As it doth me — a nobler sir ne’er lived
’Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou hear more, my lord?
Cymbeline
All that belongs to this.
Iachimo
That paragon, thy daughter,—
For whom my heart drops blood, and my false spirits
Quail to remember — Give me leave; I faint.
Cymbeline
My daughter! what of her? Renew thy strength:
I had rather thou shouldst live while nature will
Than die ere I hear more: strive, man, and speak.
Iachimo
Upon a time,— unhappy was the clock
That struck the hour!— it was in Rome,— accursed
The mansion where!—’twas at a feast,— O, would
Our viands had been poison’d, or at least
Those which I heaved to head!— the good Posthumus —
What should I say? he was too good to be
Where ill men were; and was the best of all
Amongst the rarest of good ones,— sitting sadly,
Hearing us praise our loves of Italy
For beauty that made barren the swell’d boast
Of him that best could speak, for feature, laming
The shrine of Venus, or straight-pight Minerva.
Postures beyond brief nature, for condition,
A shop of all the qualities that man
Loves woman for, besides that hook of wiving,
Fairness which strikes the eye —
Cymbeline
I stand on fire:
Come to the matter.
Iachimo
All too soon I shall,
Unless thou wouldst grieve quickly. This Posthumus,
Most like a noble lord in love and one
That had a royal lover, took his hint;
And, not dispraising whom we praised,— therein
He was as calm as virtue — he began
His mistress’ picture; which by his tongue being made,
And then a mind put in’t, either our brags
Were crack’d of kitchen-trolls, or his description
Proved us unspeaking sots.
Cymbeline
Nay, nay, to the purpose.
Iachimo
Your daughter’s chastity — there it begins.
He spake of her, as Dian had hot dreams,
And she alone were cold: whereat I, wretch,
Made scruple of his praise; and wager’d with him
Pieces of gold ’gainst this which then he wore
Upon his honour’d finger, to attain
In suit the place of’s bed and win this ring
By hers and mine adultery. He, true knight,
No lesser of her honour confident
Than I did truly find her, stakes this ring;
And would so, had it been a carbuncle
Of Phoebus’ wheel, and might so safely, had it
Been all the worth of’s car. Away to Britain
Post I in this design: well may you, sir,
Remember me at court; where I was taught
Of your chaste daughter the wide difference
’Twixt amorous and villanous. Being thus quench’d
Of hope, not longing, mine Italian brain
’Gan in your duller Britain operate
Most vilely; for my vantage, excellent:
And, to be brief, my practise so prevail’d,
That I return’d with simular proof enough
To make the noble Leonatus mad,
By wounding his belief in her renown
With tokens thus, and thus; averting notes
Of chamber-hanging, pictures, this her bracelet,—
O cunning, how I got it!— nay, some marks
Of secret on her person, that he could not
But think her bond of chastity quite crack’d,
I having ta’en the forfeit. Whereupon —
Methinks, I see him now —
Posthumus Leonatus
[Advancing] Ay, so thou dost,
Italian fiend! Ay me, most credulous fool,
Egregious murderer, thief, any thing
That’s due to all the villains past, in being,
To come! O, give me cord, or knife, or poison,
Some upright justicer! Thou, king, send out
For torturers ingenious: it is I
That all the abhorred things o’ the earth amend
By being worse than they. I am Posthumus,
That kill’d thy daughter:— villain-like, I lie —
That caused a lesser villain than myself,
A sacrilegious thief, to do’t: the temple
Of virtue was she; yea, and she herself.
Spit, and throw stone s, cast mire upon me, set
The dogs o’ the street to bay me: every villain
Be call’d Posthumus Leonitus; and
Be villany less than ’twas! O Imogen!
My queen, my life, my wife! O Imogen,
Imogen, Imogen!
Imogen
Peace, my lord; hear, hear —
Posthumus Leonatus
Shall’s have a play of this? Thou scornful page,
There lie thy part.
Striking her: she falls
Pisanio
O, gentlemen, help!
Mine and your mistress! O, my lord Posthumus!
You ne’er kill’d Imogen til now. Help, help!
Mine honour’d lady!
Cymbeline
Does the world go round?
Posthumus Leonatus
How come these staggers on me?
Pisanio
Wake, my mistress!
Cymbeline
If this be so, the gods do mean to strike me
To death with mortal joy.
Pisanio
How fares thy mistress?
Imogen
O, get thee from my sight;
Thou gavest me poison: dangerous fellow, hence!
Breathe not where princes are.
Cymbeline
The tune of Imogen!
Pisanio
Lady,
The gods throw stones of sulphur on me, if
That box I gave you was not thought by me
A precious thing: I had it from the queen.
Cymbeline
New matter still?
Imogen
It poison’d me.
Cornelius
O gods!
I left out one thing which the queen confess’d.
Which must approve thee honest: ‘If Pisanio
Have,’ said she, ‘given his mistress that confection
Which I gave him for cordial, she is served
As I would serve a rat.’
Cymbeline
What’s this, Comelius?
Cornelius
The queen, sir, very oft importuned me
To temper poisons for her, still pretending
The satisfaction of her knowledge only
In killing creatures vile, as cats and dogs,
Of no esteem: I, dreading that her purpose
Was of more danger, did compound for her
A certain stuff, which, being ta’en, would cease
The present power of life, but in short time
All offices of nature should again
Do their due functions. Have you ta’en of it?
Imogen
Most like I did, for I was dead.
Belarius
My boys,
There was our error.
Guiderius
This is, sure, Fidele.
Imogen
Why did you throw your wedded lady from you?
Think that you are upon a rock; and now
Throw me again.
Embracing him
Posthumus Leonatus
Hang there like a fruit, my soul,
Till the tree die!
Cymbeline
How now, my flesh, my child!
What, makest thou me a dullard in this act?
Wilt thou not speak to me?
Imogen
[Kneeling] Your blessing, sir.
Belarius
[To Guiderius and Arviragus] Though you did love this youth, I blame ye not:
You had a motive for’t.
Cymbeline
My tears that fall
Prove holy water on thee! Imogen,
Thy mother’s dead.
Imogen
I am sorry for’t, my lord.
Cymbeline
O, she was nought; and long of her it was
That we meet here so strangely: but her son
Is gone, we know not how nor where.
Pisanio
My lord,
Now fear is from me, I’ll speak troth. Lord Cloten,
Upon my lady’s missing, came to me
With his sword drawn; foam’d at the mouth, and swore,
If I discover’d not which way she was gone,
It was my instant death. By accident,
Had a feigned letter of my master’s
Then in my pocket; which directed him
To seek her on the mountains near to Milford;
Where, in a frenzy, in my master’s garments,
Which he enforced from me, away he posts
With unchaste purpose and with oath to violate
My lady’s honour: what became of him
I further know not.
Guiderius
Let me end the story:
I slew him there.
Cymbeline
Marry, the gods forfend!
I would not thy good deeds should from my lips
Pluck a bard sentence: prithee, valiant youth,
Deny’t again.
Guiderius
I have spoke it, and I did it.
Cymbeline
He was a prince.
Guiderius
A most incivil one: the wrongs he did me
Were nothing prince-like; for he did provoke me
With language that would make me spurn the sea,
If it could so roar to me: I cut off’s head;
And am right glad he is not standing here
To tell this tale of mine.
Cymbeline
I am sorry for thee:
By thine own tongue thou art condemn’d, and must
Endure our law: thou’rt dead.
Imogen
That headless man
I thought had been my lord.
Cymbeline
Bind the offender,
And take him from our presence.
Belarius
Stay, sir king:
This man is better than the man he slew,
As well descended as thyself; and hath
More of thee merited than a band of Clotens
Had ever scar for.
To the Guard
Let his arms alone;
They were not born for bondage.
Cymbeline
Why, old soldier,
Wilt thou undo the worth thou art unpaid for,
By tasting of our wrath? How of descent
As good as we?
Arviragus
In that he spake too far.
Cymbeline
And thou shalt die for’t.
Belarius
We will die all three:
But I will prove that two on’s are as good
As I have given out him. My sons, I must,
For mine own part, unfold a dangerous speech,
Though, haply, well for you.
Arviragus
Your danger’s ours.
Guiderius
And our good his.
Belarius
Have at it then, by leave.
Thou hadst, great king, a subject who
Was call’d Belarius.
Cymbeline
What of him? he is
A banish’d traitor.
Belarius
He it is that hath
Assumed this age; indeed a banish’d man;
I know not how a traitor.
Cymbeline
Take him hence:
The whole world shall not save him.
Belarius
Not too hot:
First pay me for the nursing of thy sons;
And let it be confiscate all, so soon
As I have received it.
Cymbeline
Nursing of my sons!
Belarius
I am too blunt and saucy: here’s my knee:
Ere I arise, I will prefer my sons;
Then spare not the old father. Mighty sir,
These two young gentlemen, that call me father
And think they are my sons, are none of mine;
They are the issue of your loins, my liege,
And blood of your begetting.
Cymbeline
How! my issue!
Belarius
So sure as you your father’s. I, old Morgan,
Am that Belarius whom you sometime banish’d:
Your pleasure was my mere offence, my punishment
Itself, and all my treason; that I suffer’d
Was all the harm I did. These gentle princes —
For such and so they are — these twenty years
Have I train’d up: those arts they have as I
Could put into them; my breeding was, sir, as
Your highness knows. Their nurse, Euriphile,
Whom for the theft I wedded, stole these children
Upon my banishment: I moved her to’t,
Having received the punishment before,
For that which I did then: beaten for loyalty
Excited me to treason: their dear loss,
The more of you ’twas felt, the more it shaped
Unto my end of stealing them. But, gracious sir,
Here are your sons again; and I must lose
Two of the sweet’st companions in the world.
The benediction of these covering heavens
Fall on their heads like dew! for they are worthy
To inlay heaven with stars.
Cymbeline
Thou weep’st, and speak’st.
The service that you three have done is more
Unlike than this thou tell’st. I lost my children:
If these be they, I know not how to wish
A pair of worthier sons.
Belarius
Be pleased awhile.
This gentleman, whom I call Polydore,
Most worthy prince, as yours, is true Guiderius:
This gentleman, my Cadwal, Arviragus,
Your younger princely son; he, sir, was lapp’d
In a most curious mantle, wrought by the hand
Of his queen mother, which for more probation
I can with ease produce.
Cymbeline
Guiderius had
Upon his neck a mole, a sanguine star;
It was a mark of wonder.
Belarius
This is he;
Who hath upon him still that natural stamp:
It was wise nature’s end in the donation,
To be his evidence now.
Cymbeline
O, what, am I
A mother to the birth of three? Ne’er mother
Rejoiced deliverance more. Blest pray you be,
That, after this strange starting from your orbs,
May reign in them now! O Imogen,
Thou hast lost by this a kingdom.
Imogen
No, my lord;
I have got two worlds by ’t. O my gentle brothers,
Have we thus met? O, never say hereafter
But I am truest speaker you call’d me brother,
When I was but your sister; I you brothers,
When ye were so indeed.
Cymbeline
Did you e’er meet?
Arviragus
Ay, my good lord.
Guiderius
And at first meeting loved;
Continued so, until we thought he died.
Cornelius
By the queen’s dram she swallow’d.
Cymbeline
O rare instinct!
When shall I hear all through? This fierce abridgement
Hath to it circumstantial branches, which
Distinction should be rich in. Where? how lived You?
And when came you to serve our Roman captive?
How parted with your brothers? how first met them?
Why fled you from the court? and whither? These,
And your three motives to the battle, with
I know not how much more, should be demanded;
And all the other by-dependencies,
From chance to chance: but nor the time nor place
Will serve our long inter’gatories. See,
Posthumus anchors upon Imogen,
And she, like harmless lightning, throws her eye
On him, her brother, me, her master, hitting
Each object with a joy: the counterchange
Is severally in all. Let’s quit this ground,
And smoke the temple with our sacrifices.
To Belarius
Thou art my brother; so we’ll hold thee ever.
Imogen
You are my father too, and did relieve me,
To see this gracious season.
Cymbeline
All o’erjoy’d,
Save these in bonds: let them be joyful too,
For they shall taste our comfort.
Imogen
My good master,
I will yet do you service.
Caius Lucius
Happy be you!
Cymbeline
The forlorn soldier, that so nobly fought,
He would have well becomed this place, and graced
The thankings of a king.
Posthumus Leonatus
I am, sir,
The soldier that did company these three
In poor beseeming; ’twas a fitment for
The purpose I then follow’d. That I was he,
Speak, Iachimo: I had you down and might
Have made you finish.
Iachimo
[Kneeling] I am down again:
But now my heavy conscience sinks my knee,
As then your force did. Take that life, beseech you,
Which I so often owe: but your ring first;
And here the bracelet of the truest princess
That ever swore her faith.
Posthumus Leonatus
Kneel not to me:
The power that I have on you is, to spare you;
The malice towards you to forgive you: live,
And deal with others better.
Cymbeline
Nobly doom’d!
We’ll learn our freeness of a son-in-law;
Pardon’s the word to all.
Arviragus
You holp us, sir,
As you did mean indeed to be our brother;
Joy’d are we that you are.
Posthumus Leonatus
Your servant, princes. Good my lord of Rome,
Call forth your soothsayer: as I slept, methought
Great Jupiter, upon his eagle back’d,
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