherefore,
To say ‘live, boy:’ ne’er thank thy master; live:
And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt,
Fitting my bounty and thy state, I’ll give it;
Yea, though thou do demand a prisoner,
The noblest ta’en.
Imogen
I humbly thank your highness.
Caius Lucius
I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad;
And yet I know thou wilt.
Imogen
No, no: alack,
There’s other work in hand: I see a thing
Bitter to me as death: your life, good master,
Must shuffle for itself.
Caius Lucius
The boy disdain
s me,
He leaves me, scorns me: briefly die their joys
That place them on the truth of girls and boys.
Why stands he so perplex’d?
Cymbeline
What wouldst thou, boy?
I love thee more and more: think more and more
What’s best to ask. Know’st him thou look’st on? speak,
Wilt have him live? Is he thy kin? thy friend?
Imogen
He is a Roman; no more kin to me
Than I to your highness; who, being born your vassal,
Am something nearer.
Cymbeline
Wherefore eyest him so?
Imogen
I’ll tell you, sir, in private, if you please
To give me hearing.
Cymbeline
Ay, with all my heart,
And lend my best attention. What’s thy name?
Imogen
Fidele, sir.
Cymbeline
Thou’rt my good youth, my page;
I’ll be thy master: walk with me; speak freely.
Cymbeline and Imogen converse apart
Belarius
Is not this boy revived from death?
Arviragus
One sand another
Not more resembles that sweet rosy lad
Who died, and was Fidele. What think you?
Guiderius
The same dead thing alive.
Belarius
Peace, peace! see further; he eyes us not; forbear;
Creatures may be alike: were ’t he, I am sure
He would have spoke to us.
Guiderius
But we saw him dead.
Belarius
Be silent; let’s see further.
Pisanio
[Aside] It is my mistress:
Since she is living, let the time run on
To good or bad.
Cymbeline and Imogen come forward
Cymbeline
Come, stand thou by our side;
Make thy demand aloud.
To Iachimo
Sir, step you forth;
Give answer to this boy, and do it freely;
Or, by our greatness and the grace of it,
Which is our honour, bitter torture shall
Winnow the truth from falsehood. On, speak to him.
Imogen
My boon is, that this gentleman may render
Of whom he had this ring.
Posthumus Leonatus
[Aside] What’s that to him?
Cymbeline
That diamond upon your finger, say
How came it yours?
Iachimo
Thou’lt torture me to leave unspoken that
Which, to be spoke, would torture thee.
Cymbeline
How! me?
Iachimo
I am glad to be constrain’d to utter that
Which torments me to conceal. By villany
I got this ring: ’twas Leonatus’ jewel;
Whom thou didst banish; and — which more may grieve thee,
Complete Plays, The Page 364