Gui. No exorciser harm thee!
Arv. Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Gui. Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Arv. Nothing ill come near thee!
Both. And renowned be thy grave!
S Quiet consummation have;
Re-enter BELARIUS, with the body of CLOTEN.

Gui. We have done our obsequies. Come, lay him down.

Bel. Here's a few flowers, but 'bout midnight

more:

The herbs that have on them cold dew o' the night,
Are strewings fitt'st for graves.—Upon their faces.-
You were as flowers, now wither'd; even so
These herb'lets shall, which we upon you strew.-
Come on, away; apart upon our knees.
The ground that gave them first has them again:
Their pleasures here are past, so is their pain.
[Exeunt BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS.
Imo. [Awaking.] Yes, sir, to Milford-Haven ;
which is the way?-

I thank you. By yond' bush?-Pray, how far thither?

'Ods pittikins!-can it be six miles yet?— I have gone all night:-'faith, I'll lie down and sleep. But, soft! no bedfellow.-O, gods and goddesses! [Seeing the body. These flowers are like the pleasures of the world; This bloody man, the care on't.-I hope I dream, For so I thought I was a cave-keeper, And cook to honest creatures; but 'tis not so: 'Twas but a bolt of nothing, shot at nothing, Which the brain makes of fumes. Our very eyes Are sometimes like our judgments, blind. faith,

Good

I tremble still with fear; but if there be
Yet left in heaven as small a drop of pity
As a wren's eye, fear'd gods, a part of it!
The dream's here still; even when I wake, it is
Without me, as within me; not imagin'd, felt.
A headless man!-The garment of Posthumus!
I know the shape of 's leg: this is his hand;
His foot Mercurial; his Martial thigh;
The brawns of Hercules: but his Jovial face-
Murder in heaven!-How?-'Tis gone.-Pisanio,
All curses madded Hecuba gave the Greeks,
And mine to boot, be darted on thee! Thou,
Conspir'd with that irregulous devil, Cloten,
Hast here cut off my lord.-To write, and read,
Be henceforth treacherous!-Damn'd Pisanio
Hath with his forged letters,-damn'd Pisanio-
From this most bravest vessel of the world
Struck the main-top!-O, Posthumus! alas,
Where is thy head? where's that? Ah me! where's
that?

Pisanio might have kill'd thee at the heart,

And left this head on.-How should this be? Pisanio!
"Tis he, and Cloten: malice and lucre in them
Have laid this woe here. O! 'tis pregnant, pregnant.
The drug he gave me, which, he said, was precious
And cordial to me, have I not found it
Murderous to the senses? That confirms it home:
This is Pisanio's deed, and Cloten: O!-
Give colour to my pale cheek with thy blood,
That we the horrider may seem to those
Which chance to find us. O, my lord, my lord!

Enter LUCIUS, a Captain, and other Officers, and a

Soothsayer.

Cap. To them the legions garrison'd in Gallia,

one,

Inform us of thy fortunes; for, it seems,
They crave to be demanded. Who is this,
Thou mak'st thy bloody pillow? Or who was he,
That, otherwise than noble nature did,
Hath alter'd that good picture? What's thy interest
In this sad wreck? How came it? Who is it?
What art thou?

Imo.
I am nothing or if not,
Nothing to be were better. This was my master,
A very valiant Briton, and a good,

That here by mountaineers lies slain.-Alas!
There are no more such masters: I may wander
From east to occident, cry out for service,
Try many, all good, serve truly, never
Find such another master.

Luc.
'Lack, good youth!
Thou mov'st no less with thy complaining, than
Thy master in bleeding. Say his name, good friend.
Imo. Richard du Champ. [Aside.] If I do lie,

and do

Fidele, sir.

Luc. Thou dost approve thyself the very same: Thy name well fits thy faith; thy faith, thy name. Wilt take thy chance with me? I will not say, Thou shalt be so well master'd, but, be sure, No less belov'd. The Roman emperor's letters, Sent by a consul to me, should not sooner, Than thine own worth, prefer thee: go with me. Imo. I'll follow, sir. But first, an 't please the gods, I'll hide my master from the flies, as deep As these poor pickaxes can dig: and when With wild wood-leaves and weeds 1 have strewed

SCENE III.-A Room in CYMBELINE'S Palace.
Enter CYMBELINE, Lords, and PISANIO.
Cym. Again; and bring me word how 'tis with
her.

A fever with the absence of her son;

A madness, of which her life's in danger.Heavens,

How deeply you at once do touch me! Imogen,
The great part of my comfort, gone; my queen
Upon a desperate bed, and in a time

When fearful wars points at me; her son gone,
So needful for this present: it strikes me, past
The hope of comfort.-But for thee, fellow,
Who needs must know of her departure, and
Dost seem so ignorant, we'll enforce it from thee
By a sharp torture.
Pis.

Sir, my life is yours,

I humbly set it at your will; but, for my mis

To yield me often tidings; neither know I
What is betid to Cloten, but remain
Perplex'd in all: the heavens still must work.
Wherein I am false, I am honest; not true, to be

true:

These present wars shall find I love my country,
Even to the note o' the king, or I'll fall in them.
All other doubts by time let them be clear'd;
Fortune brings in some boats that are not steer'd.
[Exit.

Bel.
We'll higher to the mountains; there secure us.
To the king's party there's no going: newness
Of Cloten's death (we being not known, not
muster'd

Among the bands) may drive us to a render
Where we have liv'd; and so extort from 's that
Which we have done, whose answer would be
death
Drawn on with torture.
Gui.

This is, sir, a doubt,
In such a time nothing becoming you,
Nor satisfying us.

Arv.

It is not likely,

Of many in the army: many years,
Though Cloten then but young, you see, not wore
him

From my remembrance: and, besides, the king
Hath not deserv'd my service, nor your loves,
Who find in my exile the want of breeding,
The certainty of this hard life; aye, hopeless
To have the courtesy your cradle promis'd,
But to be still hot summer's tanlings, and
The shrinking slaves of winter.
Gui.
Than be so,
Better to cease to be. Pray, sir, to the army:
I and my brother are not known; yourself,
So out of thought, and thereto so o'ergrown,
Cannot be question'd.

Arv.

By this sun that shines, I'll thither what thing is't, that I never Did see man die? scarce ever look'd on blood, But that of coward hares, hot goats, and ven

ison?

Never bestrid a horse, save one that had

A rider like myself, who ne'er wore rowel,
Nor iron, on his heel? I am asham'd
To look upon the holy sun, to have
The benefit of his bless'd beams, remaining
So long a poor unknown.

SCENE 1.-A Field between the British and Roman Camps.

Enter POSTHUMUS, with a bloody handkerchief.

Post. Yea, bloody cloth, I'll keep thee; for I wish'd
Thou should'st be colour'd thus. You married ones,
If each of you should take this course, how many
Must murder wives much better than themselves,
For wrying but a little?-O, Pisanio!
Every good servant does not all commands;
No bond, but to do just ones.-Gods! if you
Should have ta'en vengeance on my faults, I never
Had liv'd to put on this: so had you saved
The noble Imogen to repent, and struck
Me, wretch, more worth your vengeance. But,
alack!

You snatch some hence for little faults; that's love,
To have them fall no more: you some permit
To second ills with ills, each elder worse;
And make them dread it, to the doer's thrift.
But Imogen is your own: do your best wills,
And make me bless'd to obey!-I am brought hither
Among the Italian gentry, and to fight
Against my lady's kingdom: 'tis enough
That, Britain, I have kill'd thy mistress; peace!
I'll give no wound to thee. Therefore, good heavens,
Hear patiently my purpose. I'll disrobe me
Of these Italian weeds, and suit myself
As does a Briton peasant: so I'll fight
Against the part I come with; so I'll die
For thee, O Imogen! even for whom my life
Is, every breath, a death: and thus unknown,
Pitied nor hated, to the face of peril
Myself I'll dedicate. Let me make men know
More valour in me, than my habits show.
Gods, put the strength o' the Leonati in me!

To shame the guise o' the world, I will begin
The fashion, less without, and more within. [Exit.

SCENE II.-The Same.

Enter at one side, LUCIUS, IACHIMO, and the Roman Army: at the other side, the British Army; LEONATUS POSTHUMUS following like a poor soldier. They march over and go out. Alarums. Then enter again in skirmish, IACHIMO and PosTHUMUS: he vanquisheth and disarmeth IACHIMO, and then leaves him.

Iach. The heaviness and guilt within my bosom Takes off my manhood: I have belied a lady, The princess of this country, and the air on't Revengingly enfeebles me; or could this carl, A very drudge of nature's, have subdu'd me In my profession? Knighthoods and honours, borne As I wear mine, are titles but of scorn. If that thy gentry, Britain, go before This lout, as he exceeds our lords, the odds Is, that we scarce are men, and you are gods.

[Exit.

The Battle continues: the Britons fly; CYMBELINE is taken: then enter, to his rescue, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS.

Bel. Stand, stand! We have the advantage of the ground.

The lane is guarded: nothing routs us, but
The villany of our fears.
Gui. Arv.

Stand, stand, and fight'

Enter POSTHUMUS, and seconds the Britons; they rescue CYMBELINE, and exeunt: then, enter LuCIUS, IACHIMO, and IMOGEN.

Post. No blame be to you, sir; for all was lost,
But that the heavens fought. The king himself
Of his wings destitute, the army broken,
And but the backs of Britons seen, all flying
Through a strait lane: the enemy full-hearted,
Lolling the tongue with slaughtering, having work
More plentiful than tools to do't, struck down
Some mortally, some slightly touch'd, some falling
Merely through fear; that the strait pass was damm'd
With dead men hurt behind, and cowards living
To die with lengthen'd shame.
Lord.
Where was this lane?
Post. Close by the battle, ditch'd, and wall'd with
turf;

Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier,
An honest one, I warrant; who deserv'd
So long a breeding, as his white beard came to,
In doing this for 's country: athwart the lane,
He, with two striplings, (lads more like to run
The country base, than to commit such slaughter;
With faces fit for masks, or rather fairer
Than those for preservation cas'd, or shame,)
Made good the passage; cry'd to those that fled,
"Our Britain's harts die flying, not our men:
To darkness fleet, souls that fly backwards! Stand;
Or we are Romans, and will give you that
Like beasts, which you shun beastly, and may save,
But to look back in frown: stand, stand!"-These
three,

Three thousand confident, in act as many,
(For three performers are the file, when all

The rest do nothing,) with this word, "stand, stand!" Accommodated by the place, more charming, With their own nobleness, (which could have turn'd A distaff to a lance,) gilded pale looks

Part shame, part spirit renew'd; that some, turn'd coward

But by example (O, a sin in war,

Damn'd in the first beginners!) 'gan to look
The way that they did, and to grin like lions
Upon the pikes o' the hunters. Then began
A stop i' the chaser, a retire; anon,

A rout, confusion thick: forthwith they fly,
Chickens, the way which they stoop'd eagles; slaves,
The strides they victors made. And now our cowards
(Like fragments in hard voyages) became
The life o' the need: having found the back-door open
Of the unguarded hearts, Heavens, how they wound!
Some slain before; some dying; some, their friends,
O'er-borne i' the former wave: ten chas'd by one,
Are now each one the slaughter-man of twenty:
Those that would die or ere resist are grown
The mortal bugs o' the field.
Lord.
This was strange chance:
A narrow lane, an old man, and two boys!
Post. Nay, do not wonder at it: you are made
Rather to wonder at the things you hear,
Than to work any. Will you rhyme upon't,
And vent it for a mockery? Here is one:
"Two boys, an old man twice a boy, a lane,
Preserv'd the Britons, was the Romans' bane."
Lord. Nay, be not angry, sir.
Post.

'Lack! to what end? Who dares not stand his foe, I'll be his friend;