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.

Imo.

I humbly thank your Highness. Luc. I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad, And yet I know thou wilt.

Imo.
There's other work in hand.

Bitter to me as death.
Must shuffle for itself.

Luc.

No, no; alack!

I see a thing
Your life, good master,

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 perplex'd?

What would'st thou, boy?

Cym. 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

vassal,

Am something nearer.

Cym.

Imo. I'll tell you,

To give me hearing.

Cym.

born your

Wherefore ey'st him so?

sir, in private, if you please

Ay, with all my heart,

And lend my best attention. What's thy name?

Imo. Fidele, sir.

Сут.
I'll be thy master: walk with me; speak freely.

Thou art my good youth, my page;

[CYMBELINE and IMOGEN converse apart.

Bel. Is not this boy reviv'd from death?

Arv.

One sand another

What think you?

Not more resembles that sweet rosy lad,

Who died, and was Fidele.

Gui. The same dead thing alive.

Bel. Peace, peace! see farther; he eyes us not;

forbear.

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

He would have spoke to us.

Gui.

Bel. Be silent; let's see farther.

Pis.

But we saw him dead.

[Aside.] It is my mistress!

Since she is living, let the time run on,

To good or bad.

Cym.

[CYMBELINE and IMOGEN come forward.

Come, stand thou by our side:

Make thy demand aloud. Sir, [to IACHIмO.] 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.

Imo. My boon is, that this gentleman may render Of whom he had this ring.

Post.

[Aside.] What's that to him? Cym. That diamond upon your finger, say,

How came it yours?

Iach. Thou'lt torture me to leave unspoken that

Which, to be spoke, would torture thee.

Cym.

How! me?

Iach. I am glad to be constrain'd to utter that

Which torments me to conceal. By villainy

I got this ring: 'twas Leonatus' jewel;

Whom thou did'st banish; and (which more may

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
The mansion where !) 'twas at a feast, (0, would
Our viands had been poison'd, or at least
Those which I heav'd 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 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:

(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 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 th' 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'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 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
Of chamber-hanging, pictures, this her bracelet,
(0 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,

Post.

Italian fiend!

Ay, so thou do'st,

[Coming forward.

-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 th' abhorred things o' th' Earth amend,
By being worse than they. I am Posthumus,
That kill'd thy daughter:-villain-like, I lie;
That caus'd 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' th' street to bay me: every villain
Be call'd, Posthumus Leonatus, and

Be villainy less than 'twas! O Imogen!
My queen, my life, my wife! O Imogen,
Imogen, Imogen!

Imo.

Peace, my lord! hear, hear! — Post. Shall's have a play of this? Thou scornful

page,

There lie thy part.

Pis.

[Striking her she falls.

O, gentlemen, help!

Mine and your mistress!-0, my lord Posthumus! You ne'er kill'd Imogen till now. Help, help!

Cym. If this be so, the gods do mean to strike me

To death with mortal joy.