By whom, I grant, fhe lives. 'Tis now the Time To afk of whence you are. Report it.

Bel. Sir,

In Cambria are we born, and Gentlemen ;
Farther to boast, were neither true nor modeft,
Unless I add, we're honest.

Cym. Bow your knees.

[They kneel

Arife my Knights o' th' battle; I create you

Companions to our perfon, and will fit you
With dignities becoming your eftates.

Enter Cornelius, and Ladies.

There's bufinefs in these faces. Why fo fadly
Greet you our victory? you look like Romans,
And not o' th' Court of Britain.

Cor. Hail, great King!

To four your happiness, I must report
The Queen is dead.

Cym. Whom worse than a phyfician
Would this report become? But I confider,
By med'cine life may be prolong'd, yet death
Will feize the Doctor too. How ended fhe?

Cor. With horror, madly dying, like herself,
Who, being cruel to the world, concluded
Moft cruel. to herfelf. What she confeft,
I will report, fo please you: Thefe her women
Can trip me, if I err; who, with wet cheeks
Were prefent when the finifh'd.

Cym. Pr'ythee, fay.

Cor. Firft, fhe confefs'd, fhe never lov'd you, only Affected Greatnefs got by you, not you.

Married your Royalty, was wife to your Place,
Abhorr'd your perfon.

Cym. She alone knew this;

And, but the spoke it dying, I could not

Proceed.

Believe her lips in opening it.
VOL. VII.

Cor.

Cor. Your Daughter, whom fhe bore in hand to love

With fuch integrity, fhe did confefs,
Was as a fcorpion to her fight, whose life,
But that her flight prevented it, fhe 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 confefs, she had

For you a mortal mineral, which, being took,
Should by the minute feed on life, and ling'ring
By inches wafte you. In which time fhe purpos'd,
By watching, weeping, tendance, kiffing, to
O'ercome you with her fhew, yes, and in time,
When she had fitted you with her craft, to work
Her fon into th' adoption of the Crown;
But failing of her end by his ftrange absence,
Grew fhameless, defperate, open'd, in despight
Of heav'n and men, her purposes, repented,
The ills the hatch'd were not effected, so,
Despairing, dy'd.

Cym. Heard you all this, her Women?
Lady. We did, fo please your Highness.
Cym. Mine eyes

Were not in fault, for fhe 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, oh my daughter!
That it was folly in me, thou may'ft fay,

And prove it in thy feeling. Heav'n mend all!

SCENE

Enter Lucius, Iachimo, and other Roman prisoners Leonatus behind, and Imogen.

Thou com'ft not, Caius, now for Tribute; That.
The Britons have raz'd out, though with the lofs
Of many a bold one, whofe kinfmen have made fuit,
That their good fouls may be appeas'd with flaughter
Of you their Captives, which ourfelf have granted.
So, think of your eftate.

Luc. Confider, Sir, the chance of war; the day
Was yours by accident; had it gone with us,

We fhould not, when the blood was cold, have threatned

Our Prifoners with the fword. But, fince the Gods
Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives
May be call'd ranfom, let it come. Sufficeth,
A Roman with a Roman's heart can fuffer.
Auguftus lives to think on't. And so much
For my peculiar care. This one thing only
I will intreat my boy, a Briton born,
Let him be ranfom'd; never mafter had
A page fo kind, fo duteous, diligent,
So tender over his occafions, true,

So feat, fo nurfe-like. Let his virtue join With my requeft, which, I'll make bold, your Highnefs

Cannot deny; he hath done no Briton harm,

Though he hath ferv'd a Roman. Save him, Sir,
And spare no blood befide.

Cym. I've furely feen him

I

His favour is familiar to me.

Boy, thou haft look'd thy felf into my grace,

9 So feat,] So ready; fo dexterous in waiting.

favour is familiar-] I am acquainted with his countenance.

Cc 2

And

And art mine own, I know not why, nor wherefore,
To fay," live, boy:" ne'er thank thy master, live;
And afk of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt,
Fitting my bounty, and thy ftate, I'll give it:
Yea, though thou do demand a prifoner,
The nobleft 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 fee a thing
Bitter to me, as death; your life, good master,
Muft fhuffle for itself.

Luc. The boy disdains me,

He leaves me, fcorns me; briefly die their joys,
That place them on the truth of girls and boys!
Why ftands he fo perplext?

Cym. What wouldst thou, boy?

I love thee more and more: think more and more, What's best to afk. Know'ft him thou look'ft on?

fpeak,

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 vaffal,

Am fomething nearer.

Cym. Wherefore eyest 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 beft attention. What's thy name?

Imo. Fidele, Sir.

Cym. Thou art my good youth, my page;

I'll be thy mafter.

Walk with me, fpeak freely.

[Cymbeline and Imogen walk afide.

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

Ary.

2

Arv. One fand another

Not more resembles. That fweet rofy lad,

Who dy'd and was Fidele. What think you?
Guid. The fame dead thing alive.

Bel. Peace, peace, fee more, he eyes us not; for-
bear,

Creatures may be alike were 't he, I'm fure,
He would have spoke t' us.

Guid. But we faw him dead.

Bel. Be filent: let's fee further.

Pif. 'Tis my miftrefs.

Since he is living, let the time run on,

[Afide

To good, or bad. [Cymb and Imog. come forward. Cym. Come, ftand thou by our side,

Make thy demand aloud.-Sir, step you forth.

[To Iachimo.

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 falfhood.One fpeak to
him.

Imo. My boon is, that this Gentleman may render Of whom he had this ring.

Poft. What's that to him?

Cym. That diamond upon your finger, fay,

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'm glad to be constrain'd to utter what

2 One fand anther

Not more refembles THAT fweet

rofy lad,] A flight corruption has made nonfense of this paf. fage. One grain might refemble another, but none a human form. We should read,

Not more refembles, THAN HE

TH' fweet rofy lad. WARB. There was no great difficulty in the line, which, when properly pointed, needs no alteration.

Cc 3

Torments