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

Stepped before targes 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 promised nought

But beggary and poor looks.

Cymbeline

No tidings of him?

Pisanio

He hath been searched 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 prolonged, 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 confessed

I will report, so please you: these her women

Can trip me, if I err; who with wet cheeks

Were present when she finished.

Cymbeline

Prithee, say.

Cornelius

First, she confessed she never loved you, only

Affected greatness got by you, not you:

Married your royalty, was wife to your place;

Abhorred 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:

But, failing of her end by his strange absence,

Grew shameless desperate; opened, in despite

Of heaven and men, her purposes, repented

The evils she hatched were not effected; so

Despairing died.

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 behind, and IMOGEN.

Thou comest not, Caius, now for tribute; that

The Britons have razed out, though with the loss

Of many a bold one; whose kinsmen have made suit

That their good souls may be appeased with slaughter

Of you their captives, which ourself have granted:

So think of your estate.

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 threatened

Our prisoners with the sword. But since the gods

Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives

May be called 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 ransomed: 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'll 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 looked 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.

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.

Lucius

The boy disdains me,

He leaves me, scorns me: briefly die their joys

That place them on the truth of girls and boys.

Why stands he so perplexed?

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;

Creatures may be alike: were't he, I am sure

He would have spoke to us.

Guiderius

But we saw him dead.

Belarius

Be silent; let's see further.

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

Aside

What's that to him?

Cymbeline

That diamond upon your finger, say

How came it yours?

Iachimo

Thou't torture me to leave unspoken that

Which, to be spoke, would torture thee.

Cymbeline

How! me?

Iachimo

I am glad to be constrained to utter that

Which torments me to conceal. By villainy

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 poisoned, 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 swelled 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 cracked of kitchen trulls, 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 wagered with him

Pieces of gold 'gainst this which then he wore

Upon his honoured 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 villainous. Being thus quenched

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 prevailed,

That I returned with simular proof enough

To make the noble Leonatus mad,

By wounding his belief in her renown

With tokens thus, and thus; averring notes

Of chamber-hanging, pictures, this her bracelet, —

O cunning, how I got't! — nay, some marks

Of secret on her person, that he could not

But think her bond of chastity quite cracked,

I having ta'en the forfeit. Whereupon —

Methinks, I see him now —

Posthumus

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 killed 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 called Posthumus Leonatus; and

Be villainy less than 'twas! O Imogen!

My queen, my life, my wife! O Imogen,

Imogen, Imogen!

Imogen

Peace, my lord; hear, hear —

Posthumus

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 killed Imogen till now. Help, help!

Mine honoured lady!

Cymbeline

Does the world go round?

Posthumus

How comes 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 my 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.

Cymbeline

New matter still?

Imogen

It poisoned me.

Cornelius

O gods!

I left out one thing which the queen confessed,

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.”

Cymbeline

What's this, Cornelius?

Cornelius

The queen, sir, very oft importuned me

To temper poisons for her, still pretending

The satisfaction of her knowledge only

In killing creatures vile, as cats and dogs,

Of no esteem: I, dreading that her purpose

Was of more danger, did compound for her

A certain stuff, which, being ta'en, would cease

The present power of life, but in short time

All offices of nature should again

Do their due functions. 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

Hang there like 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.

Belarius

To Guiderius and Arviragus

Though you did love this youth, I blame ye not;

You had a motive for't.

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 naught; 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; foamed at the mouth, and swore,

If I discovered not which way she was gone,

It was my instant death. By accident,

I 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 hard 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 sorrow for thee:

By thine own tongue thou art condemned, and must

Endure our law: thou'rt dead.

Imogen

That headless man

I thought had been my lord.

Cymbeline

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 called Belarius.

Cymbeline

What of him? he is

A banished traitor.

Belarius

He it is that hath

Assumed this age: indeed a banished 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 banished:

Your pleasure was my mere offence, my punishment

Itself, and all my treason; that I suffered

Was all the harm I did. These gentle princes —

For such and so they are — these twenty years

Have I trained 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 lapped

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,

You 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 called me brother,

When I was but your sister; I you brothers,

When we were so indeed.

Cymbeline

Did you e'er meet?

Arviragus

Ay, my good lord.

Guiderius

And at first meeting loved;

Continued so, until we thought he died.

Cornelius

By the queen's dram she swallowed.

Cymbeline

O rare instinct!

When shall I hear all through? This fierce abridgement

Hath to it circumstantial branches, which

Distinction should be rich in. Where? how lived 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-dependencies,

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 ever.

Imogen

You are my father too, and did relieve me,

To see this gracious season.

Cymbeline

All o'erjoyed,

Save these in bonds: let them be joyful too,

For they shall taste our comfort.

Imogen

My good master,

I will yet do you service.

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

I am, sir,

The soldier that did company these three

In poor beseeming; 'twas a fitment for

The purpose I then followed. 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

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 doomed!

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;

Joyed are we that you are.

Posthumus

Your servant, princes. Good my lord of Rome,

Call forth your soothsayer: as I slept, methought

Great Jupiter, upon his eagle backed,

Appeared to me, with other sprightly 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.

Lucius

Philarmonus!

Soothsayer

Here, my good lord.

Lucius

Read, and declare the meaning.

Soothsayer

Reads

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 clipped about

With this most tender air.

Cymbeline

This hath some seeming.

Soothsayer

The lofty cedar, royal Cymbeline,

Personates thee: and thy lopped branches point

Thy two sons forth; who, by Belarius stol'n,

For many years thought dead, are now revived,

To the majestic cedar joined, 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 yet this scarce-cold battle, at this instant

Is full accomplished; for the Roman eagle,

From south to west on wing soaring aloft,

Lessened herself, and in the beams o' the sun

So vanished: which foreshowed 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. Publish we this peace

To all our subjects. Set we forward: let

A Roman and a British ensign wave

Friendly together: so through Lud's-town march:

And in the temple of great Jupiter

Our peace we'll ratify; seal it with feasts.

Set on there! Never was a war did cease,

Ere bloody hands were washed, with such a peace. Exeunt.