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To hunt this day: the boy Fidele's sickness
Did make my way long forth.
With his own sword,
Which he did wave against my throat, I have ta'en
His head from him: I'll throw't into the creek
Behind our rock; and let it to the sea,

And tell the fishes, he's the queen's son, Cloten :
That's all I reck.
I fear, 'twill be reveng❜d:
'Would, Polydore, thou hadst not done't! though
Becomes thee well enough.
'Would I had doue't,
So the revenge alone pursued me !-Polydore,
I love thee brotherly; but envy much,
Thou hast robb'd me of this deed: I would, revenges,
That possible strength might meet, would seek us
And put us to our answer.
Well; 'tis done :-
We'll hunt no more to-day, nor seek for danger,
Where there's no profit. I pr'ythee, to our rock;
You and Fidele play the cooks. I'll stay
Till hasty Polydore return, and bring him
To dinner presently.


Poor sick Fidele !

I'll willingly to him: To gain his colour,
I'd let a parish of such Clotens blood,
And praise myself for charity.


O thou goddess,
Thou divine nature, how thyself thou blazon'st
In these two princely boys! They are as gentle
As zephyrs, blowing below the violet,

Not wagging his sweet head and yet as rough,
Their royal blood enchaf'd, as the rud'st wind,
That by the top doth take the mountain pine,
And make him stoop to the vale. "Tis wonderful,
That an invisible instinct should frame them
To royalty unlearn'd; honour untaught;
Civility not seen from other; valour,
That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop
As if it had been sow'd! Yet still it's strange,
What Cloten's being here to us portends;
Or what his death will bring us.
Re-enter Guiderius.


Where's my brother? I have sent Cloten's clotpoll down the stream, In embassy to his mother; his body's hostage For his return. [Solemn Music. Bel. My ingenious instrument! Hark, Polydore, it sounds! But what occasion Hath Cadwal now to give it motion? Hark! Gui. Is he at home? Bel.

He went hence even now.

Gui. What does he mean? since death of my

dear'st mother

It did not speak before. All solemn things
Should answer solemn accidents. The matter?
Triumphs for nothing, and lamenting toys,
Is jollity for apes, and grief for boys:

Is Cadwal mad?

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With female fairies will bis tomb be haunted,
And worms will not come to thee.
With fairest flowers,
Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele,
I'll sweeten thy sad grave: Thou shalt not lack
The flower, that's like thy face, pale primrose; nor
The azur'd bare-bell, like thy veins; no, nor
The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander,
Out-sweeten'd not thy breath: the ruddoek would,
With charitable bill (O bill, sore-shaming
Those rich-left heirs, that let their fathers lie
Without a monument!) bring thee all this;
Yea, and furr'd moss besides, when flowers are none,
To winter-ground thy corse.

Pr'ythee, have done ;
And do not play in wench-like words with that
Which is so serious. Let us bury him,
And not protract with admiration what
Is now due debt.-To the grave.

Say, where shall's lay him? Gui. By good Euriphile, our mother. Be't so:


And let us, Polydore, though now our voices
Have got the mannish crack, sing him to the ground,
As once our mother; use like note, and words,
Save that Euriphile must be Fidele.

Gui. Cadwal,

I cannot sing: I'll weep, and word it with thee:
For notes of sorrow, out of tune, are worse
Than priests and fanes that lie.


We'll speak it then. Bel. Great griefs, I see, medicine the less: for Cloten Is quite forgot. He was a queen's son, boys: And, though he came our enemy, remember, He was paid for that: Though mean and mighty, Together, have one dust; yet reverence [rotting (That angel of the world) doth make distinction Of place 'tween high and low. Our foe was princely; And though you took his life, as being var foe, Yet bury him as a prince.

Gui. Pray you, fetch him hither, Thersites' body is as good as Ajax, When neither are alive.


If you'll go fetch him, We'll say our song the whilst.-Brother, begin. [Exit Belarius. Gui. Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to the My father hath a reason for't. [east; Arv. 'Tis true. Gui. Come on then, and remove him. Arv.



Gui. Fear no more the heat o'the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,

Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
Arv. Fear no more the frown o'the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe, and eat;

To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.
Gui. Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Arv. Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Gui. Fear not slander, censure rash;
Arv. Thou hast finish'd joy and moan;
Both. All lovers young, all lovers must

Consign to thee, and come to dust.
Gui. No exorciser harm thee !
Arv. Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Gui. Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Arv. Nothing ill come near thee!
Both. Quiet consummation have;

And renowned be thy grave! Re-enter Belarius, with the Body of Cloten. Gui. We have done our obsequies: Come, lay him down. [more :

Bel. Here's a few flowers; but about midnight, The herbs, that have on them cold dew o'the night, Are strewings fitt'st for graves.-Upon their faces:You were as flowers, now wither'd: even so These herb'lets shall, which we upon you strow.Come on, away: apart upon our knees. The ground, that gave them first, has them again: Their pleasures here are past, so is their pain.

[Exeunt Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus.

Imo.[Awaking] Yes, sir, toMilford-Haven; Which is the way!

I thank you. By yon bush ?-Pray, how far thither? 'Ods pittikins ?-can it be six miles yet?

I have gone all night :-Faith, I'll lie down and sleep.
But, soft! no bedfellow :-0, gods and goddesses!
[Seeing the Body.
These flowers are like the pleasures of the world;
This bloody man, the care on't, I hope, I dream;
For, so, I thought I was a cave-keeper,
And cook to honest creatures: But 'tis not so;
'Twas but a bolt of nothing, shot at nothing,
Which the brain makes of fames: Our very eyes
Are sometimes like our judgments, blind. Good faith,
I tremble still with fear: But if there be
Yet left in heaven as small a drop of pity
As a wren's eye, fear'd gods, a part of it!
The dream's here still: even when I wake, it is
Without me, as within me; not imagin'd, felt.
A headless man!-The garments of Posthumus!
I know the shape of his leg: this is his hand;
His foot Mercurial; his Martial thigh
The brawns of Hercules: but his Jovial face-
Murder in heaven?-How?-Tis gone.-Pisanio,
All curses madded Hecuba gave the Greeks,
And mine to boot, be darted on thee! Thou,
Conspir'd with that irregulous devil, Cloten,
Hast here cut off my lord.-To write, and read,
Be henceforth treacherous !-Damn'd Pisanio
Hath with his forged letters, dama'd Pisanio-
From this most bravest vessel of the world
Struck the main-top!-O, Posthumus! alas, [that?
Where is thy head? where's that? Ah me! where's
Pisanio might have kill'd thee at the heart,
And left this head on.-How should this be? Pisanio?
"Tis be, and Cloten malice and lucre in them
Have laid this woe here. O, 'tis pregnant, pregnant!
The drug he gave me, which, he said, was precious
And cordial to me, have I not found it

Murd'rous to the senses? That confirms it home;
This is Pisanio's deed, and Cloten's: 01-
Give colour to my pale cheek with thy blood,
Tha: we the horrider may seem to those
Which chance to find us O, my lord, my lord!
Enter Lucius, a Captain, and other Officers, and
a Soothsayer.

Cap. To them, the legions garrison'd in Gallia,
After your will, have cross'd the sea; attending
You here at Milford-Haven, with your ships:
They are here in readiness.
But what from Rome?
Cap. The senate hath stirr'd up the confiners,
And gentlemen of Italy; most willing spirits,
That promise noble service and they come
Under the conduct of bold Iachimo,
Sienna's brother.


Luc. When expect you them? Cap. With the next benefit o'the wind. This forwardness Makes our hopes fair. Command, our present numbers Be muster'd; bid the captains look to't.-Now, sir, What have you dream'd, of late, of this war's purpose!

Sooth. Last night the very gods show'd me a vision (I fast, and pray'd, for their intelligence). Thus :I saw Jove's bird, the Roman eagle, wing'd From the spongy south to this part of the west, There vanish'd in the sunbeams: which portends (Unless my sins abuse my divination), Success to the Roman host.


Dream often so,
And never false.-Soft, ho! what trunk is here,
Without his top? The rain speaks, that sometime
It was a worthy building.-How! a page!-
Or dead, or sleeping on him? But dead, rather:
For nature doth abhor to make his bed

With the defunct, or sleep upon the dead.--
Let's see the boy's face.

He is alive, my lord.

Luc. He'll then instruct us of this body.-Young
Inform us of thy fortunes; for, it seems,
They crave to be demanded: Who is this,
Thou mak'st thy bloody pillow? Or who was he,
That, otherwise than noble nature did,

Hath alter'd that good picture? What's thy interest
In this sad wreck? How came it? Who is it?
What art thou?

I am nothing or if not,
Nothing to be were better. This was my master,
A very valiant Briton, and a good,

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Luc. Imo.

Thy name?

Luc. Thou dost approve thyself 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 sare,
No less belov'd. The Roman emperor's letters,
Sent by a consul to me, should not sooner
Than thine own worth prefer thee: Go with me.
Imo. I'll follow, sir. But, first, an't please the gods,
I'll hide my master from the flies, as deep

As these poor pickaxes can dig: and when
With wild wood-leaves and weeds I have strew'd his
And on it said a century of prayers,
Such as I can, twice o'er, I'll weep, and sigh
And, leaving so his service, follow you,
So please you entertain me.

Ay, good youth;
And rather father thee, than master thee.-
My friends,

The boy hath taught us manly duties: Let us
Find out the prettiest daisied plot we can,
And make him with our pikes and partisans
A grave: Come, arm him.-Boy, he is preferr'd
By thee to us; and he shall be interr'd,
As soldiers can. Be cheerfui; wipe thine eyes;
Some falls are means the happier to arise. [Exeunt.
SCENE III. A Room in Cymbeline's Palace.
Enter Cymbeline, Lords, and Pisanio.
Cym. Again; and bring me word, how 'tis with her.
A fever with the absence of her son;

A madness, of which her life's in danger-Heavens,
How deeply you at once do touch me! Imogen,
The great part of my comfort, goue: my queen
Upon a desperate bed; and in a time
When fearful wars point at me; her son gone,
So needful for this present: It strikes me, past
The hope of comfort. But for thee, fellow,
Who needs must know of her departure, and
Dost seem so ignorant, we'll enforce it from thee
By a sharp torture.


Sir, my life is yours,

I humbly set it at your will: But, for my mistress,
I nothing know where she remains, why gone,
Nor when she purposes return. 'Beseech your high-
Hold me your loyal servant.

1 Lord.
Good, my liege,
The day that she was missing, he was here:
I dare be bound he's true, and shall perform
All parts of his subjection loyally.
For Cloten,-


There wants no diligence in seeking him,
And will, no doubt, be found.
The time's troublesome :
We'll slip you for a season; but our jealousy
[To Pis.

Does yet depend.
1 Lord.
So please your majesty,
The Roman legions, all from Gallia drawn,
Are landed on your coast; with a supply.
Of Roman gentlemen, by the senate sent.
Cym. Now for the counsel of my son, and queen!-
I am amaz'd with matter.

Good, my liege,


1 Lord. Your preparation can affront no less Than what you hear of: come more, for more you're The want is, but to put those powers in motion, That long to move.

Cym. I thank you: Lt's withdraw: And meet the time, as it seeks us. We fear not What can from Italy annoy us: but We grieve at chances here.-Away.


Pis. I heard no letter from my master, since I wrote him, Imogen was slain: 'Tis strange: Nor hear I from my mistress, who did promise To yield me often tidings; Neither know I What is betid to Cloten; but remain Perplex'd in all. The heavens still must work : Wherein I am false, 1 am honest; not true, to be true.

These present wars shall find I love my country,
Even to the note o'the king, or I'll fall in them.
All other doubts, by time let them be clear'd:
Fortune brings in some boats, that are not steer'd.

SCENE IV. Before the Cave.
Enter Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus.
Gui. The noise is round about us.

Let us from it. Arv. What pleasure, sir, find we in life, to lock it From action and adventure?

Nay, what hope
Have we in hiding us? this way, the Romans
Must or for Britons slay us: or receive us
For barbarous and unnatural revolts
During their use, and slay us after.


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ACT V. SCENE I. A Field between the British and Roman Camps.

Enter Posthumus, with a bloody Handkerchief. Post. Yea, bloody cloth, I'll keep thee; for I wish'd Thou shouldst be colour'd thus. You married ones, If each of you would take this course, how many Must murder wives much better than themselves, For wrying but a little-O, Pisanio! Every good servant does not all commands: No bond, but to do just ones.-Gods! if you Should have ta'en vengeance on my faults, I never Had liv'd to put on this: so had you saved The noble Imogen to repent; and struck

Me wretch, more worth your vengeance. But, alack,
You snatch some hence for little faults; that's love,
To have them fall no more: you some permit
To second ills with ills, each elder worse;
And make them dread it to the doer's thrift.
But Imogen is your own: Do your best wills,
And make me bless'd to obey !-I am brought hither
Among the Italian gentry, and to fight
Against my lady's kingdom: "Tis enough
That, Britain, I have kill'd thy mistress; peace!
I'll give no wound to thee. Therefore, good heavens,
Hear patiently my purpose: I'll disrobe me
Of these Italian weeds, and suit myself
As does a Briton peasant: so I'll tight
Against the part I come with; so I'll die
For thee, O Imogen, even for whom my life
Is, every breath, a death and thus unknown,
Pitied nor hated, to the face of peril
Myself I'll dedicate. Let me make men know
More valour in me, than my habits show.
Gods, put the strength o'the Leonati in me!
To shame the guise o'the world, I will begin
The fashion, less without, and more within. [Exit.
SCENE II. The same.

Enter at one Side, Lucius, Jachimo, and the Roman Army; at the other Side, the British Army; Leonatus Posthumus following it, like a poor Soldier. They march over, and go out. Alarums. Then enter again, in Skirmish, Iachimo and Posthumus: he vanquisheth and disarmeth Iachimo, and then leaves him.

Iach. The heaviness and guilt within my bosom Takes off my manhood: I have belied a lady, The princess of this country, and the air on't Revengingly enfeebles me; Or could this carl, A very drudge of nature's, have subdu'd me, In my profession? Knighthoods and honours, borne As I wear mine, are titles but of scorn.

If that thy gentry, Britain, go before

This lout, as he exceeds our lords, the odds

Is, that we scarce are men, and you are gods. [Exit. The Battle continues; the Britons fly; Cymbeline is taken: then enter, to his rescue, Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus.

Bel. Stand, stand! We have the advantage of the ground;

The lane is guarded nothing routs as, but
The villany of our fears.

Gui. Arv. Stand, stand, and fight! Enter Posthumus, and seconds the Britons: They rescue Cymbeline, and exeunt. Then, enter Lucius, Iachimo, and Imogen.

Luc. Away, boy, from the troops, and save thyself: For friends kill friends, and the disorder's such As war were hood-wink'd. Iach. 'Tis their fresh supplies. Luc. It is a day turn'd strangely: Or betimes Let's re-enforce, or fly. [Exeunt.

SCENE III. Another Part of the Field.
Enter Posthumus and a British Lord.
Lord. Cam'st thou from where they made the stand?
I did:

Though you, it seems, come from the fliers.

I did.
Post. No blame be to you, sir; for all was lost,
But that the heavens fought: The king himself
Of his wings destitute, the army broken,
And but the backs of Britons seen, all flying
Through a straight lane; the enemy full-hearted,
Loiling the tongue with slaughtering, having work
More plentiful than tools to do't, struck down-
Some mortally, some slightly touch'd, some falling
Merely through fear; that the straight pass was


With dead men, hurt behind, and cowards living
To die with lengthen'd shame.

Where was this lane? Post. Close by the battle, ditch'd, and wall'd with turf;

Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier,-
An honest one, I warrant; who deserv'd
So long a breeding, as his white beard came to,
In doing this for his country;-athwart the lane,
He, with two striplings (lads more like to run
The country base, than to commit such slaughter;
With faces fit for masks, or rather fairer
Than those for preservation cas'd, or shame),
Made good the passage; cry'd to those that fled,

Our Britain's harts die flying, not our men;
To darkness fleet, souls that fly backwards! Stand;
Or we are Romans, and will give you that
Like beasts which you shun beastly; and may save,
But to look back in frown: stand, stand.These

Three thousand confident, in act as many
(For three performers are the tile, when all
The rest do nothing), with this word, stand, stand,
Accommodated by the place, more charming
With their own nobleness (which could have turn'd
A distaff to a lance), gilded pale looks,
Part, shame, part, spirit renew'd; that some, turn'd
But by example (O, a sin in war,
Damn'd in the first beginners!) 'gan to look
The way that they did, and to grin like lions
Upon the pikes o'the hunters. Then began
A stop i'the chaser, a retire; anon,
A rout, confusion thick: Forth with, they fly
Chickens, the way which they stoop'd eagles; slaves,
The strides they victors made: and now our cowards
(Like fragments in hard voyages), became
The life ofthe need; having found the back-door open
Of the unguarded hearts, heavens, how they wound!
Some, slain before; some, dying; some, their friends
O'erborne i'the former wave: ten, chas'd by one,
Are now each one the slaughterman of twenty:
Those, that would die or ere resist, are grown
The mortal bugs o'the field.

This was strange chance:
A narrow lane! an old man, and two boys!
Post. Nay, do not wonder at it: You are made
Rather to wonder at the things you hear,
Than to work any. Will yon rhyme upon't,
And vent it for a mockery? Here is one:
Two boys, an old man twice a boy, a lane,
Preserv'd the Britons, was the Romans' bane.
Lord. Nay, be not angry, sir.


'Lack, to what end? Who dares not stand his foe, I'll be his friend : For if he'll do, as he is made to do,

I know, he'll quickly fly my friendship too.
You have put me into rhyme.


Farewell, you are angry. [Exit. Post. Still going?-This is a lord! O noble misery! To be i'the field, and ask, what news, of me! To-day, how many would have given their honours To have sav'd their carcasses? took heel to do't, And yet died too? I, in mine own woe charm'd, Could not find death, where I did hear him groan: Nor feel him, where he struck: Being an ugly monster,

Chim ;

'Tis strange, he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds,
Sweet words; or hath more ministers than we
That draw his knives i'the war.-Well, I will find
For, being now a favourer to the Roman,
No more a Briton, I have resum'd again
The part I came in: Fight, I will no more,
But yield me to the veriest hind that shall
Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is,
Here made by the Roman; great the answer be
Britons must take; For me, my ransom's death;
On either side I come to spend my breath;
Which neither here l'il keep, nor bear again,
But end it by some means for Imogen.

Enter two British Captains and Soldiers.

1 Cap. Great Jupiter be prais'd! Lucius is taken : 'Tis thought, the old man and his sons were angels. 2 Cap. There was a fourth man, in a silly habit, That gave the affront with them. 1 Cap.

So 'tis reported:
But none of them can be found.-Stand! who is
Post. A Roman;

Who had not now been drooping here, if seconds
Had answer'd him.
2 Cap.
Lay hands on him; a dog!
A leg of Rome shall not return to tell, [service
What crows have peck'd them here. He brags his
As if he were of note: bring him to the king.
Enter Cymbeline, attended; Belarius, Guiderius,
Arviragus, Pisanio, and Roman Captives. The
Captains present Posthumus to Cymbeline, who
delivers him over to a Gaoler: after which, all go

SCENE IV. A Prison.

Enter Posthumus and two Gaolers.

1 Gaol. You shall not now be stolen, you have locks So, graze, as you find pasture, [upon you;

Ay, or a stomach. [Exeunt Gaolers.

2 Gaol. Post. Most welcome, bondage! for thou art a way, I think, to liberty: Yet am I better. Than one that's sick o'the gout: since he had rather Groan so in perpetuity, than be cur'd


By the sure physician, death; who is the key
To unbar these locks. My conscience! thou art fet-
[give me
More than my shanks, and wrists: You, good gods,
The penitent instrument, to pick that bolt,
Then, free for ever! Is't enough, I am sorry?
So children temporal fathers do appease ;
Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent?
I cannot do it better than in gyves,
Desir'd more than constrain'd: to satisfy,
If of my freedom 'tis the main part, take
No stricter render of me, than my all.

I know, you are more clement than vile men

Who of their broken debtors take a third, A sixth, a tenth, letting them thrive again On their abatement; that's not my desire : For Imogen's dear life, take mine; and though 'Tis not so dear, yet 'tis a life; you coin'd it: 'Tween man and man, they weigh not every stamp; Though light, take pieces for the figure's sake: You rather mine, being yours: And so, great powers, If you will take this audit, take this life, And cancel these cold bonds. O, Imogen! I'll speak to thee in silence. Solemn Music. Enter, as an Apparition, Sicilius Leonatus, Father to Posthumus, an old Man, attired like a Warrior; leading in his Hand an ancient Matron, his Wife, and Mother to Posthumus, with Music before them. Then, after other Music, follow the two young Leonati, Brothers to Posthumus, with Wounds, as they died in the Wars. They circle Posthumus round, as he lies sleeping.

[He sleeps.

Sici. No more, thou thunder-master, show
Thy spite on mortal flies:

With Mars fall out, with Juno chide,
That thy adulteries,

Rates and revenges.

Hath my poor boy done aught but well,
Whose face I never saw?

I died, whilst in the womb he staid
Attending nature's law.

Whose father then (as men report,

Thou orphan's father art),

Thou shouldst have been, and shielded him
From this earth-vexing smart.
Moth. Lucina lent not me her aid,
But took me in my throes:

That from me was Posthumus ript;
Came crying 'mongst his foes,

A thing of pity!

Sici. Great nature, like his ancestry,
Moulded the stuff so fair,

That he deserv'd the praise o'the world,

As great Sicilius' heir.

1 Bro. When once he was mature for man,

In Britain where was he

That could stand up his parallel;

Or fruitful object be

In eye of Imogen, that best

Could deem his dignity?

Moth. With marriage wherefore was he mock'd, To be exi'd and thrown

From Leonati's seat, and cast

From her his dearest one,
Sweet Imogen?

Sici. Why did you suffer Jachimo,
Slight thing of Italy,

To taint his nobler heart and brain.
With needless jealousy ;

And to become the geck and scorn
O'the other's villany?

2 Bro. For this, from stiller seats we came,
Our parents, and us twain,

That, striking in our country's cause,
Fell bravely, and were slain;
Our fealty, and Tenantius' right,

With honour to maintain.

1 Bro. Like hardiment Posthumus hath
To Cymbeline perform'd:

Then, Jupiter, thou king of gods,
Why hast thou thus adjourn'd
The graces for his merits due;
Being all to dolours turn'd?

Sici. Thy crystal window ope; look out;
No longer exercise,

Upon a valiant race, thy harsh

And potent injuries:

Moth. Since, Jupiter, our son is good,
Take off his miseries.

Sici. Peep through thy marble mansion; help!
Or we poor ghosts will cry

To the shining synod of the rest,

Against thy deity.

2 Bro, Help, Jupiter; or we appeal, And from thy justice fly.

Jupiter descends in Thunder and Lightning, sitting
upon an Eagle; he throws a Thunder-bolt. The
Ghosts fall on their Knees.

Jup. No more, yon petty spirits of region low,
Offend our hearing; hush!-How dare you ghosts,
Accuse the thunderer, whose bolt you know,
Sky-planted, batters all rebelling coasts?
Poor shadows of Elysium, hence and rest
Upon your never-withering banks of flowers;
Be not with mortal accidents opprest;

No care of yours it is; you know, 'tis ours.
Whom best I love, I cross; to make my gift,
The more delay'd, delighted. Be content;
Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift:

His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent.
Our Jovial star reign'd at his birth, and in
Our temple was he married,-Rise, and fade !-
He shall be lord of lady Imogen,

And happier much by his affliction made.
This tablet lay upon his breast; wherein
Our pleasure his full fortune doth contine;
And so, away: no further with your din

Express impatience, lest you stir up mine.-
Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline. [Ascends.
Sici. He came in thunder; his celestial breath
Was sulphurous to smell: the holy eagle
Stoop'd, as to foot us: his ascension is
More sweet than our bless'd fields: his royal bird
Prunes the immortal wing, and cloys his beak,
As when his god is pleas'd.

Thanks, Jupiter!
Sici. The marble pavement closes, he is enter'd
His radiant roof: Away! and, to be blest,
Let us with care perform his great behest.

[Ghosts vanish.
Post. [Waking] Sleep, thou hast been a grandsire,
A father to me: and thou hast created [and begot
A mother and two brothers? But (O scorn!)
Gone; they went hence so soon as they were born.
And so I am awake.-Poor wretches that depend
On greatness' favour, dream as I have done;
Wake, and find nothing.-But, alas, I swerve:
Many dream not to find, neither deserve.
And yet are steep'd in favours; so am I,
That have this golden chance, and know not why.
What fairies baunt this ground? A book? O, rare one!
Be not, as is our fangled world, a garment
Nobler than that it covers: let thy effects
So follow, to be most unlike our courtiers,
As good as promise.

[Reads] When as a lion's whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking, find, and be embraced by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopped branches, which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow: then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate, and flourish in peace and plenty.

'Tis still a dream; or else such stuff as madmen Tongue, and brain not: either both, or nothing:

Or senseless speaking, or a speaking such

As sense cannot untie. Be what it is,

The action of my life is like it, which

I'll keep, if but for sympathy.

Re-enter Gaolers.

Gaol. Come, sir, are you ready for death?
Post. Over-roasted rather ready long ago.
Gaol. Hanging is the word, sir; if you be ready
for that, you are well cooked.

Post. So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators, the dish pays the shot.

both empty the brain the heavier for being too light, the purse too light, being drawn of heaviness: 0! of this contradiction you shall now be quit.-O the charity of a penny cord! it sums up thousands in a trice you have no true debtor and creditor but it; of what's past, is, and to come, the discharge; Your neck, sir, is pen, book, and counters; so the acquittance follows.

Post. I am merrier to die, than thou art to live. Gaol. Indeed, sir, be that sleeps feels not the toothach: But a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think, he would change places with his officer: for, look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go.

Post. Yes, indeed, do 1, fellow.

Gaol. Your death has eyes in's head then; I have not seen him so pictured: you must either be directed by some that take upon them to know; or take upon yourself that, which I am sure you do not know; or jump the after-inquiry on your own peril: and how you shall speed in your journey's end, I think, you'll never return to tell one.

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

Gaol. What an infinite mock is this, that a man should have the best use of eyes, to see the way of blindness! I am sure, hanging's the way of winking. Enter a Messenger.

Mess. Knock off his manacles; bring your prisoner to the king.

Post. Thou bringest good news;-I am called to be made free.

Gaol. I'll be hanged then.
Post. Thou shalt be then freer than a gaoler; no
bolts for the dead. [Exeunt Post. and Mess.
Gaol. Unless a man would marry a gallows, and
beget young gibbets, I never saw one so prone. Yet,
on my conscience, there are verier knaves desire to
live, for all he be a Roman and there be some of
them too, that die against their wills; so should I, if
I were one. I would we were all of one mind, and
one mind good; O, there were desolation of gaolers,
and gallowses! I speak against my present profit;
but my wish hath a preferment in't. [Exeunt.
SCENE V. Cymbeline's Tent.

Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragas,
Pisanio, Lords, Officers, and Attendants.
Cym. Stand by my side, you whom the gods have
Preservers of my throne. Woe is my heart,
That the poor soldier, that so richly fought,
Whose rags sham'd gilded arms, whose naked breast
Stepp'd before targe of proof, cannot be found:
He shall be happy that can find him, if
Our grace can make him so.

I never saw
Such noble fury in so poor a thing;
Such precious deeds in one that promis'd nought
But beggary and poor looks.
No tidings of him?
Pis. He hath been search'd among the dead and
But no trace of him.

To my grief, I am
The heir of his reward; which I will add
To you, the liver, heart, and brain of Britain,

[To Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus.
By whom, I grant, she lives; "Tis now the time
To ask of whence you are report it.

In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen:
Further to boast, were neither true nor modest,
Unless I add, we are honest.


Bow your knees:

Arise, my knights o'the battle; I create you
Companions to our person, and will fit you
With dignities becoming your estates.

Enter Cornelius and Ladies.
There's business in these faces :-Why so sadly
Greet you our victory? you look like Romans,
And not o'the court of Britain,

Hail, great king!
To sour your happiness, I must report
The queen is dead.
Whom worse than a physician

Gaol. A heavy reckoning for you, sir: But the comfort is, you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more tavern bills; which are often the sad-Would this report become? But I consider, ness of parting, as the procuring of mirth: you come By medicine life may be prolong'd, yet death in faint for want of meat, depart reeling with too Will seize the doctor too. How ended she? much drink: sorry that you have paid too much, and sorry that you are paid too much: purse and brain

Cor. With horror, madly dying, like her life; Which, being cruel to the world, concluded,

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