« ZurückWeiter »
And she, like harmless lightning, throws her eye
Imo. You are my father too, and did relieve me,
Cym. All o'er-joy'd,
Imo. My good master,
Luc. Happy be you !
Cym. The forlorn soldier that so nobly fought,
Poft. 'Tis 1 am, Sir,
Pof. Kneel not to me:
The malice tow'rds you, to forgive you. Live,
Cym. Nobly doom'd :
Arv. You help?d'us, Sir,
Poft. Your servant, Princes. *
....Paft. Your servant, Princes.
Luc. Philarmonus !
[Reads.] When as a lion's wela Mall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embrac'd by a piece of tender air; and when from a frately cedar Mall be lopt branches, which being dead many years, Shall after revive, be jointed so the old stock, and freshly grow, then Shall Poithumus and his miferiės, Britain be fortunate, and flowerije in peace and plenty. Thou, Leonatms, art the lion's whelp; The fit and apt construction of thy name Being Leonatus, doth import so much :
The piece of tender air, thy virtuous daughter, [To Cymbelinc,
Cym. This hath some sceming.
Sooth. The lofty cedar, royal Cymbeline,
On whom heav’n’s justice (both on her, and hers)
Sooth. The fingers of the powers above do tune
Cym, Laud we the Gods !
The End of the EIGHTH VOLUME.