Qu. And to kill the meruaile, Shall be so euer

Clot. There be many Caesars, Ere such another Iulius: Britaine's a world By it selfe, and we will nothing pay For wearing our owne Noses

Qu. That opportunity Which then they had to take from's, to resume We haue againe. Remember Sir, my Liege, The Kings your Ancestors, together with The naturall brauery of your Isle, which stands As Neptunes Parke, ribb'd, and pal'd in With Oakes vnskaleable, and roaring Waters, With Sands that will not beare your Enemies Boates, But sucke them vp to'th' Top-mast. A kinde of Conquest Caesar made heere, but made not heere his bragge Of Came, and Saw, and Ouer-came: with shame (The first that euer touch'd him) he was carried From off our Coast, twice beaten: and his Shipping (Poore ignorant Baubles) on our terrible Seas Like Egge-shels mou'd vpon their Surges, crack'd As easily 'gainst our Rockes. For ioy whereof, The fam'd Cassibulan, who was once at point (Oh giglet Fortune) to master Caesars Sword, Made Luds-Towne with reioycing-Fires bright, And Britaines strut with Courage

Clot. Come, there's no more Tribute to be paid: our Kingdome is stronger then it was at that time: and (as I said) there is no mo such Caesars, other of them may haue crook'd Noses, but to owe such straite Armes, none

Cym. Son, let your Mother end

Clot. We haue yet many among vs, can gripe as hard as Cassibulan, I doe not say I am one: but I haue a hand. Why Tribute? Why should we pay Tribute? If Caesar can hide the Sun from vs with a Blanket, or put the Moon in his pocket, we will pay him Tribute for light: else Sir, no more Tribute, pray you now

Cym. You must know, Till the iniurious Romans, did extort This Tribute from vs, we were free. Caesars Ambition, Which swell'd so much, that it did almost stretch The sides o'th' World, against all colour heere, Did put the yoake vpon's; which to shake off Becomes a warlike people, whom we reckon Our selues to be, we do. Say then to Caesar, Our Ancestor was that Mulmutius, which Ordain'd our Lawes, whose vse the Sword of Caesar Hath too much mangled; whose repayre, and franchise, Shall (by the power we hold) be our good deed, Tho Rome be therfore angry. Mulmutius made our lawes Who was the first of Britaine, which did put His browes within a golden Crowne, and call'd Himselfe a King

Luc. I am sorry Cymbeline, That I am to pronounce Augustus Caesar (Caesar, that hath moe Kings his Seruants, then Thy selfe Domesticke Officers) thine Enemy: Receyue it from me then. Warre, and Confusion In Caesars name pronounce I 'gainst thee: Looke For fury, not to be resisted. Thus defide, I thanke thee for my selfe

Cym. Thou art welcome Caius, Thy Caesar Knighted me; my youth I spent Much vnder him; of him, I gather'd Honour, Which he, to seeke of me againe, perforce, Behooues me keepe at vtterance. I am perfect, That the Pannonians and Dalmatians, for Their Liberties are now in Armes: a President Which not to reade, would shew the Britaines cold: So Caesar shall not finde them

Luc. Let proofe speake

Clot. His Maiesty biddes you welcome. Make pastime with vs, a day, or two, or longer: if you seek vs afterwards in other tearmes, you shall finde vs in our Saltwater-Girdle: if you beate vs out of it, it is yours: if you fall in the aduenture, our Crowes shall fare the better for you: and there's an end

Luc. So sir

Cym. I know your Masters pleasure, and he mine: All the Remaine, is welcome.

Exeunt.

Scena Secunda.

Enter Pisanio reading of a Letter.

Pis. How? of Adultery? Wherefore write you not What Monsters her accuse? Leonatus: Oh Master, what a strange infection Is falne into thy eare? What false Italian, (As poysonous tongu'd, as handed) hath preuail'd On thy too ready hearing? Disloyall? No. She's punish'd for her Truth; and vndergoes More Goddesse-like, then Wife-like; such Assaults As would take in some Vertue. Oh my Master, Thy mind to her, is now as lowe, as were Thy Fortunes. How? That I should murther her, Vpon the Loue, and Truth, and Vowes; which I Haue made to thy command? I her? Her blood? If it be so, to do good seruice, neuer Let me be counted seruiceable. How looke I, That I should seeme to lacke humanity, So much as this Fact comes to? Doo't: The Letter. That I haue sent her, by her owne command, Shall giue thee opportunitie. Oh damn'd paper, Blacke as the Inke that's on thee: senselesse bauble, Art thou a Foedarie for this Act; and look'st So Virgin-like without? Loe here she comes. Enter Imogen.

I am ignorant in what I am commanded

Imo. How now Pisanio? Pis. Madam, heere is a Letter from my Lord

Imo. Who, thy Lord? That is my Lord Leonatus? Oh, learn'd indeed were that Astronomer That knew the Starres, as I his Characters, Heel'd lay the Future open. You good Gods, Let what is heere contain'd, rellish of Loue, Of my Lords health, of his content: yet not That we two are asunder, let that grieue him; Some griefes are medcinable, that is one of them, For it doth physicke Loue, of his content, All but in that. Good Wax, thy leaue: blest be You Bees that make these Lockes of counsaile. Louers, And men in dangerous Bondes pray not alike, Though Forfeytours you cast in prison, yet You claspe young Cupids Tables: good Newes Gods. Iustice and your Fathers wrath (should he take me in his Dominion) could not be so cruell to me, as you: (oh the deerest of Creatures) would euen renew me with your eyes. Take notice that I am in Cambria at Milford-Hauen: what your owne Loue, will out of this aduise you, follow. So he wishes you all happinesse, that remaines loyall to his Vow, and your encreasing in Loue. Leonatus Posthumus. Oh for a Horse with wings: Hear'st thou Pisanio? He is at Milford-Hauen: Read, and tell me How farre 'tis thither. If one of meane affaires May plod it in a weeke, why may not I Glide thither in a day? Then true Pisanio, Who long'st like me, to see thy Lord; who long'st (Oh let me bate) but not like me: yet long'st But in a fainter kinde. Oh not like me: For mine's beyond, beyond: say, and speake thicke (Loues Counsailor should fill the bores of hearing, To'th' smothering of the Sense) how farre it is To this same blessed Milford. And by'th' way Tell me how Wales was made so happy, as T' inherite such a Hauen. But first of all, How we may steale from hence: and for the gap That we shall make in Time, from our hence-going, And our returne, to excuse: but first, how get hence. Why should excuse be borne or ere begot? Weele talke of that heereafter. Prythee speake, How many store of Miles may we well rid Twixt houre, and houre? Pis. One score 'twixt Sun, and Sun, Madam's enough for you: and too much too

Imo. Why, one that rode to's Execution Man, Could neuer go so slow: I haue heard of Riding wagers, Where Horses haue bin nimbler then the Sands That run i'th' Clocks behalfe. But this is Foolrie, Go, bid my Woman faigne a Sicknesse, say She'le home to her Father; and prouide me presently A Riding Suit: No costlier then would fit A Franklins Huswife

Pisa. Madam, you're best consider

Imo. I see before me (Man) nor heere, nor heere; Nor what ensues but haue a Fog in them That I cannot looke through. Away, I prythee, Do as I bid thee: There's no more to say: Accessible is none but Milford way.

Exeunt.

Scena Tertia.

Enter Belarius, Guiderius, and Aruiragus.

Bel. A goodly day, not to keepe house with such, Whose Roofe's as lowe as ours: Sleepe Boyes, this gate Instructs you how t' adore the Heauens; and bowes you To a mornings holy office. The Gates of Monarches Are Arch'd so high, that Giants may iet through And keepe their impious Turbonds on, without Good morrow to the Sun. Haile thou faire Heauen, We house i'th' Rocke, yet vse thee not so hardly As prouder liuers do

Guid. Haile Heauen

Aruir. Haile Heauen

Bela. Now for our Mountaine sport, vp to yond hill Your legges are yong: Ile tread these Flats. Consider, When you aboue perceiue me like a Crow, That it is Place, which lessen's, and sets off, And you may then reuolue what Tales, I haue told you, Of Courts, of Princes; of the Tricks in Warre. This Seruice, is not Seruice; so being done, But being so allowed. To apprehend thus, Drawes vs a profit from all things we see: And often to our comfort, shall we finde The sharded-Beetle, in a safer hold Then is the full-wing'd Eagle. Oh this life, Is Nobler, then attending for a checke: Richer, then doing nothing for a Babe: Prouder, then rustling in vnpayd-for Silke: Such gaine the Cap of him, that makes him fine, Yet keepes his Booke vncros'd: no life to ours

Gui. Out of your proofe you speak: we poore vnfledg'd Haue neuer wing'd from view o'th' nest; nor knowes not What Ayre's from home. Hap'ly this life is best, (If quiet life be best) sweeter to you That haue a sharper knowne. Well corresponding With your stiffe Age; but vnto vs, it is A Cell of Ignorance: trauailing a bed, A Prison, or a Debtor, that not dares To stride a limit

Arui. What should we speake of When we are old as you? When we shall heare The Raine and winde beate darke December? How In this our pinching Caue, shall we discourse The freezing houres away? We haue seene nothing: We are beastly; subtle as the Fox for prey, Like warlike as the Wolfe, for what we eate: Our Valour is to chace what flyes: Our Cage We make a Quire, as doth the prison'd Bird, And sing our Bondage freely

Bel. How you speake. Did you but know the Citties Vsuries, And felt them knowingly: the Art o'th' Court, As hard to leaue, as keepe: whose top to climbe Is certaine falling: or so slipp'ry, that The feare's as bad as falling. The toyle o'th' Warre, A paine that onely seemes to seeke out danger I'th' name of Fame, and Honor, which dyes i'th' search, And hath as oft a sland'rous Epitaph, As Record of faire Act. Nay, many times Doth ill deserue, by doing well: what's worse Must curt'sie at the Censure. Oh Boyes, this Storie The World may reade in me: My bodie's mark'd With Roman Swords; and my report, was once First, with the best of Note. Cymbeline lou'd me, And when a Souldier was the Theame, my name Was not farre off: then was I as a Tree Whose boughes did bend with fruit. But in one night, A Storme, or Robbery (call it what you will) Shooke downe my mellow hangings: nay my Leaues, And left me bare to weather

Gui. Vncertaine fauour

Bel. My fault being nothing (as I haue told you oft) But that two Villaines, whose false Oathes preuayl'd Before my perfect Honor, swore to Cymbeline, I was Confederate with the Romanes: so Followed my Banishment, and this twenty yeeres, This Rocke, and these Demesnes, haue bene my World, Where I haue liu'd at honest freedome, payed More pious debts to Heauen, then in all The fore-end of my time. But, vp to'th' Mountaines, This is not Hunters Language; he that strikes The Venison first, shall be the Lord o'th' Feast, To him the other two shall minister, And we will feare no poyson, which attends In place of greater State: Ile meete you in the Valleyes.

Exeunt.

How hard it is to hide the sparkes of Nature? These Boyes know little they are Sonnes to'th' King, Nor Cymbeline dreames that they are aliue. They thinke they are mine, And though train'd vp thus meanely I'th' Caue, whereon the Bowe their thoughts do hit, The Roofes of Palaces, and Nature prompts them In simple and lowe things, to Prince it, much Beyond the tricke of others. This Paladour, The heyre of Cymbeline and Britaine, who The King his Father call'd Guiderius. Ioue, When on my three-foot stoole I sit, and tell The warlike feats I haue done, his spirits flye out Into my Story: say thus mine Enemy fell, And thus I set my foote on's necke, euen then The Princely blood flowes in his Cheeke, he sweats, Straines his yong Nerues, and puts himselfe in posture That acts my words. The yonger Brother Cadwall, Once Aruiragus, in as like a figure Strikes life into my speech, and shewes much more His owne conceyuing. Hearke, the Game is rows'd, Oh Cymbeline, Heauen and my Conscience knowes Thou didd'st vniustly banish me: whereon At three, and two yeeres old, I stole these Babes, Thinking to barre thee of Succession, as Thou refts me of my Lands. Euriphile, Thou was't their Nurse, they took thee for their mother, And euery day do honor to her graue: My selfe Belarius, that am Mergan call'd They take for Naturall Father. The Game is vp. Enter.

Scena Quarta.

Enter Pisanio and Imogen.

Imo. Thou told'st me when we came fro[m] horse, y place Was neere at hand: Ne're long'd my Mother so To see me first, as I haue 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 perplex'd Beyond selfe-explication. Put thy selfe Into a hauiour of lesse feare, ere wildnesse Vanquish my stayder Senses. What's the matter? Why render'st thou that Paper to me, with A looke vntender? If't be Summer Newes Smile too't before: if Winterly, thou need'st But keepe that count'nance stil. My Husbands hand? That Drug-damn'd Italy, hath out-craftied him, And hee's at some hard point. Speake man, thy Tongue May take off some extreamitie, which to reade Would be euen mortall to me

Pis. Please you reade, And you shall finde me (wretched man) a thing The most disdain'd of Fortune

Imogen reades. Thy Mistris (Pisanio) hath plaide the Strumpet in my Bed: the Testimonies whereof, lyes bleeding in me. I speak not out of weake Surmises, but from proofe as strong as my greefe, and as certaine as I expect my Reuenge. That part, thou (Pisanio) must acte for me, if thy Faith be not tainted with the breach of hers; let thine owne hands take away her life: I shall giue thee opportunity at Milford Hauen. She hath my Letter for the purpose; where, if thou feare to strike, and to make mee certaine it is done, thou art the Pander to her dishonour, and equally to me disloyall

Pis. What shall I need to draw my Sword, the Paper Hath cut her throat alreadie? No, 'tis Slander, Whose edge is sharper then the Sword, whose tongue Out-venomes all the Wormes of Nyle, whose breath Rides on the posting windes, and doth belye All corners of the World. Kings, Queenes, and States, Maides, Matrons, nay the Secrets of the Graue This viperous slander enters. What cheere, Madam? Imo. False to his Bed? What is it to be false? To lye in watch there, and to thinke on him? To weepe 'twixt clock and clock? If sleep charge Nature, To breake it with a fearfull dreame of him, And cry my selfe awake? That's false to's bed? Is it? Pisa. Alas good Lady

Imo. I false? Thy Conscience witnesse: Iachimo, Thou didd'st accuse him of Incontinencie, Thou then look'dst like a Villaine: now, me thinkes Thy fauours good enough. Some Iay of Italy (Whose mother was her painting) hath betraid him: Poore I am stale, a Garment out of fashion, And for I am richer then to hang by th' walles, I must be ript: To peeces with me: Oh! Mens Vowes are womens Traitors. All good seeming By thy reuolt (oh Husband) shall be thought Put on for Villainy; not borne where't growes, But worne a Baite for Ladies

Pisa. Good Madam, heare me

Imo. True honest men being heard, like false Aeneas, Were in his time thought false: and Synons weeping Did scandall many a holy teare: tooke pitty From most true wretchednesse. So thou, Posthumus Wilt lay the Leauen on all proper men; Goodly, and gallant, shall be false and periur'd From thy great faile: Come Fellow, be thou honest, Do thou thy Masters bidding. When thou seest him, A little witnesse my obedience. Looke I draw the Sword my selfe, take it, and hit The innocent Mansion of my Loue (my Heart:) Feare not, 'tis empty of all things, but Greefe: Thy Master is not there, who was indeede The riches of it. Do his bidding, strike, Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause; But now thou seem'st a Coward

Pis. Hence vile Instrument, Thou shalt not damne my hand

Imo. Why, I must dye: And if I do not by thy hand, thou art No Seruant of thy Masters. Against Selfe-slaughter, There is a prohibition so Diuine, That crauens my weake hand: Come, heere's my heart: Something's a-foot: Soft, soft, wee'l no defence, Obedient as the Scabbard. What is heere, The Scriptures of the Loyall Leonatus, All turn'd to Heresie? Away, away Corrupters of my Faith, you shall no more Be Stomachers to my heart: thus may pooru Fooles Beleeue false Teachers: Though those that are betraid Do feele the Treason sharpely, yet the Traitor Stands in worse case of woe. And thou Posthumus, That didd'st set vp my disobedience 'gainst the King My Father, and makes me put into contempt the suites Of Princely Fellowes, shalt heereafter finde It is no acte of common passage, but A straine of Rarenesse: and I greeue my selfe, To thinke, when thou shalt be disedg'd by her, That now thou tyrest on, how thy memory Will then be pang'd by me. Prythee dispatch, The Lambe entreats the Butcher. Wher's thy knife? Thou art too slow to do thy Masters bidding When I desire it too

Pis. Oh gracious Lady: Since I receiu'd command to do this businesse, I haue not slept one winke

Imo. Doo't, and to bed then

Pis. Ile wake mine eye-balles first

Imo. Wherefore then Didd'st vndertake it? Why hast thou abus'd So many Miles, with a pretence? This place? Mine Action? and thine owne? Our Horses labour? The Time inuiting thee? The perturb'd Court For my being absent? whereunto I neuer Purpose returne. Why hast thou gone so farre To be vn-bent? when thou hast 'tane thy stand, Th' elected Deere before thee? Pis. But to win time To loose so bad employment, in the which I haue consider'd of a course: good Ladie Heare me with patience

Imo. Talke thy tongue weary, speake: I haue heard I am a Strumpet, and mine eare Therein false strooke, can take no greater wound, Nor tent, to bottome that. But speake

Pis. Then Madam, I thought you would not backe againe

Imo. Most like, Bringing me heere to kill me

Pis. Not so neither: But if I were as wise, as honest, then My purpose would proue well: it cannot be, But that my Master is abus'd. Some Villaine, I, and singular in his Art, hath done you both This cursed iniurie

Imo. Some Roman Curtezan? Pisa. No, on my life: Ile giue but notice you are dead, and send him Some bloody signe of it. For 'tis commanded I should do so: you shall be mist at Court, And that will well confirme it

Imo. Why good Fellow, What shall I do the while? Where bide? How liue? Or in my life, what comfort, when I am Dead to my Husband? Pis. If you'l backe to'th' Court

Imo. No Court, no Father, nor no more adoe With that harsh, noble, simple nothing: That Clotten, whose Loue-suite hath bene to me As fearefull as a Siege

Pis. If not at Court, Then not in Britaine must you bide

Imo. Where then? Hath Britaine all the Sunne that shines? Day? Night? Are they not but in Britaine? I'th' worlds Volume Our Britaine seemes as of it, but not in't: In a great Poole, a Swannes-nest, prythee thinke There's liuers out of Britaine

Pis. I am most glad You thinke of other place: Th' Ambassador, Lucius the Romane comes to Milford-Hauen To morrow. Now, if you could weare a minde Darke, as your Fortune is, and but disguise That which t' appeare it selfe, must not yet be, But by selfe-danger, you should tread a course Pretty, and full of view: yea, happily, neere The residence of Posthumus; so nie (at least) That though his Actions were not visible, yut Report should render him hourely to your eare, As truely as he mooues

Imo. Oh for such meanes, Though perill to my modestie, not death on't I would aduenture

Pis. Well then, heere's the point: You must forget to be a Woman: change Command, into obedience. Feare, and Nicenesse (The Handmaides of all Women, or more truely Woman it pretty selfe) into a waggish courage, Ready in gybes, quicke-answer'd, sawcie, and As quarrellous as the Weazell: Nay, you must Forget that rarest Treasure of your Cheeke, Exposing it (but oh the harder heart, Alacke no remedy) to the greedy touch Of common-kissing Titan: and forget Your laboursome and dainty Trimmes, wherein You made great Iuno angry

Imo. Nay be breefe? I see into thy end, and am almost A man already

Pis. First, make your selfe but like one, Fore-thinking this. I haue already fit ('Tis in my Cloake-bagge) Doublet, Hat, Hose, all That answer to them: Would you in their seruing, (And with what imitation you can borrow From youth of such a season) 'fore Noble Lucius Present your selfe, desire his seruice: tell him Wherein you're happy; which will make him know, If that his head haue eare in Musicke, doubtlesse With ioy he will imbrace you: for hee's Honourable, And doubling that, most holy. Your meanes abroad: You haue me rich, and I will neuer faile Beginning, nor supplyment

Imo. Thou art all the comfort The Gods will diet me with. Prythee away, There's more to be consider'd: but wee'l euen All that good time will giue vs. This attempt, I am Souldier too, and will abide it with A Princes Courage. Away, I prythee

Pis. Well Madam, we must take a short farewell, Least being mist, I be suspected of Your carriage from the Court. My Noble Mistris, Heere is a boxe, I had it from the Queene, What's in't is precious: If you are sicke at Sea, Or Stomacke-qualm'd at Land, a Dramme of this Will driue away distemper. To some shade, And fit you to your Manhood: may the Gods Direct you to the best

Imo. Amen: I thanke thee.

Exeunt.

Scena Quinta.

Enter Cymbeline, Queene, Cloten, Lucius, and Lords.

Cym. Thus farre, and so farewell

Luc. Thankes, Royall Sir: My Emperor hath wrote, I must from hence, And am right sorry, that I must report ye My Masters Enemy

Cym. Our Subiects (Sir) Will not endure his yoake; and for our selfe To shew lesse Soueraignty then they, must needs Appeare vn-Kinglike

Luc. So Sir: I desire of you A Conduct ouer Land, to Milford-Hauen. Madam, all ioy befall your Grace, and you

Cym. My Lords, you are appointed for that Office: The due of Honor, in no point omit: So farewell Noble Lucius

Luc. Your hand, my Lord

Clot. Receiue it friendly: but from this time forth I weare it as your Enemy

Luc. Sir, the Euent Is yet to name the winner. Fare you well

Cym. Leaue not the worthy Lucius, good my Lords Till he haue crost the Seuern. Happines.

Exit Lucius, &c Qu. He goes hence frowning: but it honours vs That we haue giuen him cause

Clot. 'Tis all the better, Your valiant Britaines haue their wishes in it

Cym. Lucius hath wrote already to the Emperor How it goes heere. It fits vs therefore ripely Our Chariots, and our Horsemen be in readinesse: The Powres that he already hath in Gallia Will soone be drawne to head, from whence he moues His warre for Britaine

Qu. 'Tis not sleepy businesse, But must be look'd too speedily, and strongly

Cym. Our expectation that it would be thus Hath made vs forward. But my gentle Queene, Where is our Daughter? She hath not appear'd Before the Roman, nor to vs hath tender'd The duty of the day. She looke vs like A thing more made of malice, then of duty, We haue noted it. Call her before vs, for We haue beene too slight in sufferance

Qu. Royall Sir, Since the exile of Posthumus, most retyr'd Hath her life bin: the Cure whereof, my Lord, 'Tis time must do. Beseech your Maiesty, Forbeare sharpe speeches to her. Shee's a Lady So tender of rebukes, that words are stroke; And strokes death to her. Enter a Messenger.

Cym. Where is she Sir? How Can her contempt be answer'd? Mes. Please you Sir, Her Chambers are all lock'd, and there's no answer That will be giuen to'th' lowd of noise, we make

Qu. My Lord, when last I went to visit her, She pray'd me to excuse her keeping close, Whereto constrain'd by her infirmitie, She should that dutie leaue vnpaide to you Which dayly she was bound to proffer: this She wish'd me to make knowne: but our great Court Made me too blame in memory

Cym. Her doores lock'd? Not seene of late? Grant Heauens, that which I Feare, proue false. Enter.

Qu. Sonne, I say, follow the King

Clot. That man of hers, Pisanio, her old Seruant I haue not seene these two dayes. Enter.

Qu. Go, looke after: Pisanio, thou that stand'st so for Posthumus, He hath a Drugge of mine: I pray, his absence Proceed by swallowing that. For he beleeues It is a thing most precious. But for her, Where is she gone? Haply dispaire hath seiz'd her: Or wing'd with feruour of her loue, she's flowne To her desir'd Posthumus: gone she is, To death, or to dishonor, and my end Can make good vse of either. Shee being downe, I haue the placing of the Brittish Crowne. Enter Cloten.

How now, my Sonne? Clot. 'Tis certaine she is fled: Go in and cheere the King, he rages, none Dare come about him

Qu. All the better: may This night fore-stall him of the comming day.

Exit Qu.

Clo. I loue, and hate her: for she's Faire and Royall, And that she hath all courtly parts more exquisite Then Lady, Ladies, Woman, from euery one The best she hath, and she of all compounded Out-selles them all. I loue her therefore, but Disdaining me, and throwing Fauours on The low Posthumus, slanders so her iudgement, That what's else rare, is choak'd: and in that point I will conclude to hate her, nay indeede, To be reueng'd vpon her. For, when Fooles shall- Enter Pisanio.

Who is heere? What, are you packing sirrah? Come hither: Ah you precious Pandar, Villaine, Where is thy Lady? In a word, or else Thou art straightway with the Fiends

Pis. Oh, good my Lord

Clo. Where is thy Lady? Or, by Iupiter, I will not aske againe. Close Villaine, Ile haue this Secret from thy heart, or rip Thy heart to finde it. Is she with Posthumus? From whose so many waights of basenesse, cannot A dram of worth be drawne

Pis. Alas, nay Lord, How can she be with him? When was she miss'd? He is in Rome

Clot. Where is she Sir? Come neerer: No farther halting: satisfie me home, What is become of her? Pis. Oh, my all-worthy Lord

Clo. All-worthy Villaine, Discouer where thy Mistris is, at once, At the next word: no more of worthy Lord: Speake, or thy silence on the instant, is Thy condemnation, and thy death

Pis. Then Sir: This Paper is the historie of my knowledge Touching her flight

Clo. Let's see't: I will pursue her Euen to Augustus Throne

Pis. Or this, or perish. She's farre enough, and what he learnes by this, May proue his trauell, not her danger

Clo. Humh

Pis. Ile write to my Lord she's dead: Oh Imogen, Safe mayst thou wander, safe returne agen

Clot. Sirra, is this Letter true? Pis. Sir, as I thinke

Clot. It is Posthumus hand, I know't. Sirrah, if thou would'st not be a Villain, but do me true seruice: vndergo those Imployments wherin I should haue cause to vse thee with a serious industry, that is, what villainy soere I bid thee do to performe it, directly and truely, I would thinke thee an honest man: thou should'st neither want my meanes for thy releefe, nor my voyce for thy preferment

Pis. Well, my good Lord

Clot. Wilt thou serue mee? For since patiently and constantly thou hast stucke to the bare Fortune of that Begger Posthumus, thou canst not in the course of gratitude, but be a diligent follower of mine. Wilt thou serue mee? Pis. Sir, I will

Clo. Giue mee thy hand, heere's my purse. Hast any of thy late Masters Garments in thy possession? Pisan. I haue (my Lord) at my Lodging, the same Suite he wore, when he tooke leaue of my Ladie & Mistresse

Clo. The first seruice thou dost mee, fetch that Suite hither, let it be thy first seruice, go

Pis. I shall my Lord. Enter.

Clo. Meet thee at Milford-Hauen: (I forgot to aske him one thing, Ile remember't anon:) euen there, thou villaine Posthumus will I kill thee. I would these Garments were come. She saide vpon a time (the bitternesse of it, I now belch from my heart) that shee held the very Garment of Posthumus, in more respect, then my Noble and naturall person; together with the adornement of my Qualities. With that Suite vpon my backe wil I rauish her: first kill him, and in her eyes; there shall she see my valour, which wil then be a torment to hir contempt. He on the ground, my speech of insulment ended on his dead bodie, and when my Lust hath dined (which, as I say, to vex her, I will execute in the Cloathes that she so prais'd:) to the Court Ile knock her backe, foot her home againe. She hath despis'd mee reioycingly, and Ile bee merry in my Reuenge. Enter Pisanio.

Be those the Garments? Pis. I, my Noble Lord

Clo. How long is't since she went to Milford-Hauen? Pis. She can scarse be there yet

Clo. Bring this Apparrell to my Chamber, that is the second thing that I haue commanded thee. The third is, that thou wilt be a voluntarie Mute to my designe. Be but dutious, and true preferment shall tender it selfe to thee. My Reuenge is now at Milford, would I had wings to follow it. Come, and be true.

Exit

Pis. Thou bid'st me to my losse: for true to thee, Were to proue false, which I will neuer bee To him that is most true. To Milford go, And finde not her, whom thou pursuest. Flow, flow You Heauenly blessings on her: This Fooles speede Be crost with slownesse; Labour be his meede.

Exit

Scena Sexta.

Enter Imogen alone.

Imo. I see a mans life is a tedious one, I haue tyr'd my selfe: and for two nights together Haue made the ground my bed. I should be sicke, But that my resolution helpes me: Milford, When from the Mountaine top, Pisanio shew'd thee, Thou was't within a kenne. Oh Ioue, I thinke Foundations flye the wretched: such I meane, Where they should be releeu'd. Two Beggers told me, I could not misse my way. Will poore Folkes lye That haue Afflictions on them, knowing 'tis A punishment, or Triall? Yes; no wonder, When Rich-ones scarse tell true. To lapse in Fulnesse Is sorer, then to lye for Neede: and Falshood Is worse in Kings, then Beggers. My deere Lord, Thou art one o'th' false Ones: Now I thinke on thee, My hunger's gone; but euen before, I was At point to sinke, for Food. But what is this? Heere is a path too't: 'tis some sauage hold: I were best not call; I dare not call: yet Famine Ere cleane it o're-throw Nature, makes it valiant. Plentie, and Peace breeds Cowards: Hardnesse euer Of Hardinesse is Mother. Hoa? who's heere? If any thing that's ciuill, speake: if sauage, Take, or lend. Hoa? No answer? Then Ile enter. Best draw my Sword; and if mine Enemy But feare the Sword like me, hee'l scarsely looke on't. Such a Foe, good Heauens. Enter.

Scena Septima.

Enter Belarius, Guiderius, and Aruiragus

Bel. You Polidore haue prou'd best Woodman, and Are Master of the Feast: Cadwall, and I Will play the Cooke, and Seruant, 'tis our match: The sweat of industry would dry, and dye But for the end it workes too. Come, our stomackes Will make what's homely, sauoury: Wearinesse Can snore vpon the Flint, when restie Sloth Findes the Downe-pillow hard. Now peace be heere, Poore house, that keep'st thy selfe

Gui. I am throughly weary

Arui. I am weake with toyle, yet strong in appetite

Gui. There is cold meat i'th' Caue, we'l brouz on that Whil'st what we haue kill'd, be Cook'd

Bel. Stay, come not in: But that it eates our victualles, I should thinke Heere were a Faiery

Gui. What's the matter, Sir? Bel. By Iupiter an Angell: or if not An earthly Paragon. Behold Diuinenesse No elder then a Boy. Enter Imogen.

Imo. Good masters harme me not: Before I enter'd heere, I call'd, and thought To haue begg'd, or bought, what I haue took: good troth I haue stolne nought, nor would not, though I had found Gold strew'd i'th' Floore. Heere's money for my Meate, I would haue left it on the Boord, so soone As I had made my Meale; and parted With Pray'rs for the Prouider

Gui. Money? Youth

Aru. All Gold and Siluer rather turne to durt, As 'tis no better reckon'd, but of those Who worship durty Gods

Imo. I see you're angry: Know, if you kill me for my fault, I should Haue dyed, had I not made it

Bel. Whether bound? Imo. To Milford-Hauen

Bel. What's your name? Imo. Fidele Sir: I haue a Kinsman, who Is bound for Italy; he embark'd at Milford, To whom being going, almost spent with hunger, I am falne in this offence

Bel. Prythee (faire youth) Thinke vs no Churles: nor measure our good mindes By this rude place we liue in. Well encounter'd, 'Tis almost night, you shall haue better cheere Ere you depart; and thankes to stay, and eate it: Boyes, bid him welcome

Gui. Were you a woman, youth, I should woo hard, but be your Groome in honesty: I bid for you, as I do buy

Arui. Ile make't my Comfort He is a man, Ile loue him as my Brother: And such a welcome as I'ld giue to him (After long absence) such is yours. Most welcome: Be sprightly, for you fall 'mongst Friends

Imo. 'Mongst Friends? If Brothers: would it had bin so, that they Had bin my Fathers Sonnes, then had my prize Bin lesse, and so more equall ballasting To thee Posthumus

Bel. He wrings at some distresse

Gui. Would I could free't

Arui. Or I, what ere it be, What paine it cost, what danger: Gods! Bel. Hearke Boyes

Imo. Great men That had a Court no bigger then this Caue, That did attend themselues, and had the vertue Which their owne Conscience seal'd them: laying by That nothing-guift of differing Multitudes Could not out-peere these twaine. Pardon me Gods, I'ld change my sexe to be Companion with them, Since Leonatus false

Bel. It shall be so: Boyes wee'l go dresse our Hunt. Faire youth come in; Discourse is heauy, fasting: when we haue supp'd Wee'l mannerly demand thee of thy Story, So farre as thou wilt speake it

Gui. Pray draw neere

Arui. The Night to'th' Owle, And Morne to th' Larke lesse welcome

Imo. Thankes Sir

Arui. I pray draw neere.

Exeunt.

Scena Octaua.

Enter two Roman Senators, and Tribunes.

1.Sen. This is the tenor of the Emperors Writ; That since the common men are now in Action 'Gainst the Pannonians, and Dalmatians, And that the Legions now in Gallia, are Full weake to vndertake our Warres against The falne-off Britaines, that we do incite The Gentry to this businesse. He creates Lucius Pro-Consull: and to you the Tribunes For this immediate Leuy, he commands His absolute Commission. Long liue Caesar

Tri. Is Lucius Generall of the Forces? 2.Sen. I

Tri. Remaining now in Gallia? 1.Sen. With those Legions Which I haue spoke of, whereunto your leuie Must be suppliant: the words of your Commission Will tye you to the numbers, and the time Of their dispatch

Tri. We will discharge our duty.

Exeunt.

Actus Quartus. Scena Prima.

Enter Clotten alone.

Clot I am neere to'th' place where they should meet, if Pisanio haue mapp'd it truely. How fit his Garments serue me? Why should his Mistris who was made by him that made the Taylor, not be fit too? The rather (sauing reuerence of the Word) for 'tis saide a Womans fitnesse comes by fits: therein I must play the Workman, I dare speake it to my selfe, for it is not Vainglorie for a man, and his Glasse, to confer in his owne Chamber; I meane, the Lines of my body are as well drawne as his; no lesse young, more strong, not beneath him in Fortunes, beyond him in the aduantage of the time, aboue him in Birth, alike conuersant in generall seruices, and more remarkeable in single oppositions; yet this imperseuerant Thing loues him in my despight. What Mortalitie is? Posthumus, thy head (which now is growing vppon thy shoulders) shall within this houre be off, thy Mistris inforced, thy Garments cut to peeces before thy face: and all this done, spurne her home to her Father, who may (happily) be a little angry for my so rough vsage: but my Mother hauing power of his testinesse, shall turne all into my commendations. My Horse is tyed vp safe, out Sword, and to a sore purpose: Fortune put them into my hand: This is the very description of their meeting place and the Fellow dares not deceiue me. Enter.

Scena Secunda.

Enter Belarius, Guiderius, Aruiragus, and Imogen from the Caue.

Bel. You are not well: Remaine heere in the Caue, Wee'l come to you after Hunting

Arui. Brother, stay heere: Are we not Brothers? Imo. So man and man should be, But Clay and Clay, differs in dignitie, Whose dust is both alike. I am very sicke, Gui. Go you to Hunting, Ile abide with him

Imo. So sicke I am not, yet I am not well: But not so Citizen a wanton, as To seeme to dye, ere sicke: So please you, leaue me, Sticke to your Iournall course: the breach of Custome, Is breach of all. I am ill, but your being by me Cannot amend me. Society, is no comfort To one not sociable: I am not very sicke, Since I can reason of it: pray you trust me heere, Ile rob none but my selfe, and let me dye Stealing so poorely

Gui. I loue thee: I haue spoke it, How much the quantity, the waight as much, As I do loue my Father

Bel. What? How? how? Arui. If it be sinne to say so (Sir) I yoake mee In my good Brothers fault: I know not why I loue this youth, and I haue heard you say, Loue's reason's, without reason. The Beere at doore, And a demand who is't shall dye, I'ld say My Father, not this youth

Bel. Oh noble straine! O worthinesse of Nature, breed of Greatnesse! "Cowards father Cowards, & Base things Syre Bace; "Nature hath Meale, and Bran; Contempt, and Grace. I'me not their Father, yet who this should bee, Doth myracle it selfe, lou'd before mee. 'Tis the ninth houre o'th' Morne

Arui. Brother, farewell

Imo. I wish ye sport

Arui. You health. - So please you Sir

Imo. These are kinde Creatures. Gods, what lyes I haue heard: Our Courtiers say, all's sauage, but at Court; Experience, oh thou disproou'st Report. Th' emperious Seas breeds Monsters; for the Dish, Poore Tributary Riuers, as sweet Fish: I am sicke still, heart-sicke; Pisanio, Ile now taste of thy Drugge

Gui. I could not stirre him: He said he was gentle, but vnfortunate; Dishonestly afflicted, but yet honest

Arui. Thus did he answer me: yet said heereafter, I might know more

Bel. To'th' Field, to'th' Field: Wee'l leaue you for this time, go in, and rest

Arui. Wee'l not be long away

Bel. Pray be not sicke, For you must be our Huswife

Imo. Well, or ill, I am bound to you. Enter.

Bel. And shal't be euer. This youth, how ere distrest, appeares he hath had Good Ancestors

Arui. How Angell-like he sings? Gui. But his neate Cookerie? Arui. He cut our Rootes in Charracters, And sawc'st our Brothes, as Iuno had bin sicke, And he her Dieter

Arui. Nobly he yoakes A smiling, with a sigh; as if the sighe Was that it was, for not being such a Smile: The Smile, mocking the Sigh, that it would flye From so diuine a Temple, to commix With windes, that Saylors raile at

Gui. I do note, That greefe and patience rooted in them both, Mingle their spurres together

Arui. Grow patient, And let the stinking-Elder (Greefe) vntwine His perishing roote, with the encreasing Vine

Bel. It is great morning. Come away: Who's there? Enter Cloten.

Clo. I cannot finde those Runnagates, that Villaine Hath mock'd me. I am faint

Bel. Those Runnagates? Meanes he not vs? I partly know him, 'tis Cloten, the Sonne o'th' Queene. I feare some Ambush: I saw him not these many yeares, and yet I know 'tis he: We are held as Out-Lawes: Hence

Gui. He is but one: you, and my Brother search What Companies are neere: pray you away, Let me alone with him

Clot. Soft, what are you That flye me thus? Some villaine-Mountainers? I haue heard of such. What Slaue art thou? Gui. A thing More slauish did I ne're, then answering A Slaue without a knocke

Clot. Thou art a Robber, A Law-breaker, a Villaine: yeeld thee Theefe

Gui. To who? to thee? What art thou? Haue not I An arme as bigge as thine? A heart, as bigge: Thy words I grant are bigger: for I weare not My Dagger in my mouth. Say what thou art: Why I should yeeld to thee? Clot. Thou Villaine base, Know'st me not by my Cloathes? Gui. No, nor thy Taylor, Rascall: Who is thy Grandfather? He made those cloathes, Which (as it seemes) make thee

Clo. Thou precious Varlet, My Taylor made them not

Gui. Hence then, and thanke The man that gaue them thee. Thou art some Foole, I am loath to beate thee

Clot. Thou iniurious Theefe, Heare but my name, and tremble

Gui. What's thy name? Clo. Cloten, thou Villaine

Gui. Cloten, thou double Villaine be thy name, I cannot tremble at it, were it Toad, or Adder, Spider, 'Twould moue me sooner

Clot. To thy further feare, Nay, to thy meere Confusion, thou shalt know I am Sonne to'th' Queene

Gui. I am sorry for't: not seeming So worthy as thy Birth

Clot. Art not afeard? Gui. Those that I reuerence, those I feare: the Wise: At Fooles I laugh: not feare them

Clot. Dye the death: When I haue slaine thee with my proper hand, Ile follow those that euen now fled hence: And on the Gates of Luds-Towne set your heads: Yeeld Rusticke Mountaineer.

Fight and Exeunt.

Enter Belarius and Aruiragus.

Bel. No Companie's abroad? Arui. None in the world: you did mistake him sure

Bel. I cannot tell: Long is it since I saw him, But Time hath nothing blurr'd those lines of Fauour Which then he wore: the snatches in his voice, And burst of speaking were as his: I am absolute 'Twas very Cloten

Arui. In this place we left them; I wish my Brother make good time with him, You say he is so fell

Bel. Being scarse made vp, I meane to man; he had not apprehension Of roaring terrors: For defect of iudgement Is oft the cause of Feare. Enter Guiderius.

But see thy Brother

Gui. This Cloten was a Foole, an empty purse, There was no money in't: Not Hercules Could haue knock'd out his Braines, for he had none: Yet I not doing this, the Foole had borne My head, as I do his

Bel. What hast thou done? Gui. I am perfect what: cut off one Clotens head, Sonne to the Queene (after his owne report) Who call'd me Traitor, Mountaineer, and swore With his owne single hand heel'd take vs in, Displace our heads, where (thanks the Gods) they grow And set them on Luds-Towne

Bel. We are all vndone

Gui. Why, worthy Father, what haue we to loose, But that he swore to take our Liues? the Law Protects not vs, then why should we be tender, To let an arrogant peece of flesh threat vs? Play Iudge, and Executioner, all himselfe? For we do feare the Law. What company Discouer you abroad? Bel. No single soule Can we set eye on: but in all safe reason He must haue some Attendants. Though his Honor Was nothing but mutation, I, and that From one bad thing to worse: Not Frenzie, Not absolute madnesse could so farre haue rau'd To bring him heere alone: although perhaps It may be heard at Court, that such as wee Caue heere, hunt heere, are Out-lawes, and in time May make some stronger head, the which he hearing, (As it is like him) might breake out, and sweare Heel'd fetch vs in, yet is't not probable To come alone, either he so vndertaking, Or they so suffering: then on good ground we feare, If we do feare this Body hath a taile More perillous then the head

Arui. Let Ord'nance Come as the Gods fore-say it: howsoere, My Brother hath done well

Bel. I had no minde To hunt this day: The Boy Fideles sickenesse Did make my way long forth

Gui. With his owne Sword, Which he did waue against my throat, I haue tane His head from him: Ile throw't into the Creeke Behinde our Rocke, and let it to the Sea, And tell the Fishes, hee's the Queenes Sonne, Cloten, That's all I reake. Enter.

Bel. I feare 'twill be reueng'd: Would (Polidore) thou had'st not done't: though valour Becomes thee well enough

Arui. Would I had done't: So the Reuenge alone pursu'de me: Polidore I loue thee brotherly, but enuy much Thou hast robb'd me of this deed: I would Reuenges That possible strength might meet, wold seek vs through And put vs to our answer

Bel. Well, 'tis done: Wee'l hunt no more to day, nor seeke for danger Where there's no profit. I prythee to our Rocke, You and Fidele play the Cookes: Ile stay Till hasty Polidore returne, and bring him To dinner presently

Arui. Poore sicke Fidele. Ile willingly to him, to gaine his colour, Il'd let a parish of such Clotens blood, And praise my selfe for charity. Enter.

Bel. Oh thou Goddesse, Thou diuine Nature; thou thy selfe thou blazon'st In these two Princely Boyes: they are as gentle As Zephires blowing below the Violet, Not wagging his sweet head; and yet, as rough (Their Royall blood enchaf'd) as the rud'st winde, That by the top doth take the Mountaine Pine, And make him stoope to th' Vale. 'Tis wonder That an inuisible instinct should frame them To Royalty vnlearn'd, Honor vntaught, Ciuility not seene from other: valour That wildely growes in them, but yeelds a crop As if it had beene sow'd: yet still it's strange What Clotens being heere to vs portends, Or what his death will bring vs. Enter Guidereus.

Gui. Where's my Brother? I haue sent Clotens Clot-pole downe the streame, In Embassie to his Mother; his Bodie's hostage For his returne.

Solemn Musick.

Bel. My ingenuous Instrument, (Hearke Polidore) it sounds: but what occasion Hath Cadwal now to giue it motion? Hearke

Gui. Is he at home? Bel. He went hence euen now

Gui. What does he meane? Since death of my deer'st Mother It did not speake before. All solemne things Should answer solemne Accidents. The matter? Triumphes for nothing, and lamenting Toyes, Is iollity for Apes, and greefe for Boyes. Is Cadwall mad? Enter Aruiragus, with Imogen dead, bearing her in his Armes.

Bel. Looke, heere he comes, And brings the dire occasion in his Armes, Of what we blame him for

Arui. The Bird is dead That we haue made so much on. I had rather Haue skipt from sixteene yeares of Age, to sixty: To haue turn'd my leaping time into a Crutch, Then haue seene this

Gui. Oh sweetest, fayrest Lilly: My Brother weares thee not the one halfe so well, As when thou grew'st thy selfe

Bel. Oh Melancholly, Who euer yet could sound thy bottome? Finde The Ooze, to shew what Coast thy sluggish care Might'st easilest harbour in. Thou blessed thing, Ioue knowes what man thou might'st haue made: but I, Thou dyed'st a most rare Boy, of Melancholly. How found you him? Arui. Starke, as you see: Thus smiling, as some Fly had tickled slumber, Not as deaths dart being laugh'd at: his right Cheeke Reposing on a Cushion

Gui. Where? Arui. O'th' floore: His armes thus leagu'd, I thought he slept, and put My clowted Brogues from off my feete, whose rudenesse Answer'd my steps too lowd

Gui. Why, he but sleepes: If he be gone, hee'l make his Graue, a Bed: With female Fayries will his Tombe be haunted, And Wormes will not come to thee

Arui. With fayrest Flowers Whil'st Sommer lasts, and I liue heere, Fidele, Ile sweeten thy sad graue: thou shalt not lacke The Flower that's like thy face. Pale-Primrose, nor The azur'd Hare-Bell, like thy Veines: no, nor The leafe of Eglantine, whom not to slander, Out-sweetned not thy breath: the Raddocke would With Charitable bill (Oh bill sore shaming Those rich-left-heyres, that let their Fathers lye Without a Monument) bring thee all this, Yea, and furr'd Mosse besides. When Flowres are none To winter-ground thy Coarse- Gui. Prythee haue done, And do not play in Wench-like words with that Which is so serious. Let vs bury him, And not protract with admiration, what Is now due debt. To'th' graue

Arui. Say, where shall's lay him? Gui. By good Euriphile, our Mother

Arui. Bee't so: And let vs (Polidore) though now our voyces Haue got the mannish cracke, sing him to'th' ground As once to our Mother: vse like note, and words, Saue that Euriphile, must be Fidele

Gui. Cadwall, I cannot sing: Ile weepe, and word it with thee; For Notes of sorrow, out of tune, are worse Then Priests, and Phanes that lye

Arui. Wee'l speake it then

Bel. Great greefes I see med'cine the lesse: For Cloten Is quite forgot. He was a Queenes Sonne, Boyes, And though he came our Enemy, remember He was paid for that: though meane, and mighty rotting Together haue one dust, yet Reuerence (That Angell of the world) doth make distinction Of place 'tweene high, and low. Our Foe was Princely, And though you tooke his life, as being our Foe, Yet bury him, as a Prince

Gui. Pray you fetch him hither, Thersites body is as good as Aiax, When neyther are aliue

Arui. If you'l go fetch him, Wee'l say our Song the whil'st: Brother begin

Gui. Nay Cadwall, we must lay his head to th' East, My Father hath a reason for't

Arui. 'Tis true

Gui. Come on then, and remoue him

Arui. So, begin.

SONG.

Guid. Feare no more the heate o'th' Sun, Nor the furious Winters rages, Thou thy worldly task hast don, Home art gon, and tane thy wages. Golden Lads, and Girles all must, As Chimney-Sweepers come to dust

Arui. Feare no more the frowne o'th' Great, Thou art past the Tirants stroake, Care no more to cloath and eate, To thee the Reede is as the Oake: The Scepter, Learning, Physicke must, All follow this and come to dust

Guid. Feare no more the Lightning flash

Arui. Nor th' all-dreaded Thunderstone

Gui. Feare not Slander, Censure rash

Arui. Thou hast finish'd Ioy and mone

Both. All Louers young, all Louers must, Consigne to thee and come to dust

Guid. No Exorcisor harme thee, Arui. Nor no witch-craft charme thee

Guid. Ghost vnlaid forbeare thee

Arui. Nothing ill come neere thee

Both. Quiet consumation haue, And renowned be thy graue. Enter Belarius with the body of Cloten.

Gui. We haue done our obsequies: Come lay him downe

Bel. Heere's a few Flowres, but 'bout midnight more: The hearbes that haue on them cold dew o'th' night Are strewings fit'st for Graues: vpon their Faces. You were as Flowres, now wither'd: euen so These Herbelets shall, which we vpon you strew. Come on, away, apart vpon our knees: The ground that gaue them first, ha's them againe: Their pleasures here are past, so are their paine.

Exeunt.

Imogen awakes.

Yes Sir, to Milford-Hauen, which is the way? I thanke you: by yond bush? pray how farre thether? 'Ods pittikins: can it be sixe mile yet? I haue gone all night: 'Faith, Ile lye downe, and sleepe. But soft; no Bedfellow? Oh Gods, and Goddesses! These Flowres are like the pleasures of the World; This bloody man the care on't. I hope I dreame: For so I thought I was a Caue-keeper, And Cooke to honest Creatures. But 'tis not so: 'Twas but a bolt of nothing, shot of nothing, Which the Braine makes of Fumes. Our very eyes, Are sometimes like our Iudgements, blinde. Good faith I tremble still with feare: but if there be Yet left in Heauen, as small a drop of pittie As a Wrens eye; fear'd Gods, a part of it. The Dreame's heere still: euen when I wake it is Without me, as within me: not imagin'd, felt. A headlesse man? The Garments of Posthumus? I know the shape of's Legge: this is his Hand: His Foote Mercuriall: his martiall Thigh The brawnes of Hercules: but his Iouiall face- Murther in heauen? How? 'tis gone. Pisanio, All Curses madded Hecuba gaue the Greekes, And mine to boot, be darted on thee: thou Conspir'd with that Irregulous diuell Cloten, Hath heere cut off my Lord. To write, and read, Be henceforth treacherous. Damn'd Pisanio, Hath with his forged Letters (damn'd Pisanio) From this most brauest vessell of the world Strooke the maine top! Oh Posthumus, alas, Where is thy head? where's that? Aye me! where's that? Pisanio might haue kill'd thee at the heart, And left this head on. How should this be, Pisanio? 'Tis he, and Cloten: Malice, and Lucre in them Haue laid this Woe heere. Oh 'tis pregnant, pregnant! The Drugge he gaue me, which hee said was precious And Cordiall to me, haue I not found it Murd'rous to'th' Senses? That confirmes it home: This is Pisanio's deede, and Cloten: Oh! Giue colour to my pale cheeke with thy blood, That we the horrider may seeme to those Which chance to finde vs. Oh, my Lord! my Lord! Enter Lucius, Captaines, and a Soothsayer.

Cap. To them, the Legions garrison'd in Gallia After your will, haue crost the Sea, attending You heere at Milford-Hauen, with your Shippes: They are heere in readinesse

Luc. But what from Rome? Cap. The Senate hath stirr'd vp the Confiners, And Gentlemen of Italy, most willing Spirits, That promise Noble Seruice: and they come Vnder the Conduct of bold Iachimo, Syenna's Brother

Luc. When expect you them? Cap. With the next benefit o'th' winde

Luc. This forwardnesse Makes our hopes faire. Command our present numbers Be muster'd: bid the Captaines looke too't. Now Sir, What haue you dream'd of late of this warres purpose

Sooth. Last night, the very Gods shew'd me a vision (I fast, and pray'd for their Intelligence) thus: I saw Ioues Bird, the Roman Eagle wing'd From the spungy South, to this part of the West, There vanish'd in the Sun-beames, which portends (Vnlesse my sinnes abuse my Diuination) Successe to th' Roman hoast

Luc. Dreame often so, And neuer false. Soft hoa, what truncke is heere? Without his top? The ruine speakes, that sometime It was a worthy building. How? a Page? Or dead, or sleeping on him? But dead rather: For Nature doth abhorre to make his bed With the defunct, or sleepe vpon the dead. Let's see the Boyes face

Cap. Hee's aliue my Lord

Luc. Hee'l then instruct vs of this body: Young one, Informe vs of thy Fortunes, for it seemes They craue to be demanded: who is this Thou mak'st thy bloody Pillow? Or who was he That (otherwise then noble Nature did) Hath alter'd that good Picture? What's thy interest In this sad wracke? How came't? Who is't? What art thou? Imo. I am nothing; or if not, Nothing to be were better: This was my Master, A very valiant Britaine, and a good, That heere by Mountaineers lyes slaine: Alas, There is no more such Masters: I may wander From East to Occident, cry out for Seruice, Try many, all good: serue truly: neuer Finde such another Master

Luc. 'Lacke, good youth: Thou mou'st no lesse with thy complaining, then Thy Maister in bleeding: say his name, good Friend

Imo. Richard du Champ: If I do lye, and do No harme by it, though the Gods heare, I hope They'l pardon it. Say you Sir? Luc. Thy name? Imo. Fidele Sir

Luc. Thou doo'st approue thy selfe the very same: Thy Name well fits thy Faith; thy Faith, thy Name: Wilt take thy chance with me? I will not say Thou shalt be so well master'd, but be sure No lesse belou'd. The Romane Emperors Letters Sent by a Consull to me, should not sooner Then thine owne worth preferre thee: Go with me

Imo. Ile follow Sir. But first, and't please the Gods, Ile hide my Master from the Flies, as deepe As these poore Pickaxes can digge: and when With wild wood-leaues & weeds, I ha' strew'd his graue And on it said a Century of prayers (Such as I can) twice o're, Ile weepe, and sighe, And leauing so his seruice, follow you, So please you entertaine mee

Luc. I good youth, And rather Father thee, then Master thee: My Friends, The Boy hath taught vs manly duties: Let vs Finde out the prettiest Dazied-Plot we can, And make him with our Pikes and Partizans A Graue: Come, Arme him: Boy hee's preferr'd By thee, to vs, and he shall be interr'd As Souldiers can. Be cheerefull; wipe thine eyes, Some Falles are meanes the happier to arise.

Exeunt.

Scena Tertia.

Enter Cymbeline, Lords, and Pisanio.

Cym. Againe: and bring me word how 'tis with her, A Feauour with the absence of her Sonne; A madnesse, of which her life's in danger: Heauens, How deeply you at once do touch me. Imogen, The great part of my comfort, gone: My Queene Vpon a desperate bed, and in a time When fearefull Warres point at me: Her Sonne gone, So needfull for this present? It strikes me, past The hope of comfort. But for thee, Fellow, Who needs must know of her departure, and Dost seeme so ignorant, wee'l enforce it from thee By a sharpe Torture

Pis. Sir, my life is yours, I humbly set it at your will: But for my Mistris, I nothing know where she remaines: why gone, Nor when she purposes returne. Beseech your Highnes, Hold me your loyall Seruant

Lord. Good my Liege, The day that she was missing, he was heere; I dare be bound hee's true, and shall performe All parts of his subiection loyally. For Cloten, There wants no diligence in seeking him, And will no doubt be found

Cym. The time is troublesome: Wee'l slip you for a season, but our iealousie Do's yet depend

Lord. So please your Maiesty, The Romaine Legions, all from Gallia drawne, Are landed on your Coast, with a supply Of Romaine Gentlemen, by the Senate sent

Cym. Now for the Counsaile of my Son and Queen, I am amaz'd with matter

Lord. Good my Liege, Your preparation can affront no lesse Then what you heare of. Come more, for more you're ready: The want is, but to put those Powres in motion, That long to moue

Cym. I thanke you: let's withdraw And meete the Time, as it seekes vs. We feare not What can from Italy annoy vs, but We greeue at chances heere. Away.

Exeunt.

Pisa. I heard no Letter from my Master, since I wrote him Imogen was slaine. 'Tis strange: Nor heare I from my Mistris, who did promise To yeeld me often tydings. Neither know I What is betide to Cloten, but remaine Perplext in all. The Heauens still must worke: Wherein I am false, I am honest: not true, to be true. These present warres shall finde I loue my Country, Euen to the note o'th' King, or Ile fall in them: All other doubts, by time let them be cleer'd, Fortune brings in some Boats, that are not steer'd. Enter.

Scena Quarta.

Enter Belarius, Guiderius, & Aruiragus.

Gui. The noyse is round about vs

Bel. Let vs from it

Arui. What pleasure Sir, we finde in life, to locke it From Action, and Aduenture

Gui. Nay, what hope Haue we in hiding vs? This way the Romaines Must, or for Britaines slay vs, or receiue vs For barbarous and vnnaturall Reuolts During their vse, and slay vs after

Bel. Sonnes, Wee'l higher to the Mountaines, there secure vs. To the Kings party there's no going: newnesse Of Clotens death (we being not knowne, nor muster'd Among the Bands) may driue vs to a render Where we haue liu'd; and so extort from's that Which we haue done, whose answer would be death Drawne on with Torture

Gui. This is (Sir) a doubt In such a time, nothing becomming you, Nor satisfying vs

Arui. It is not likely, That when they heare their Roman horses neigh, Behold their quarter'd Fires; haue both their eyes And eares so cloyd importantly as now, That they will waste their time vpon our note, To know from whence we are

Bel. Oh, I am knowne Of many in the Army: Many yeeres (Though Cloten then but young) you see, not wore him From my remembrance. And besides, the King Hath not deseru'd my Seruice, nor your Loues, Who finde in my Exile, the want of Breeding; The certainty of this heard life, aye hopelesse To haue the courtesie your Cradle promis'd, But to be still hot Summers Tanlings, and The shrinking Slaues of Winter

Gui. Then be so, Better to cease to be. Pray Sir, to'th' Army: I, and my Brother are not knowne; your selfe So out of thought, and thereto so ore-growne, Cannot be question'd

Arui. By this Sunne that shines Ile thither: What thing is't, that I neuer Did see man dye, scarse euer look'd on blood, But that of Coward Hares, hot Goats, and Venison? Neuer bestrid a Horse saue one, that had A Rider like my selfe, who ne're wore Rowell, Nor Iron on his heele? I am asham'd To looke vpon the holy Sunne, to haue The benefit of his blest Beames, remaining So long a poore vnknowne

Gui. By heauens Ile go, If you will blesse me Sir, and giue me leaue, Ile take the better care: but if you will not, The hazard therefore due fall on me, by The hands of Romaines

Arui. So say I, Amen

Bel. No reason I (since of your liues you set So slight a valewation) should reserue My crack'd one to more care. Haue with you Boyes: If in your Country warres you chance to dye, That is my Bed too (Lads) and there Ile lye. Lead, lead; the time seems long, their blood thinks scorn Till it flye out, and shew them Princes borne.

Exeunt.

Actus Quintus. Scena Prima.

Enter Posthumus alone.

Post. Yea bloody cloth, Ile keep thee: for I am wisht Thou should'st be colour'd thus. You married ones, If each of you should take this course, how many Must murther Wiues much better then themselues For wrying but a little? Oh Pisanio, Euery good Seruant do's not all Commands: No Bond, but to do iust ones. Gods, if you Should haue 'tane vengeance on my faults, I neuer Had liu'd to put on this: so had you saued The noble Imogen, to repent, and strooke Me (wretch) more worth your Vengeance. But alacke, You snatch some hence for little faults; that's loue To haue them fall no more: you some permit To second illes with illes, each elder worse, And make them dread it, to the dooers thrift. But Imogen is your owne, do your best willes, And make me blest to obey. I am brought hither Among th' Italian Gentry, and to fight Against my Ladies Kingdome: 'Tis enough That (Britaine) I haue kill'd thy Mistris: Peace, Ile giue no wound to thee: therefore good Heauens, Heare patiently my purpose. Ile disrobe me Of these Italian weedes, and suite my selfe As do's a Britaine Pezant: so Ile fight Against the part I come with: so Ile dye For thee (O Imogen) euen for whom my life Is euery breath, a death: and thus, vnknowne, Pittied, nor hated, to the face of perill My selfe Ile dedicate. Let me make men know More valour in me, then my habits show. Gods, put the strength o'th'Leonati in me: To shame the guize o'th' world, I will begin, The fashion lesse without, and more within. Enter.

Scena Secunda.

Enter Lucius, Iachimo, and the Romane Army at one doore: and the Britaine Army at another: Leonatus Posthumus following like a poore Souldier. They march ouer, and goe out. Then enter againe in Skirmish Iachimo and Posthumus: he vanquisheth and disarmeth Iachimo, and then leaues him.

Iac. The heauinesse and guilt within my bosome, Takes off my manhood: I haue belyed a Lady, The Princesse of this Country; and the ayre on't Reuengingly enfeebles me, or could this Carle, A very drudge of Natures, haue subdu'de me In my profession? Knighthoods, and Honors borne As I weare mine) are titles but of scorne. If that thy Gentry (Britaine) go before This Lowt, as he exceeds our Lords, the oddes Is, that we scarse are men, and you are Goddes. Enter.

The Battaile continues, the Britaines fly, Cymbeline is taken: Then enter to his rescue, Bellarius, Guiderius, and Aruiragus.

Bel. Stand, stand, we haue th' aduantage of the ground, The Lane is guarded: Nothing rowts vs, but The villany of our feares

Gui. Arui. Stand, stand, and fight. Enter Posthumus, and seconds the Britaines. They Rescue Cymbeline, and Exeunt.

Then enter Lucius, Iachimo, and Imogen.

Luc. Away boy from the Troopes, and saue thy selfe: For friends kil friends, and the disorder's such As warre were hood-wink'd

Iac. 'Tis their fresh supplies

Luc. It is a day turn'd strangely: or betimes Let's re-inforce, or fly.

Exeunt.

Scena Tertia.

Enter Posthumus, and a Britaine Lord.

Lor. Cam'st thou from where they made the stand? Post. I did, Though you it seemes come from the Fliers? Lo. I did

Post. No blame be to you Sir, for all was lost, But that the Heauens fought: the King himselfe Of his wings destitute, the Army broken, And but the backes of Britaines seene; all flying Through a strait Lane, the Enemy full-heart'd, Lolling the Tongue with slaught'ring: hauing worke More plentifull, then Tooles to doo't: strooke downe Some mortally, some slightly touch'd, some falling Meerely through feare, that the strait passe was damm'd With deadmen, hurt behinde, and Cowards liuing To dye with length'ned shame

Lo. Where was this Lane? Post. Close by the battell, ditch'd, & wall'd with turph, Which gaue aduantage to an ancient Soldiour (An honest one I warrant) who deseru'd So long a breeding, as his white beard came to, In doing this for's Country. Athwart the Lane, He, with two striplings (Lads more like to run The Country base, then to commit such slaughter, With faces fit for Maskes, or rather fayrer Then those for preseruation cas'd, or shame) Made good the passage, cryed to those that fled. Our Britaines hearts dye flying, not our men, To darknesse fleete soules that flye backwards; stand, Or we are Romanes, and will giue you that Like beasts, which you shun beastly, and may saue But to looke backe in frowne: Stand, stand. These three, Three thousand confident, in acte as many: For three performers are the File, when all The rest do nothing. With this word stand, stand, Accomodated by the Place; more Charming With their owne Noblenesse, which could haue turn'd A Distaffe, to a Lance, guilded pale lookes; Part shame, part spirit renew'd, that some turn'd coward But by example (Oh a sinne in Warre, Damn'd in the first beginners) gan to looke The way that they did, and to grin like Lyons Vpon the Pikes o'th' Hunters. Then beganne A stop i'th' Chaser; a Retyre: Anon A Rowt, confusion thicke: forthwith they flye Chickens, the way which they stopt Eagles: Slaues The strides the Victors made: and now our Cowards Like Fragments in hard Voyages became The life o'th' need: hauing found the backe doore open Of the vnguarded hearts: heauens, how they wound, Some slaine before some dying; some their Friends Ore-borne i'th' former waue, ten chac'd by one, Are now each one the slaughter-man of twenty: Those that would dye, or ere resist, are growne The mortall bugs o'th' Field

Lord. This was strange chance: A narrow Lane, an old man, and two Boyes

Post. Nay, do not wonder at it: you are made Rather to wonder at the things you heare, Then to worke any. Will you Rime vpon't, And vent it for a Mock'rie? Heere is one: "Two Boyes, an Oldman (twice a Boy) a Lane, "Preseru'd the Britaines, was the Romanes bane

Lord. Nay, be not angry Sir

Post. Lacke, to what end? Who dares not stand his Foe, Ile be his Friend: For if hee'l do, as he is made to doo, I know hee'l quickly flye my friendship too. You haue put me into Rime

Lord. Farewell, you're angry. Enter.

Post. Still going? This is a Lord: Oh Noble misery To be i'th' Field, and aske what newes of me: To day, how many would haue giuen their Honours To haue sau'd their Carkasses? Tooke heele to doo't, And yet dyed too. I, in mine owne woe charm'd Could not finde death, where I did heare him groane, Nor feele him where he strooke. Being an vgly Monster, 'Tis strange he hides him in fresh Cups, soft Beds, Sweet words; or hath moe ministers then we That draw his kniues i'th' War. Well I will finde him: For being now a Fauourer to the Britaine, No more a Britaine, I haue resum'd againe The part I came in. Fight I will no more, But yeeld me to the veriest Hinde, that shall Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is Heere made by'th' Romane; great the Answer be Britaines must take. For me, my Ransome's death, On eyther side I come to spend my breath; Which neyther heere Ile keepe, nor beare agen, But end it by some meanes for Imogen. Enter two Captaines, and Soldiers.

1 Great Iupiter be prais'd, Lucius is taken, 'Tis thought the old man, and his sonnes, were Angels

2 There was a fourth man, in a silly habit, That gaue th' Affront with them

1 So 'tis reported: But none of 'em can be found. Stand, who's there? Post. A Roman, Who had not now beene drooping heere, if Seconds Had answer'd him

2 Lay hands on him: a Dogge, A legge of Rome shall not returne to tell What Crows haue peckt them here: he brags his seruice As if he were of note: bring him to'th' King. Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Aruiragus, Pisanio, and Romane Captiues. The Captaines present Posthumus to Cymbeline, who deliuers him ouer to a Gaoler.

Scena Quarta.

Enter Posthumus, and Gaoler.

Gao. You shall not now be stolne, You haue lockes vpon you: So graze, as you finde Pasture

2.Gao. I, or a stomacke

Post. Most welcome bondage; for thou art a way (I thinke) to liberty: yet am I better Then one that's sicke o'th' Gowt, since he had rather Groane so in perpetuity, then be cur'd By'th' sure Physitian, Death; who is the key T' vnbarre these Lockes. My Conscience, thou art fetter'd More then my shanks, & wrists: you good Gods giue me The penitent Instrument to picke that Bolt, Then free for euer. Is't enough I am sorry? So Children temporall Fathers do appease; Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent, I cannot do it better then in Gyues, Desir'd, more then constrain'd, to satisfie If of my Freedome 'tis the maine part, take No stricter render of me, then my All. I know you are more clement then vilde men, Who of their broken Debtors take a third, A sixt, a tenth, letting them thriue againe On their abatement; that's not my desire. For Imogens deere life, take mine, and though 'Tis not so deere, yet 'tis a life; you coyn'd it, 'Tweene man, and man, they waigh not euery stampe: Though light, take Peeces for the figures sake, (You rather) mine being yours: and so great Powres, If you will take this Audit, take this life, And cancell these cold Bonds. Oh Imogen, Ile speake to thee in silence.

Solemne Musicke. Enter (as in an Apparation) Sicillius Leonatus, Father to Posthumus, an old man, attyred like a warriour, leading in his hand an ancient Matron (his wife, & Mother to Posthumus) with Musicke before them. Then after other Musicke, followes the two young Leonati (Brothers to Posthumus) with wounds as they died in the warrs. They circle Posthumus round as he lies sleeping.

Sicil. No more thou Thunder-Master shew thy spight, on Mortall Flies: With Mars fall out with Iuno chide, that thy Adulteries Rates, and Reuenges. Hath my poore Boy done ought but well, whose face I neuer saw: I dy'de whil'st in the Wombe he staide, attending Natures Law. Whose Father then (as men report, thou Orphanes Father art) Thou should'st haue bin, and sheelded him, from this earth-vexing smart

Moth. Lucina lent not me her ayde, but tooke me in my Throwes, That from me was Posthumus ript, came crying 'mong'st his Foes. A thing of pitty

Sicil. Great Nature like his Ancestrie, moulded the stuffe so faire: That he deseru'd the praise o'th' World, as great Sicilius heyre

1.Bro. When once he was mature for man, in Britaine where was hee That could stand vp his paralell? Or fruitfull obiect bee? In eye of Imogen, that best could deeme his dignitie

Mo. With Marriage wherefore was he mockt to be exil'd, and throwne From Leonati Seate, and cast from her, his deerest one: Sweete Imogen? Sic. Why did you suffer Iachimo, slight thing of Italy, To taint his Nobler hart & braine, with needlesse ielousy, And to become the geeke and scorne o'th' others vilany? 2 Bro. For this, from stiller Seats we came, our Parents, and vs twaine, That striking in our Countries cause, fell brauely, and were slaine, Our Fealty, & Tenantius right, with Honor to maintaine

1 Bro. Like hardiment Posthumus hath to Cymbeline perform'd: Then Iupiter, y King of Gods, why hast y thus adiourn'd The Graces for his Merits due, being all to dolors turn'd?

Sicil. Thy Christall window ope; looke, looke out, no longer exercise Vpon a valiant Race, thy harsh, and potent iniuries:

Moth. Since (Iupiter) our Son is good, take off his miseries

Sicil. Peepe through thy Marble Mansion, helpe, or we poore Ghosts will cry To'th' shining Synod of the rest, against thy Deity

Brothers. Helpe (Iupiter) or we appeale, and from thy iustice flye.

Iupiter descends in Thunder and Lightning, sitting vppon an Eagle: hee throwes a Thunder-bolt. The Ghostes fall on their knees.

Iupiter. No more you petty Spirits of Region low Offend our hearing: hush. How dare you Ghostes Accuse the Thunderer, whose Bolt (you know) Sky-planted, batters all rebelling Coasts. Poore shadowes of Elizium, hence, and rest Vpon your neuer-withering bankes of Flowres. Be not with mortall accidents opprest, No care of yours it is, you know 'tis ours. Whom best I loue, I crosse; to make my guift The more delay'd, delighted. Be content, Your low-laide Sonne, our Godhead will vplift: His Comforts thriue, his Trials well are spent: Our Iouiall Starre 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 vpon his Brest, wherein Our pleasure, his full Fortune, doth confine, And so away: no farther with your dinne Expresse Impatience, least you stirre vp mine: Mount Eagle, to my Palace Christalline.

Ascends

Sicil. He came in Thunder, his Celestiall breath Was sulphurous to smell: the holy Eagle Stoop'd, as to foote vs: his Ascension is More sweet then our blest Fields: his Royall Bird Prunes the immortall wing, and cloyes his Beake, As when his God is pleas'd

All. Thankes Iupiter

Sic. The Marble Pauement clozes, he is enter'd His radiant Roofe: Away, and to be blest Let vs with care performe his great behest.

Vanish

Post. Sleepe, thou hast bin a Grandsire, and begot A Father to me: and thou hast created A Mother, and two Brothers. But (oh scorne) Gone, they went hence so soone as they were borne: And so I am awake. Poore Wretches, that depend On Greatnesse, Fauour; Dreame as I haue done, Wake, and finde nothing. But (alas) I swerue: Many Dreame not to finde, neither deserue, And yet are steep'd in Fauours; so am I That haue this Golden chance, and know not why: What Fayeries haunt this ground? A Book? Oh rare one, Be not, as is our fangled world, a Garment Nobler then that it couers. Let thy effects So follow, to be most vnlike our Courtiers, As good, as promise.

Reades.

When as a Lyons whelpe, shall to himselfe vnknown, without seeking finde, and bee embrac'd by a peece of tender Ayre: And when from a stately Cedar shall be lopt branches, which being dead many yeares, shall after reuiue, bee ioynted to the old Stocke, and freshly grow, then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britaine be fortunate, and flourish in Peace and Plentie. 'Tis still a Dreame: or else such stuffe as Madmen Tongue, and braine not: either both, or nothing Or senselesse speaking, or a speaking such As sense cannot vntye. Be what it is, The Action of my life is like it, which Ile keepe If but for simpathy. Enter Gaoler.

Gao. Come Sir, are you ready for death? Post. Ouer-roasted rather: ready long ago

Gao. Hanging is the word, Sir, if you bee readie for that, you are well Cook'd

Post. So if I proue a good repast to the Spectators, the dish payes the shot

Gao. A heauy reckoning for you Sir: But the comfort is you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more Tauerne Bils, which are often the sadnesse of parting, as the procuring of mirth: you come in faint for want of meate, depart reeling with too much drinke: sorrie that you haue payed too much, and sorry that you are payed too much: Purse and Braine, both empty: the Brain the heauier, for being too light; the Purse too light, being drawne of heauinesse. Oh, of this contradiction you shall now be quit: Oh the charity of a penny Cord, it summes vp thousands in a trice: you haue no true Debitor, and Creditor but it: of what's past, is, and to come, the discharge: your necke (Sir) is Pen, Booke, and Counters; so the Acquittance followes

Post. I am merrier to dye, then thou art to liue

Gao. Indeed Sir, he that sleepes, feeles not the Tooth-Ache: but a man that were to sleepe your sleepe, and a Hangman to helpe him to bed, I think he would change places with his Officer: for, look you Sir, you know not which way you shall go

Post. Yes indeed do I, fellow

Gao. Your death has eyes in's head then: I haue not seene him so pictur'd: you must either bee directed by some that take vpon them to know, or to take vpon your selfe that which I am sure you do not know: or iump the after-enquiry on your owne perill: and how you shall speed in your iournies end, I thinke you'l neuer returne to tell one

Post. I tell thee, Fellow, there are none want eyes, to direct them the way I am going, but such as winke, and will not vse them

Gao. What an infinite mocke is this, that a man shold haue the best vse of eyes, to see the way of blindnesse: I am sure hanging's the way of winking. Enter a Messenger.

Mes. Knocke off his Manacles, bring your Prisoner to the King

Post. Thou bring'st good newes, I am call'd to bee made free

Gao. Ile be hang'd then

Post. Thou shalt be then freer then a Gaoler; no bolts for the dead

Gao. Vnlesse a man would marry a Gallowes, & beget yong Gibbets, I neuer saw one so prone: yet on my Conscience, there are verier Knaues desire to liue, for all he be a Roman; and there be some of them too that dye against their willes; so should I, if I were one. I would we were all of one minde, and one minde good: O there were desolation of Gaolers and Galowses: I speake against my present profit, but my wish hath a preferment in't.

Exeunt.

Scena Quinta.

Enter Cymbeline, Bellarius, Guiderius, Aruiragus, Pisanio, and Lords.

Cym. Stand by my side you, whom the Gods haue made Preseruers of my Throne: woe is my heart, That the poore Souldier that so richly fought, Whose ragges, sham'd gilded Armes, whose naked brest Stept before Targes of proofe, cannot be found: He shall be happy that can finde him, if Our Grace can make him so

Bel. I neuer saw Such Noble fury in so poore a Thing; Such precious deeds, in one that promist nought But beggery, and poore lookes

Cym. No tydings of him? Pisa. He hath bin search'd among the dead, & liuing; But no trace of him

Cym. To my greefe, I am The heyre of his Reward, which I will adde To you (the Liuer, Heart, and Braine of Britaine) By whom (I grant) she liues. 'Tis now the time To aske of whence you are. Report it

Bel. Sir, In Cambria are we borne, and Gentlemen: Further to boast, were neyther true, nor modest, Vnlesse I adde, we are honest

Cym. Bow your knees: Arise my Knights o'th' Battell, I create you Companions to our person, and will fit you With Dignities becomming your estates. Enter Cornelius and Ladies.

There's businesse in these faces: why so sadly Greet you our Victory? you looke like Romaines, And not o'th' Court of Britaine

Corn. Hayle great King, To sowre your happinesse, I must report The Queene is dead

Cym. Who worse then a Physitian Would this report become? But I consider, By Med'cine life may be prolong'd, yet death Will seize the Doctor too. How ended she? Cor. With horror, madly dying, like her life, Which (being cruell to the world) concluded Most cruell to her selfe. What she confest, I will report, so please you. These her Women Can trip me, if I erre, who with wet cheekes Were present when she finish'd

Cym. Prythee say

Cor. First, she confest she neuer lou'd you: onely Affected Greatnesse got by you: not you: Married your Royalty, was wife to your place: Abhorr'd your person

Cym. She alone knew this: And but she spoke it dying, I would not Beleeue her lips in opening it. Proceed

Corn. Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to loue With such integrity, she did confesse Was as a Scorpion to her sight, whose life (But that her flight preuented it) she had Tane off by poyson

Cym. O most delicate Fiend! Who is't can reade a Woman? Is there more? Corn. More Sir, and worse. She did confesse she had For you a mortall Minerall, which being tooke, Should by the minute feede on life, and ling'ring, By inches waste you. In which time, she purpos'd By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to Orecome you with her shew; and in time (When she had fitted you with her craft, to worke Her Sonne into th' adoption of the Crowne: But fayling of her end by his strange absence, Grew shamelesse desperate, open'd (in despight Of Heauen, and Men) her purposes: repented The euils she hatch'd, were not effected: so Dispayring, dyed

Cym. Heard you all this, her Women? La. We did, so please your Highnesse

Cym. Mine eyes Were not in fault, for she was beautifull: Mine eares that heare her flattery, nor my heart, That thought her like her seeming. It had beene vicious To haue mistrusted her: yet (Oh my Daughter) That it was folly in me, thou mayst say, And proue it in thy feeling. Heauen mend all. Enter Lucius, Iachimo, and other Roman prisoners, Leonatus behind, and Imogen.

Thou comm'st not Caius now for Tribute, that The Britaines haue rac'd out, though with the losse Of many a bold one: whose Kinsmen haue made suite That their good soules may be appeas'd, with slaughter Of you their Captiues, which our selfe haue granted, So thinke of your estate

Luc. Consider Sir, the chance of Warre, the day Was yours by accident: had it gone with vs, We should not when the blood was cool, haue threatend Our Prisoners with the Sword. But since the Gods Will haue it thus, that nothing but our liues May be call'd ransome, let it come: Sufficeth, A Roman, with a Romans heart can suffer: Augustus liues to thinke on't: and so much For my peculiar care. This one thing onely I will entreate, my Boy (a Britaine borne) Let him be ransom'd: Neuer Master had A Page so kinde, so duteous, diligent, So tender ouer his occasions, true, So feate, so Nurse-like: let his vertue ioyne With my request, which Ile make bold your Highnesse Cannot deny: he hath done no Britaine harme, Though he haue seru'd a Roman. Saue him (Sir) And spare no blood beside

Cym. I haue surely seene him: His fauour is familiar to me: Boy, Thou hast look'd thy selfe into my grace, And art mine owne. I know not why, wherefore, To say, liue boy: ne're thanke thy Master, liue; And aske of Cymbeline what Boone thou wilt, Fitting my bounty, and thy state, Ile giue it: Yea, though thou do demand a Prisoner The Noblest tane

Imo. I humbly thanke your Highnesse

Luc. I do not bid thee begge my life, good Lad, And yet I know thou wilt

Imo. No, no, alacke, There's other worke in hand: I see a thing Bitter to me, as death: your life, good Master, Must shuffle for it selfe

Luc. The Boy disdaines me, He leaues me, scornes me: briefely dye their ioyes, That place them on the truth of Gyrles, and Boyes. Why stands he so perplext? Cym. What would'st thou Boy? I loue thee more, and more: thinke more and more What's best to aske. Know'st him thou look'st on? speak Wilt haue him liue? Is he thy Kin? thy Friend? Imo. He is a Romane, no more kin to me, Then I to your Highnesse, who being born your vassaile Am something neerer

Cym. Wherefore ey'st him so? Imo. Ile tell you (Sir) in priuate, if you please To giue me hearing

Cym. I, with all my heart, And lend my best attention. What's thy name? Imo. Fidele Sir

Cym. Thou'rt my good youth: my Page Ile be thy Master: walke with me: speake freely

Bel. Is not this Boy reuiu'd from death? Arui. One Sand another Not more resembles that sweet Rosie Lad: Who dyed, and was Fidele: what thinke you? Gui. The same dead thing aliue

Bel. Peace, peace, see further: he eyes vs not, forbeare Creatures may be alike: were't he, I am sure He would haue spoke to vs

Gui. But we see him dead

Bel. Be silent: let's see further

Pisa. It is my Mistris: Since she is liuing, let the time run on, To good, or bad

Cym. Come, stand thou by our side, Make thy demand alowd. Sir, step you forth, Giue answer to this Boy, and do it freely, Or by our Greatnesse, and the grace of it (Which is our Honor) bitter torture shall Winnow the truth from falshood. One speake to him

Imo. My boone is, that this Gentleman may render Of whom he had this Ring

Post. What's that to him? Cym. That Diamond vpon your Finger, say How came it yours? Iach. Thou'lt torture me to leaue vnspoken, that Which to be spoke, wou'd torture thee

Cym. How? me? Iach. I am glad to be constrain'd to vtter that Which torments me to conceale. By Villany I got this Ring: 'twas Leonatus Iewell, Whom thou did'st banish: and which more may greeue thee, As it doth me: a Nobler Sir, ne're liu'd 'Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou heare more my Lord? Cym. All that belongs to this

Iach. That Paragon, thy daughter, For whom my heart drops blood, and my false spirits Quaile to remember. Giue me leaue, I faint

Cym. My Daughter? what of hir? Renew thy strength I had rather thou should'st liue, while Nature will, Then dye ere I heare more: striue man, and speake

Iach. Vpon a time, vnhappy was the clocke That strooke the houre: it was in Rome, accurst The Mansion where: 'twas at a Feast, oh would Our Viands had bin poyson'd (or at least Those which I heau'd 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 Among'st the rar'st of good ones) sitting sadly, Hearing vs praise our Loues of Italy For Beauty, that made barren the swell'd boast Of him that best could speake: for Feature, laming The Shrine of Venus, or straight-pight Minerua, Postures, beyond breefe Nature. For Condition, A shop of all the qualities, that man Loues woman for, besides that hooke of Wiuing, Fairenesse, which strikes the eye

Cym. I stand on fire. Come to the matter

Iach. All too soone I shall, Vnlesse thou would'st greeue quickly. This Posthumus, Most like a Noble Lord, in loue, and one That had a Royall Louer, tooke his hint, And (not dispraising whom we prais'd, therein He was as calme as vertue) he began His Mistris picture, which, by his tongue, being made, And then a minde put in't, either our bragges Were crak'd of Kitchin-Trulles, or his description Prou'd vs vnspeaking sottes

Cym. Nay, nay, to'th' purpose

Iach. Your daughters Chastity, (there it beginnes) He spake of her, as Dian had hot dreames, And she alone, were cold: Whereat, I wretch Made scruple of his praise, and wager'd with him Peeces of Gold, 'gainst this, which then he wore Vpon his honour'd finger) to attaine In suite the place of's bed, and winne this Ring By hers, and mine Adultery: he (true Knight) No lesser of her Honour confident Then I did truly finde her, stakes this Ring, And would so, had it beene a Carbuncle Of Phoebus Wheele; and might so safely, had it Bin all the worth of's Carre. Away to Britaine Poste I in this designe: 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 braine, Gan in your duller Britaine operate Most vildely: for my vantage excellent. And to be breefe, my practise so preuayl'd That I return'd with simular proofe enough, To make the Noble Leonatus mad, By wounding his beleefe in her Renowne, With Tokens thus, and thus: auerring notes Of Chamber-hanging, Pictures, this her Bracelet (Oh cunning how I got) nay some markes Of secret on her person, that he could not But thinke her bond of Chastity quite crack'd, I hauing 'tane the forfeyt. Whereupon, Me thinkes I see him now

Post. I so thou do'st, Italian Fiend. Aye me, most credulous Foole, Egregious murtherer, Theefe, any thing That's due to all the Villaines past, in being To come. Oh giue me Cord, or knife, or poyson, Some vpright Iusticer. Thou King, send out For Torturors ingenious: it is I That all th' abhorred things o'th' earth amend By being worse then they. I am Posthumus, That kill'd thy Daughter: Villain-like, I lye, That caus'd a lesser villaine then my selfe, A sacrilegious Theefe to doo't. The Temple Of Vertue was she; yea, and she her selfe. Spit, and throw stones, cast myre vpon me, set The dogges o'th' street to bay me: euery villaine Be call'd Posthumus Leonatus, and Be villany lesse then 'twas. Oh Imogen! My Queene, my life, my wife: oh Imogen, Imogen, Imogen

Imo. Peace my Lord, heare, heare

Post. Shall's haue a play of this? Thou scornfull Page, there lye thy part

Pis. Oh Gentlemen, helpe, Mine and your Mistris: Oh my Lord Posthumus, You ne're kill'd Imogen till now: helpe, helpe, Mine honour'd Lady

Cym. Does the world go round? Posth. How comes these staggers on mee? Pisa. Wake my Mistris

Cym. If this be so, the Gods do meane to strike me To death, with mortall ioy

Pisa. How fares my Mistris? Imo. Oh get thee from my sight, Thou gau'st me poyson: dangerous Fellow hence, Breath not where Princes are

Cym. The tune of Imogen

Pisa. Lady, the Gods throw stones of sulpher on me, if That box I gaue you, was not thought by mee A precious thing, I had it from the Queene

Cym. New matter still

Imo. It poyson'd me

Corn. Oh Gods! I left out one thing which the Queene confest, Which must approue thee honest. If Pasanio Haue (said she) giuen his Mistris that Confection Which I gaue him for Cordiall, she is seru'd, As I would serue a Rat

Cym. What's this, Cornelius? Corn. The Queene (Sir) very oft importun'd me To temper poysons for her, still pretending The satisfaction of her knowledge, onely In killing Creatures vilde, as Cats and Dogges Of no esteeme. I dreading, that her purpose Was of more danger, did compound for her A certaine stuffe, which being tane, would cease The present powre of life, but in short time, All Offices of Nature, should againe Do their due Functions. Haue you tane of it? Imo. Most like I did, for I was dead

Bel. My Boyes, there was our error

Gui. This is sure Fidele

Imo. Why did you throw your wedded Lady fro[m] you? Thinke that you are vpon a Rocke, and now Throw me againe

Post. Hang there like fruite, my soule, Till the Tree dye

Cym. How now, my Flesh? my Childe? What, mak'st thou me a dullard in this Act? Wilt thou not speake to me? Imo. Your blessing, Sir

Bel. Though you did loue this youth, I blame ye not, You had a motiue for't

Cym. My teares that fall Proue holy-water on thee; Imogen, Thy Mothers dead

Imo. I am sorry for't, my Lord

Cym. Oh, she was naught; and long of her it was That we meet heere so strangely: but her Sonne Is gone, we know not how, nor where

Pisa. My Lord, Now feare is from me, Ile speake troth. Lord Cloten Vpon my Ladies missing, came to me With his Sword drawne, foam'd at the mouth, and swore If I discouer'd not which way she was gone, It was my instant death. By accident, I had a feigned Letter of my Masters Then in my pocket, which directed him To seeke her on the Mountaines neere to Milford, Where in a frenzie, in my Masters Garments (Which he inforc'd from me) away he postes With vnchaste purpose, and with oath to violate My Ladies honor, what became of him, I further know not

Gui. Let me end the Story: I slew him there

Cym. Marry, the Gods forefend. I would not thy good deeds, should from my lips Plucke a hard sentence: Prythee valiant youth Deny't againe

Gui. I haue spoke it, and I did it

Cym. He was a Prince

Gui. A most inciuill one. The wrongs he did mee Were nothing Prince-like; for he did prouoke me With Language that would make me spurne the Sea, If it could so roare to me. I cut off's head, And am right glad he is not standing heere To tell this tale of mine

Cym. I am sorrow for thee: By thine owne tongue thou art condemn'd, and must Endure our Law: Thou'rt dead

Imo. That headlesse man I thought had bin my Lord Cym. Binde the Offender, And take him from our presence

Bel. Stay, Sir King. This man is better then the man he slew, As well descended as thy selfe, and hath More of thee merited, then a Band of Clotens Had euer scarre for. Let his Armes alone, They were not borne for bondage