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.

Cor.

Hail, great king!

To sour your happiness, I must report

The queen is dead.

Cym.
Whom worse than a physician
Would this report become? But I consider,
By medicine life may be prolong'd, yet death
Will seize the doctor too.-How ended she?

Cor. With horror, madly dying, like her life;
Which, being cruel to the world, concluded
Most cruel to herself. What she confess'd,
I will report, so please you: these her women
Can trip me, if I err; who with wet cheeks
Were present when she finish'd.

Cym.

Pr'ythee, say.

Cor. First, she confess'd she never lov'd you; only

Affected greatness 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

Believe her lips in opening it.

Proceed.

Cor. Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to love

With such integrity, she did confess

Was as a scorpion to her sight; whose life,

But that her flight prevented it, she had

Ta'en off by poison.

Cym.

O most delicate fiend!

Who is 't can read a woman?-Is there more?

Cor. More, Sir, and worse. She did confess, she had

For you a mortal mineral; which, being took,
Should by the minute feed on life, and, lingering,
By inches waste you: in which time she purpos'd,
By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to
O'ercome you with her show: yes, and in time,
(When she had fitted you with her craft,) to work
Her son into th' adoption of the crown:
But, failing of her end by his strange absence,
Grew shameless-desperate; open'd, in despite
Of heaven and men, her purposes; repented

The evils she hatch'd were not effected; so,

Despairing, died.

Cym.

Heard you all this, her women?

1 Lady. We did, so please your highness.
Cym.

Were not in fault, for she was beautiful;

Mine eyes

Mine ears, that heard her flattery; nor my heart,

That thought her like her seeming; it had been vicious

To have mistrusted her: yet, O my daughter!

That it was folly in me, thou mayst say,

And prove it in thy feeling. Heaven mend all!

Enter LUCIUS, IMOGEN, IACHIMO, the Soothsayer, and other Roman prisoners, guarded; POSTHUMUS behind.

Thou com'st not, Caius, now for tribute; that

The Britons have raz'd out, though with the loss

Of many a bold one; whose kinsmen have made suit,
That their good souls may be appeas'd with slaughter
Of you their captives, which ourself have granted:

So, think of your estate.

Luc. Consider, Sir, the chance of war: the day

Was yours by accident; had it gone with us,

We should not, when the blood was cool, have threaten'd
Our prisoners with the sword. But since the gods

Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives
May be call'd ransom, let it come: sufficeth,
A Roman with a Roman's heart can suffer:
Augustus lives to think on 't: and so much.
For my peculiar care. This one thing only

I will entreat my boy, a Briton born,
Let him be ransom'd never master had
A page so kind, so duteous, diligent,

So tender over his occasions, true,

So feat, so nurse-like: let his virtue join

With my request, which I'll make bold your highness
Cannot deny; he hath done no Briton harm,

Though he have serv'd a Roman: save him, Sir,

And spare no blood beside.

Cym.

I have surely seen him:

His favour is familiar to me.-Boy,

Thou hast look'd thyself into my grace,

And art mine own. I know not why, nor wherefore,

To say, live, boy: ne'er thank thy master; live:

And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt,

Fitting my bounty and thy state, I'll give it ;
Yea, though thou do demand a prisoner,

The noblest ta'en.

Imo.

I humbly thank your highness.

Luc. I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad; And yet I know thou wilt.

Imo.

No, no; alack,

There's other work in hand: I see a thing
Bitter to me as death: your life, good master,

Must shuffle for itself.

Luc.

The boy disdains me,

He leaves me, scorns me: briefly die their joys,
That place them on the truth of girls and boys.-
Why stands he so perplex'd?

Cym.

What wouldst thou, boy?

I love thee more and more: think more and more

What's best to ask. Know'st him thou look'st on? speak;

Wilt have him live? Is he thy kin? thy friend?

Imo. He is a Roman; no more kin to me,

Than I to your highness; who, being born your vassal,
Am something nearer.

Cym.

Wherefore ey'st him so?

Imo. I'll tell you, Sir, in private, if you please To give me hearing.

Cym.

Ay, with all my heart,

And lend my best attention. What's thy name?

Imo. Fidele, Sir.

Cym.
Thou art my good youth, my page;
I'll be thy master: walk with me; speak freely.

[CYMBELINE and IMOGEN converse apart.

Bel. Is not this boy reviv'd from death?
Arv.

Not more resembles that sweet rosy lad

One sand another

Who died, and was Fidele. What think you?

Gui. The same dead thing alive.

Bel. Peace, peace! see farther; he eyes us not; forbear; Creatures may be alike: were 't he, I am sure

He would have spoke to us.

Make thy demand aloud.-[To IACHIMO.] Sir, step you forth;
Give answer to this boy, and do it freely ;
Or, by our greatness, and the grace of it,

Which is our honour, bitter torture shall

Winnow the truth from falsehood.—On, speak to him.
Imo. My boon is, that this gentleman may render

Of whom he had this ring.

Post. [Aside.]

What's that to him?

Cym. That diamond upon your finger, say,

How came it yours?

Iach. Thou 'lt torture me to leave unspoken that

Which, to be spoke, would torture thee.

Cym.

How! me?

Iach. I am glad to be constrain'd to utter that Which torments me to conceal. By villany

I got this ring: 'twas Leonatus' jewel;

Whom thou didst banish; and (which more may grieve thee,

As it doth me) a nobler Sir ne'er liv'd

'Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou hear more, my lord?

Cym. All that belongs to this.

Iach.

That paragon, thy daughter,—

For whom my heart drops blood, and my false spirits

Quail to remember,-Give me leave; I faint.

Cym. My daughter! what of her? Renew thy strength:
I had rather thou shouldst live while nature will,

Than die ere I hear more: strive, man, and speak.
Iach. Upon a time, (unhappy was the clock
That struck the hour!) it was in Rome, (accurs'd
The mansion where !) 'twas at a feast, (O, would
Our viands had been poison'd, or at least

Those which I heav'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
Amongst the rar'st of good ones,) sitting sadly,
Hearing us praise our loves of Italy

For beauty, that made barren the swell'd boast
Of him that best could speak; for feature, laming
The shrine of Venus, or straight-pight Minerva,
Postures beyond brief nature; for condition,
A shop of all the qualities that man

Loves woman for; besides, that hook of wiving,
Fairness, which strikes the eye,-

Cym.

Come to the matter.

I stand on fire:

Unless thou wouldst grieve quickly.-This Posthumus (Most like a noble lord in love, and one

That had a royal lover) took his hint;

And, not dispraising whom we prais'd, (therein

He was as calm as virtue,) he began

His mistress' picture; which by his tongue being made, And then a mind put in 't, either our brags

Were crack'd of kitchen trulls, or his description

Prov'd us unspeaking sots.

Cym.
Iach. Your daughter's chastity-there it begins.
He spake of her, as Dian had hot dreams,
And she alone were cold: whereat I, wretch,
Made scruple of his praise; and wager'd with him
Pieces of gold 'gainst this, which then he wore
Upon his honour'd finger, to attain

Nay, nay, to the purpose.

In suit the place of his bed, and win this ring
By hers and mine adultery: he, true knight,
No lesser of her honour confident

Than I did truly find her, stakes this ring;
And would so, had it been a carbuncle
Of Phoebus' wheel; and might so safely, had it
Been all the worth of his car. Away to Britain
Post I in this design :-well may you, Sir,
Remember me at court; where I was taught,
Of your chaste daughter, the wide difference
'Twixt amorous and villanous. Being thus quench'd
Of hope, not longing, mine Italian brain
'Gan in your duller Britain operate
Most vilely; for my vantage, excellent;
And, to be brief, my practice so prevail'd,
That I return'd with simular proof enough
To make the noble Leonatus mad,

By wounding his belief in her renown
With tokens thus, and thus; averring notes
Of chamber-hanging, pictures, this her bracelet,
(O cunning, how I got it!) nay, some marks
Of secret on her person, that he could not
But think her bond of chastity quite crack'd,
I having ta'en the forfeit. Whereupon,-
Methinks I see him now,-

Post. [Coming forward.] Ay, so thou dost,
Italian fiend!-Ah me, most credulous fool,