Cym.

What would'st 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?
Imo. He is a Roman; no more kin to me,
Than I to your highness; who, being born your
vassal,
Am something nearer.
Cym.

Wherefore ey'st 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 best attention. What's thy name? Imo. Fidele, sir. Cym. Thou art my good youth, my page; I'll be thy master: Walk with me; speak freely. [CYMBELINE and IMOGEN converse apart. Bel. Is not this boy reviv'd from death? Arv. One sand another Not more resembles: That sweet rosy lad, Who died, and was Fidele: What think you? Gui. The same dead thing alive.

Bel. 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.

Gui.
But we saw him dead.
Bel. Be silent; let's see further.
Pis.

Since she is living, let the time run on, To good, or bad.

It is my mistress: [Aside.

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 Posthúmus,
(What should I say? he was too good, to be
Where ill men were; and was the best of all
Among'st 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: —

Cym.

I stand on fire:

Come to the matter.
Iach.
All too soon I shall,
Unless thou would'st grieve quickly. · This Post-
húmus,

(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

grieve thee,

As it doth me,) a nobler sir ne'er liv'd

'Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou hear more, my lord?

Cym. All that belongs to this. Iach. That paragon, thy daughter, For whom my heart drops blood, and my false spirits Quail to remember, Give me leave; I faint. Cym. My daughter! what of her? Renew thy strength:

I had rather thou should'st live while nature will, Than die ere I hear more: strive, man, and speak. Iach. Upon a time, (unhappy was the clock That struck the hour!) it was in Rome, (accurs'd

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.

Cym.

Nay, nay, to the purpose. Iach. 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 his 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 his 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

Ay, so thou dost [Coming forward. Italian fiend! - Ah me, most credulous fool, Egregious murderer, thief, any thing 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 the abhorred things o'the earth amend,
By being worse than they. I am Posthúmus,

Cym.

Nursing of my sons? Bel. 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.

Cym.

How! my issue?

Bel. 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.

Cym. 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.

Bel. Be pleas'd awhile. This gentleman, whom I call Polydore, Most worthy prince, as yours, is true Guiderius: This gentleman, my Cadwal, Arvirágus, 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.

Cym.

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

Bel.

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.

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-dependancies,

From chance to chance; but nor the time, nor place,
Will serve our long intergatories. See,
Posthúmus 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.
Thou art my brother; So we'll hold thee ever.
[TO BELARIUS
Imo. You are my father too; and did relieve me,
To see this gracious season.

Cym.

All o'erjoy'd,
Save these in bonds; let them be joyful too,

For they shall taste our comfort.
Imo.

My good master,

I will yet do you service.

Luc.

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

Post.

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.

Iach. I am down again: [Kneeling. 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.

Post.

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.

Cym.

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

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

Good my lord o

Post. Your servant, princes. Rome, Call forth your soothsayer: As I slept, methought, Great Jupiter, upon his eagle back, 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.

Luc.

Philarmonus,

Sooth. Here, my good lord. Luc. Read, and declare the meaning. Sooth. [Reads.] When as 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 :
The piece of tender air, thy virtuous daughter,
[To CYMBELINE.

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.

Cym. This hath some seeming. Sooth. The lofty cedar, royal Cymbeline, Personates thee: and thy lopp'd branches point Thy two sons forth: who, by Belarius stolen, For many years thought dead, are now reviv'd, To the majestick cedar join'd; whose issue Promises Britain peace and plenty.