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Cymbeline. And thou shalt die for 't.

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.

Your danger 's ours.
Guiderius. And our good his.

Have at it then, by leave.—.
Thou hadst, great king, a subject who
Was call'd Belarius.

What of him ? he is
A banish'd traitor.

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

Take him hence;
The whole world shall not save him.

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.

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.

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


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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 moved 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 ’t was 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.

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

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 the hand
Of his queen mother, which for more probation
I can with ease produce.

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

This is he,
Who hath upon him still that natural stamp.

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It was wise nature's end in the donation,
To be his evidence now.

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.

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 ye were so indeed.

Did you e'er meet?
Arviragus. Ay, my good lord.

And at first meeting lov'd; Continued so, until we thought he died.

Cornelius. By the queen's dram she swallow'd.

O rare instinct!
When shall I hear all through? This fierce abridgment
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,

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 inter’gatories. 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




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

All o'erjoy'd,
Save these in bonds; let them be joyful too,
For they shall taste our comfort.

My good master,
I will yet do you service.

Happy be you!
Cymbeline. The forlorn soldier, that so nobly fought,
He would have well becom'd this place, and gracd
The thankings of a king.

I am, sir,
The soldier that did company these three
In poor beseeming; 't was a fitment for
The purpose I then follow'd.—That I was he,
Speak, Iachimo; I had you down, and might
Have made


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.

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

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

You holp us, sir,

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As you

did mean indeed to be our brother; Joy'd are we that you are. Posthumus. Your servant, princes. Good my lord of

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.

Soothsayer. Here, my good lord.

Read, and declare the meaning. Soothsayer. [Reads] · Whenas 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.' 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


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