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 shamed gilded arms, whose naked breast
Stepp’d before larges 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 promises 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’ the 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’ the 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 medicine 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 loved 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 lingering
By inches waste you: in which time she purposed,
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 the adoption of the crown:
CYMBELINE Heard you all this, her women?
First Lady 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
LEONATUS behind, and IMOGEN]
Thou comest not, Caius, now for tribute…
CAIUS 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 make bold your highness
Cannot deny; he hath done no Briton harm,
Though he have served 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.
CAIUS 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.
CAIUS LUCIUS The boy disdains me,
He leaves me, scorns me: briefly die their joys
That place them on the truth of girls and boys.
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 eyest 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 revived 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;
PISANIO [Aside] It is my mistress:
Since she is living, let the time run on
To good or bad.
[CYMBELINE and IMOGEN come forward]
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 LEONATUS [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 villany
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 lived
‘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!–it was in Rome,–accursed
The mansion where!–’twas at a feast,–O, would
Our viands had been poison’d, or at least
Those which I heaved 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 rarest 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 praised,–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-trolls, or his description
Proved us unspeaking sots.
CYMBELINE Nay, nay, to the 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 villanous. 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 practise 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; averting 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 LEONATUS [Advancing] Ay, so thou dost,
Italian fiend! Ay 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 Posthumus,
That kill’d thy daughter:–villain-like, I lie–
That caused 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’ the street to bay me: every villain
Be call’d Posthumus Leonitus; and
Be villany less than ’twas! O Imogen!
My queen, my life, my wife! O Imogen,
Imogen, Imogen!
IMOGEN Peace, my lord; hear, hear–
POSTHUMUS LEONATUS Shall’s have a play of this?
Thou scornful page,
There lie thy part.
[Striking her: she falls]
PISANIO O, gentlemen, help!
Mine and your mistress! O, my lord Posthumus!
You ne’er kill’d Imogen til now. Help, help!
Mine honour’d lady!
CYMBELINE Does the world go round?
POSTHUMUS LEONATUS
How come 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 thy mistress?
IMOGEN O, get thee from my sight;
Thou gavest 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.
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 served
As I would serve a rat.’
CORNELIUS 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 LEONATUS Hang there like a fruit,
my soul, Till the tree die!
CYMBELINE How now, my flesh, my child!
What, makest thou me a dullard in this act?
Wilt thou not speak to me?
IMOGEN [Kneeling] Your blessing, sir.
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 nought;
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,
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 enforced 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 bard 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: 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
Assumed 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 received 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:
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 received 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 shaped
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 pleased 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.
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
Rejoiced deliverance more. Blest pray you be,
That, after this strange starting from your orbs,
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 ye were so indeed.
CYMBELINE Did you e’er meet?
ARVIRAGUS Ay, my good lord.
GUIDERIUS And at first meeting loved;
CYMBELINE O rare instinct!
See, Posthumus anchors upon Imogen,
And she, like harmless lightning, throws her eye
On him, her brother, 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 My good master,
I will yet do you service.
CAIUS LUCIUS Happy be you!
CYMBELINE The forlorn soldier, that so nobly fought,
He would have well becomed this place, and graced
The thankings of a king.
POSTHUMUS LEONATUS 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 LEONATUS 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.
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 LEONATUS 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 waked, 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.
CAIUS LUCIUS Read, and declare the meaning.
Soothsayer [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 Leonatus, 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 revived,
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 Caesar,
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 powers above do tune
The harmony of this peace. The vision
Which I made known to Lucius, ere the stroke
Of this yet 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’ the sun
So vanish’d: which foreshow’d our princely eagle,
The imperial Caesar, 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 blest altars.
[Exeunt]
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