SCENE I. Britain. The Roman camp.

Enter Posthumus alone, with a bloody handkerchief.

POSTHUMUS. Yea, bloody cloth, I’ll keep thee; for I wish’d Thou shouldst be colour’d thus. You married ones, If each of you should 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 doers’ thrift. But Imogen is your own. Do your best wills, And make me blest to obey. I am brought hither Among th’ 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 Britain peasant. So I’ll fight 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’ th’ Leonati in me! To shame the guise o’ th’ world, I will begin The fashion less without and more within.

[ Exit. ]

SCENE II. Britain. A field of battle between the British and Roman camps.

Enter Lucius, Iachimo and the Roman army at one door, and the British army at another, Leonatus Posthumus following 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.

IACHIMO. 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 .

BELARIUS. Stand, stand! We have th’ advantage of the ground; The lane is guarded; nothing routs us but The villainy of our fears.

GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS. Stand, stand, and fight!

Enter Posthumus and seconds the Britons; they rescue Cymbeline and exeunt. Then re-enter Lucius and Iachimo with Imogen .

LUCIUS. Away, boy, from the troops, and save thyself; For friends kill friends, and the disorder’s such As war were hoodwink’d.

IACHIMO. ’Tis their fresh supplies.

LUCIUS. It is a day turn’d strangely. Or betimes Let’s reinforce or fly.

[ Exeunt. ]

SCENE III. Another part of the field.

Enter Posthumus and a Briton Lord .

LORD. Cam’st thou from where they made the stand?

POSTHUMUS. I did: Though you, it seems, come from the fliers.

LORD. I did.

POSTHUMUS. 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 strait lane; the enemy, full-hearted, Lolling the tongue with slaught’ring, having work More plentiful than tools to do’t, struck down Some mortally, some slightly touch’d, some falling Merely through fear, that the strait pass was damm’d With dead men hurt behind, and cowards living To die with length’ned shame.

LORD. Where was this lane?

POSTHUMUS. 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’s 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, cried 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, Three thousand confident, in act as many— For three performers are the file 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 coward 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’ th’ hunters. Then began A stop i’ th’ chaser, a retire; anon A rout, confusion thick. Forthwith 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 o’ th’ 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’ th’ 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’ th’ field.

LORD. This was strange chance: A narrow lane, an old man, and two boys.

POSTHUMUS. Nay, do not wonder at it; you are made Rather to wonder at the things you hear Than to work any. Will you rhyme upon’t, And vent it for a mock’ry? 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.

POSTHUMUS. ’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.

LORD. Farewell; you’re angry.

[ Exit. ]

POSTHUMUS. Still going? This is a lord! O noble misery, To be i’ th’ field and ask ‘What news?’ of me! Today 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, ’Tis strange he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds, Sweet words; or hath moe ministers than we That draw his knives i’ th’ war. Well, I will find him; For being now a favourer to the Briton, 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 th’ 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 I’ll keep nor bear again, But end it by some means for Imogen.

Enter two British Captains and soldiers.

FIRST CAPTAIN. Great Jupiter be prais’d! Lucius is taken. ’Tis thought the old man and his sons were angels.

SECOND CAPTAIN. There was a fourth man, in a silly habit, That gave th’ affront with them.

FIRST CAPTAIN. So ’tis reported; But none of ’em can be found. Stand! who’s there?

POSTHUMUS. A Roman, Who had not now been drooping here if seconds Had answer’d him.

SECOND CAPTAIN. Lay hands on him; a dog! A leg of Rome shall not return to tell What crows have peck’d them here. He brags his service, As if he were of note. Bring him to th’ King.

Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanio and Roman captives. The Captains present Posthumus to Cymbeline, who delivers him over to a gaoler.

[ Exeunt omnes. ]

SCENE IV. Britain. A prison.

Enter Posthumus and two Gaolers .

FIRST GAOLER. You shall not now be stol’n, you have locks upon you; So graze as you find pasture.

SECOND GAOLER. Ay, or a stomach.

[ Exeunt Gaolers . ]

POSTHUMUS. Most welcome, bondage! for thou art a way, I think, to liberty. Yet am I better Than one that’s sick o’ th’ gout, since he had rather Groan so in perpetuity than be cur’d By th’ sure physician death, who is the key T’ unbar these locks. My conscience, thou art fetter’d More than my shanks and wrists; you good gods, give me 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 pow’rs, If you will take this audit, take this life, And cancel these cold bonds. O Imogen! I’ll speak to thee in silence.

[ Sleeps. ]

Solemn music. Enter, as in 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, follows the two young Leonati, brothers to Posthumus, with wounds, as they died in the wars. They circle Posthumus round as he lies sleeping.

SICILIUS. 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 stay’d Attending nature’s law; Whose father then, as men report Thou orphans’ father art, Thou shouldst have been, and shielded him From this earth-vexing smart.

MOTHER. Lucina lent not me her aid, But took me in my throes, That from me was Posthumus ripp’d, Came crying ’mongst his foes, A thing of pity.

SICILIUS. Great Nature like his ancestry Moulded the stuff so fair That he deserv’d the praise o’ th’ world As great Sicilius’ heir.

FIRST BROTHER. 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?

MOTHER. With marriage wherefore was he mock’d, To be exil’d and thrown From Leonati seat and cast From her his dearest one, Sweet Imogen?

SICILIUS. Why did you suffer Iachimo, Slight thing of Italy, To taint his nobler heart and brain With needless jealousy, And to become the geck and scorn O’ th’ other’s villainy?

SECOND BROTHER. 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.

FIRST BROTHER. 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?

SICILIUS. Thy crystal window ope; look out; No longer exercise Upon a valiant race thy harsh And potent injuries.

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

SICILIUS. Peep through thy marble mansion. Help! Or we poor ghosts will cry To th’ shining synod of the rest Against thy deity.

BROTHERS. Help, Jupiter! or we appeal, And from thy justice fly.

Jupiter descends in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an eagle. He throws a thunderbolt. The Ghosts fall on their knees.

JUPITER. No more, you 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 flow’rs. 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 confine; And so, away; no farther with your din Express impatience, lest you stir up mine. Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline.

[ Ascends. ]

SICILIUS. 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 blest fields. His royal bird Prunes the immortal wing, and cloys his beak, As when his god is pleas’d.

ALL. Thanks, Jupiter!

SICILIUS. 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. ]

POSTHUMUS. [ Waking. ] Sleep, thou has been a grandsire and begot A father to me; and thou hast created 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 haunt 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 embrac’d by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopp’d 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.

Enter Gaoler .

GAOLER. Come, sir, are you ready for death?

POSTHUMUS. Over-roasted rather; ready long ago.

GAOLER. Hanging is the word, sir; if you be ready for that, you are well cook’d.

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

GAOLER. 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 sadness of parting, as the procuring of mirth. You come in faint for want of meat, depart reeling with too much drink; sorry that you have paid too much, and sorry that you are paid too much; purse and brain both empty; the brain the heavier for being too light, the purse too light, being drawn of heaviness. O, 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 debitor 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.

POSTHUMUS. I am merrier to die than thou art to live.

GAOLER. Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the toothache. 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.

POSTHUMUS. Yes indeed do I, fellow.

GAOLER. Your death has eyes in’s head, then; I have not seen him so pictur’d. You must either be directed by some that take upon them to know, or to 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.

POSTHUMUS. 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.

GAOLER. 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 .

MESSENGER. Knock off his manacles; bring your prisoner to the King.

POSTHUMUS. Thou bring’st good news: I am call’d to be made free.

GAOLER. I’ll be hang’d then.

POSTHUMUS. Thou shalt be then freer than a gaoler; no bolts for the dead.

[ Exeunt Posthumus and Messenger . ]

GAOLER. 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.

[ Exit. ]

SCENE V. Britain. Cymbeline’s tent.

Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanio, Lords, Officers and Attendants.

CYMBELINE. Stand by my side, you whom the gods have made 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 targes of proof, cannot be found. He shall be happy that can find him, if Our grace can make him so.

BELARIUS. 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.

CYMBELINE. No tidings of him?

PISANIO. He hath been search’d among the dead and living, But no trace of him.

CYMBELINE. To my grief, I am The heir of his reward, [ To Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus ] which I will add To you, the liver, heart, and brain of Britain, By whom I grant she lives. ’Tis now the time To ask of whence you are. Report it.

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

CYMBELINE. Bow your knees. Arise my knights o’ th’ 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’ th’ court of Britain.

CORNELIUS. Hail, great King! To sour your happiness I must report The Queen is dead.

CYMBELINE. Who worse than a physician 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?

CORNELIUS. 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.

CYMBELINE. Prithee say.

CORNELIUS. 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.

CYMBELINE. She alone knew this; And but she spoke it dying, I would not Believe her lips in opening it. Proceed.

CORNELIUS. 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.

CYMBELINE. O most delicate fiend! Who is’t can read a woman? Is there more?

CORNELIUS. 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 ling’ring, By inches waste you. In which time she purpos’d, By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to O’ercome you with her show; 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.

CYMBELINE. Heard you all this, her women?

LADIES. We did, so please your Highness.

CYMBELINE. Mine eyes Were not in fault, for she was beautiful; 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, Iachimo, the Soothsayer and other Roman prisoners, guarded; Posthumus behind, and Imogen .

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.

LUCIUS. 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.

CYMBELINE. 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, 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.

IMOGEN. I humbly thank your Highness.

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

IMOGEN. 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.

LUCIUS. 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?

CYMBELINE. 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?

IMOGEN. He is a Roman, no more kin to me Than I to your Highness; who, being born your vassal, Am something nearer.

CYMBELINE. Wherefore ey’st him so?

IMOGEN. I’ll tell you, sir, in private, if you please To give me hearing.

CYMBELINE. Ay, with all my heart, And lend my best attention. What’s thy name?

IMOGEN. Fidele, sir.

CYMBELINE. Thou’rt my good youth, my page; I’ll be thy master. Walk with me; speak freely.

[ Cymbeline and Imogen converse apart. ]

BELARIUS. Is not this boy reviv’d from death?

ARVIRAGUS. One sand another Not more resembles that sweet rosy lad Who died and was Fidele. What think you?

GUIDERIUS. The same dead thing alive.

BELARIUS. Peace, peace! see further. He eyes us not; forbear. Creatures may be alike; were’t he, I am sure He would have spoke to us.

GUIDERIUS. But we see him dead.

BELARIUS. Be silent; let’s see further.

PISANIO. [ Aside. ] It is my mistress. Since she is living, let the time run on To good or bad.

[ Cymbeline and Imogen advance. ]

CYMBELINE. Come, stand thou by our side; 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.

IMOGEN. My boon is that this gentleman may render Of whom he had this ring.

POSTHUMUS. [ Aside. ] What’s that to him?

CYMBELINE. That diamond upon your finger, say How came it yours?

IACHIMO. Thou’lt torture me to leave unspoken that Which to be spoke would torture thee.

CYMBELINE. How? me?

IACHIMO. I am glad to be constrain’d to utter that Which torments me to conceal. By villainy 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?

CYMBELINE. All that belongs to this.

IACHIMO. That paragon, thy daughter, For whom my heart drops blood and my false spirits Quail to remember—Give me leave, I faint.

CYMBELINE. My daughter? What of her? Renew thy strength; I had rather thou shouldst live while nature will Than die ere I hear more. Strive, man, and speak.

IACHIMO. Upon a time, unhappy was the clock That struck the hour: 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.

CYMBELINE. I stand on fire. Come to the matter.

IACHIMO. All too soon I shall, Unless thou wouldst grieve quickly. This Posthumus, Most like a noble lord in love and one That had a royal lover, took his hint; And (not dispraising whom we 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.

CYMBELINE. Nay, nay, to th’ purpose.

IACHIMO. Your daughter’s chastity (there it begins) He spake of her as Dian had hot dreams And she alone were cold; whereat I, wretch, Made scruple of his praise, and wager’d with him Pieces of gold ’gainst this which then he wore Upon his honour’d finger, to attain In suit the place of’s bed, and win this ring By hers and mine adultery. He, true knight, No lesser of her honour confident Than I did truly find her, stakes this ring; And would so, had it been a carbuncle Of Phoebus’ wheel; and might so safely, had it Been all the worth of’s car. Away to Britain Post I in this design. Well may you, sir, Remember me at court, where I was taught Of your chaste daughter the wide difference ’Twixt amorous and villainous. 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—

POSTHUMUS. [ Coming forward. ] Ay, so thou dost, Italian fiend! Ay me, most credulous fool, Egregious murderer, thief, anything That’s due to all the villains past, in being, To come! O, give me cord, or knife, or poison, Some upright justicer! Thou, King, send out For torturers ingenious. It is I That all th’ abhorred things o’ th’ earth amend By being worse than they. I am Posthumus, That kill’d thy daughter; villain-like, I lie; That caus’d a lesser villain than myself, A sacrilegious thief, to do’t. The temple Of virtue was she; yea, and she herself. Spit, and throw stones, cast mire upon me, set The dogs o’ th’ street to bay me. Every villain Be call’d Posthumus Leonatus, and Be villainy less than ’twas! O Imogen! My queen, my life, my wife! O Imogen, Imogen, Imogen!

IMOGEN. Peace, my lord. Hear, hear!

POSTHUMUS. Shall’s have a play of this? Thou scornful page, There lies thy part.

[ Strikes her. She falls. ]

PISANIO. O gentlemen, help! Mine and your mistress! O, my lord Posthumus! You ne’er kill’d Imogen till now. Help, help! Mine honour’d lady!

CYMBELINE. Does the world go round?

POSTHUMUS. How comes these staggers on me?

PISANIO. Wake, my mistress!

CYMBELINE. If this be so, the gods do mean to strike me To death with mortal joy.

PISANIO. How fares my mistress?

IMOGEN. O, get thee from my sight; Thou gav’st me poison. Dangerous fellow, hence! Breathe not where princes are.

CYMBELINE. The tune of Imogen!

PISANIO. Lady, The gods throw stones of sulphur on me, if That box I gave you was not thought by me A precious thing! I had it from the Queen.

CYMBELINE. New matter still?

IMOGEN. It poison’d me.

CORNELIUS. O gods! I left out one thing which the Queen confess’d, Which must approve thee honest. ‘If Pisanio Have’ said she ‘given his mistress that confection Which I gave him for cordial, she is serv’d As I would serve a rat.’

CYMBELINE. What’s this, Cornelius?

CORNELIUS. The Queen, sir, very oft importun’d me To temper poisons for her; still pretending The satisfaction of her knowledge only In killing creatures vile, as cats and dogs, Of no esteem. I, dreading that her purpose Was of more danger, did compound for her A certain stuff, which, being ta’en would cease The present pow’r of life, but in short time All offices of nature should again Do their due functions. Have you ta’en of it?

IMOGEN. Most like I did, for I was dead.

BELARIUS. My boys, There was our error.

GUIDERIUS. This is sure Fidele.

IMOGEN. Why did you throw your wedded lady from you? Think that you are upon a rock, and now Throw me again.

[ Embracing him. ]

POSTHUMUS. Hang there like fruit, my soul, Till the tree die!

CYMBELINE. How now, my flesh? my child? What, mak’st thou me a dullard in this act? Wilt thou not speak to me?

IMOGEN. [ Kneeling. ] Your blessing, sir.

BELARIUS. [ To Guiderius and Arviragus. ] Though you did love this youth, I blame ye not; You had a motive for’t.

CYMBELINE. My tears that fall Prove holy water on thee! Imogen, Thy mother’s dead.

IMOGEN. I am sorry for’t, my lord.

CYMBELINE. O, she was naught, and long of her it was That we meet here so strangely; but her son Is gone, we know not how nor where.

PISANIO. My lord, Now fear is from me, I’ll speak troth. Lord Cloten, Upon my lady’s missing, came to me With his sword drawn, foam’d at the mouth, and swore, If I discover’d not which way she was gone, It was my instant death. By accident I had a feigned letter of my master’s Then in my pocket, which directed him To seek her on the mountains near to Milford; Where, in a frenzy, in my master’s garments, Which he enforc’d from me, away he posts With unchaste purpose, and with oath to violate My lady’s honour. What became of him I further know not.

GUIDERIUS. Let me end the story: I slew him there.

CYMBELINE. Marry, the gods forfend! I would not thy good deeds should from my lips Pluck a hard sentence. Prithee, valiant youth, Deny’t again.

GUIDERIUS. I have spoke it, and I did it.

CYMBELINE. He was a prince.

GUIDERIUS. A most incivil one. The wrongs he did me Were nothing prince-like; for he did provoke me With language that would make me spurn the sea, If it could so roar to me. I cut off’s head, And am right glad he is not standing here To tell this tale of mine.

CYMBELINE. I am sorry for thee. By thine own tongue thou art condemn’d, and must Endure our law. Thou’rt dead.

IMOGEN. That headless man I thought had been my lord.

CYMBELINE. Bind the offender, And take him from our presence.

BELARIUS. Stay, sir King. This man is better than the man he slew, As well descended as thyself, and hath More of thee merited than a band of Clotens Had ever scar for. [ To the guard. ] Let his arms alone; They were not born for bondage.

CYMBELINE. Why, old soldier, Wilt thou undo the worth thou art unpaid for By tasting of our wrath? How of descent As good as we?

ARVIRAGUS. In that he spake too far.

CYMBELINE. And thou shalt die for’t.

BELARIUS. We will die all three; But I will prove that two on’s are as good As I have given out him. My sons, I must For mine own part unfold a dangerous speech, Though haply well for you.

ARVIRAGUS. Your danger’s ours.

GUIDERIUS. And our good his.

BELARIUS. Have at it then by leave! Thou hadst, great King, a subject who Was call’d Belarius.

CYMBELINE. What of him? He is A banish’d traitor.

BELARIUS. He it is that hath Assum’d this age; indeed a banish’d man; I know not how a traitor.

CYMBELINE. Take him hence, The whole world shall not save him.

BELARIUS. Not too hot. First pay me for the nursing of thy sons, And let it be confiscate all, so soon As I have receiv’d it.

CYMBELINE. Nursing of my sons?

BELARIUS. I am too blunt and saucy: here’s my knee. Ere I arise I will prefer my sons; Then spare not the old father. Mighty sir, These two young gentlemen that call me father, And think they are my sons, are none of mine; They are the issue of your loins, my liege, And blood of your begetting.

CYMBELINE. How? my issue?

BELARIUS. So sure as you your father’s. I, old Morgan, Am that Belarius whom you sometime banish’d. Your pleasure was my mere offence, my punishment Itself, and all my treason; that I suffer’d Was all the harm I did. These gentle princes (For such and so they are) these twenty years Have I train’d up; those arts they have as I Could put into them. My breeding was, sir, as Your Highness knows. Their nurse, Euriphile, Whom for the theft I wedded, stole these children Upon my banishment; I mov’d her to’t, Having receiv’d the punishment before For that which I did then. Beaten for loyalty Excited me to treason. Their dear loss, The more of you ’twas felt, the more it shap’d Unto my end of stealing them. But, gracious sir, Here are your sons again, and I must lose Two of the sweet’st companions in the world. The benediction of these covering heavens Fall on their heads like dew! for they are worthy To inlay heaven with stars.

CYMBELINE. Thou weep’st and speak’st. The service that you three have done is more Unlike than this thou tell’st. I lost my children. If these be they, I know not how to wish A pair of worthier sons.

BELARIUS. Be pleas’d awhile. This gentleman, whom I call Polydore, Most worthy prince, as yours, is true Guiderius; This gentleman, my Cadwal, Arviragus, Your younger princely son; he, sir, was lapp’d In a most curious mantle, wrought by th’ hand Of his queen mother, which for more probation I can with ease produce.

CYMBELINE. Guiderius had Upon his neck a mole, a sanguine star; It was a mark of wonder.

BELARIUS. This is he, Who hath upon him still that natural stamp. It was wise nature’s end in the donation, To be his evidence now.

CYMBELINE. O, what am I? A mother to the birth of three? Ne’er mother Rejoic’d deliverance more. Blest pray you be, That, after this strange starting from your orbs, You may reign in them now! O Imogen, Thou hast lost by this a kingdom.

IMOGEN. No, my lord; I have got two worlds by’t. O my gentle brothers, Have we thus met? O, never say hereafter But I am truest speaker! You call’d me brother, When I was but your sister: I you brothers, When we were so indeed.

CYMBELINE. Did you e’er meet?

ARVIRAGUS. Ay, my good lord.

GUIDERIUS. And at first meeting lov’d, Continu’d so until we thought he died.

CORNELIUS. By the Queen’s dram she swallow’d.

CYMBELINE. O rare instinct! When shall I hear all through? This fierce abridgement Hath to it circumstantial branches, which Distinction should be rich in. Where? how liv’d you? And when came you to serve our Roman captive? How parted with your brothers? how first met them? Why fled you from the court? and whither? These, And your three motives to the battle, with I know not how much more, should be demanded, And all the other by-dependances, From chance to chance; but nor the time nor place Will serve our long interrogatories. See, Posthumus anchors upon Imogen; And she, like harmless lightning, throws her eye On him, her brothers, me, her master, hitting Each object with a joy; the counterchange Is severally in all. Let’s quit this ground, And smoke the temple with our sacrifices. [ To Belarius. ] Thou art my brother; so we’ll hold thee ever.

IMOGEN. You are my father too, and did relieve me To see this gracious season.

CYMBELINE. All o’erjoy’d Save these in bonds. Let them be joyful too, For they shall taste our comfort.

IMOGEN. My good master, I will yet do you service.

LUCIUS. Happy be you!

CYMBELINE. The forlorn soldier, that so nobly fought, He would have well becom’d this place and grac’d The thankings of a king.

POSTHUMUS. I am, sir, The soldier that did company these three In poor beseeming; ’twas a fitment for The purpose I then follow’d. That I was he, Speak, Iachimo. I had you down, and might Have made you finish.

IACHIMO. [ Kneeling. ] I am down again; But now my heavy conscience sinks my knee, As then your force did. Take that life, beseech you, Which I so often owe; but your ring first, And here the bracelet of the truest princess That ever swore her faith.

POSTHUMUS. Kneel not to me. The pow’r that I have on you is to spare you; The malice towards you to forgive you. Live, And deal with others better.

CYMBELINE. Nobly doom’d! We’ll learn our freeness of a son-in-law; Pardon’s the word to all.

ARVIRAGUS. You holp us, sir, As you did mean indeed to be our brother; Joy’d are we that you are.

POSTHUMUS. Your servant, Princes. Good my lord of Rome, Call forth your soothsayer. As I slept, methought Great Jupiter, upon his eagle back’d, Appear’d to me, with other spritely shows Of mine own kindred. When I wak’d, I found This label on my bosom; whose containing Is so from sense in hardness that I can Make no collection of it. Let him show His skill in the construction.

LUCIUS. Philarmonus!

SOOTHSAYER. Here, my good lord.

LUCIUS. Read, and declare the meaning.

SOOTHSAYER. [ Reads. ] When as a lion’s whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embrac’d by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopp’d 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. Thou, Leonatus, art the lion’s whelp; The fit and apt construction of thy name, Being Leo-natus, doth import so much. [ To Cymbeline ] The piece of tender air, thy virtuous daughter, Which we call mollis aer , and mollis aer We term it mulier ; which mulier I divine Is this most constant wife, who even now Answering the letter of the oracle, Unknown to you, unsought, were clipp’d about With this most tender air.

CYMBELINE. This hath some seeming.

SOOTHSAYER. The lofty cedar, royal Cymbeline, Personates thee; and thy lopp’d branches point Thy two sons forth, who, by Belarius stol’n, For many years thought dead, are now reviv’d, To the majestic cedar join’d, whose issue Promises Britain peace and plenty.

CYMBELINE. Well, My peace we will begin. And, Caius Lucius, Although the victor, we submit to Cæsar And to the Roman empire, promising To pay our wonted tribute, from the which We were dissuaded by our wicked queen, Whom heavens in justice, both on her and hers, Have laid most heavy hand.

SOOTHSAYER. The fingers of the pow’rs above do tune The harmony of this peace. The vision Which I made known to Lucius ere the stroke Of yet this scarce-cold battle, at this instant Is full accomplish’d; for the Roman eagle, From south to west on wing soaring aloft, Lessen’d herself and in the beams o’ th’ sun So vanish’d; which foreshow’d our princely eagle, Th’ imperial Cæsar, should again unite His favour with the radiant Cymbeline, Which shines here in the west.

CYMBELINE. Laud we the gods; And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils From our bless’d altars. Publish we this peace To all our subjects. Set we forward; let A Roman and a British ensign wave Friendly together. So through Lud’s Town march; And in the temple of great Jupiter Our peace we’ll ratify; seal it with feasts. Set on there! Never was a war did cease, Ere bloody hands were wash’d, with such a peace.

[ Exeunt. ]