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How far 't is thither. If one of mean affairs
May plod it in a week, why may not I
Glide thither in a day? Then, true Pisanio,-
Who long'st, like me, to see thy lord; who long'st,-
0, let me bate!—but not like me,-yet long'st,
But in a fainter kind,-0, not like me,
For mine 's beyond beyond !-say, and speak thick,-
Love's counsellor should fill the bores of hearing,
To the smothering of the sense- - how far it is
To this same blessed Milford: and by the way
Tell me how Wales was made so happy as
To inherit such a haven; but first of all,
How we may steal from hence, and for the gap
That we shall make in time, from our hence-going
And our return, to excuse,—but first, how get hence.
Why should excuse be born or ere begot?
We 'll talk of that hereafter. Prithee, speak,
How many score of miles may we well ride
'Twixt hour and hour?
Pisanio.

One score 'twixt sun and sun,
Madam, 's enough for you,—and too much too.

Imogen. Why, one that rode to 's executión, man,
Could never go so slow; I have heard of riding wagers,
Where horses have been nimbler than the sands
That run i' the clock's behalf.-But this is foolery.-
Go bid my woman feign a sickness, say
She'll home to her father; and provide me presently
A riding-suit, no costlier than would fit
A franklin's housewife.
Pisanio.

Madam, you 're best consider.
Imogen. I see before me, man; nor here, nor here,
Nor what ensues, but have a fog in them,
That I cannot look through. Away, I prithee;
Do as I bid thee. There 's no more to say;
Accessible is none but Milford way.

[Exeunt.

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Scene III. Wales: a Mountainous Country with a Cave.
Enter, from the cave, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS.

Belarius. A goodly day not to keep house, with such
Whose roof 's as low as ours! Stoop, boys; this gate
Instructs you how to adore the heavens, and bows you
To a morning's holy office: the gates of monarchs
Are arch'd so high that giants may jet through
And keep their impious turbans on, without
Good morrow to the sun.-Hail, thou fair heaven!
We house i' the rock, yet use thee not so hardly
As prouder livers do.
Guiderius.

Hail, heaven!
Arviragus.

Hail, heaven! Belarius. Now for our mountain sport. Up to yond

hill! Your legs are young; I 'll tread these flats. Consider, When you above perceive me like a crow, That it is place which lessens and sets off; And you may then revolve what tales I have told you Of courts, of princes, of the tricks in war. This service is not service, so being done, But being so allow'd: to apprehend thus, Draws us a profit from all things we see; And often, to our comfort, shall we find The sharded beetle in a safer hold Than is the full-wing'd eagle. O, this life Is nobler than attending for a check, Richer than doing nothing for a bribe, Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk; Such gain the cap of him who makes 'em fine, Yet keeps his book uncross'd: no life to ours. Guiderius. Out of your proof you speak; we, poor un

fledg’d,

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Have never wing'd from view o' the nest, nor know not
What air 's from home. Haply this life is best,
If quiet life be best; sweeter to you
That have a sharper known, well corresponding
With
your
stiff

age: but unto us it is
A cell of ignorance, travelling a-bed,
A prison for a debtor, that not dares
To stride a limit.

Arviragus. What should we speak of
When we are old as you? when we shall hear
The rain and wind beat dark December, how
In this our pinching cave shall we discourse
The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing;
We are beastly, subtle as the fox for prey,
Like warlike as the wolf for what we eat;
Our valour is to chase what flies; our cage
We make a quire, as doth the prison'd bird,
And sing our bondage freely.
Belarius.

How you speak!
Did

you but know the city's usuries And felt them knowingly; the art o’ the court, As hard to leave as keep; whose top to climb Is certain falling, or so slippery that The fear 's as bad as falling; the toil o'the war, A pain that only seems to seek out danger l'the name of fame and honour; which dies i' the search, And hath as oft a slanderous epitaph As record of fair act; nay, many times, Doth ill deserve by doing well; what 's worse, Must curtsy at the censure. –O boys, this story The world may read in me; my body 's mark'd With Roman swords, and my report was once First with the best of note. Cymbeline lov'd me, And when a soldier was the theme, my name Was not far off: then was I as a tree

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Whose boughs did bend with fruit; but in one night,
A storm or robbery, call it what you will,
Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves,
And left me bare to weather.
Guiderius.

Uncertain favour!
Belarius. My fault being nothing-as I have told you

oftBut that two villains, whose false oaths prevail'd Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline I was confederate with the Romans: so Follow'd my banishment, and this twenty years This rock and these demesnes have been my world; Where I have liv'd at honest freedom, paid More pious debts to heaven than in all The fore-end of my time.—But up to the mountains! This is not hunters' language.--He that strikes The venison first shall be the lord o' the feast; To him the other two shall minister, And we will fear no poison, which attends In place of greater state. I'll meet you in the valleys.—

[Exeunt Guiderius and Arviragus.
How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature!
These boys know little they are sons to the king;
Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive.
They think they are mine; and though train'd up thus

meanly
l'the cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit
The roofs of palaces, and nature prompts them
In simple and low things to prince it much
Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore,
The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, who
The king his father callid Guiderius,-Jove!
When on my three-foot stool I sit and tell
The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out
Into my story, say “Thus mine enemy fell,
And thus I set my foot on 's neck;' even then

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The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats,
Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture
That acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal,
Once Arviragus, in as like a figure,
Strikes life into my speech and shows much more
His own conceiving.—Hark, the game is rous'd!--
O Cymbeline! heaven and my conscience knows
Thou didst unjustly banish me; whereon,
At three and two years old, I stole these babes,
Thinking to bar thee of succession, as
Thou reft'st me of my lands.—Euriphile,
Thou wast their nurse; they took thee for their mother,
And every day do honour to her grave:
Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan callid,
They take for natural father.—The game is up. [Exit.

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SCENE IV. Near Milford-Haven.

Enter PISANIO and IMOGEN. Imogen. Thou told'st me, when we came from horse, the

place Was near at hand.—Ne'er long’d my mother so To see me first, as I have now.—Pisanio! man! Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind, That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that sigh From the inward of thee? One, but painted thus, Would be interpreted a thing perplex'd Beyond self-explication; put thyself Into a haviour of less fear, ere wildness Vanquish my staider senses. What 's the matter? Why tender’st thou that paper to me, with A look untender? If 't be summer news, Smile to 't before; if winterly, thou need’st But keep that countenance still.—My husband's hand! That drug-damn'd Italy hath out-craftied him,

IO

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