CYMBELINE. ACT I. SCENE I. Britain. The garden of CYMBELINE's palace. Enter two Gentlemen. First Gent. You do not meet a man but frowns: our bloods No more obey the heavens than our courtiers Still seem as does the king. (1) Sec. Gent. But what's the matter? First Gent. His daughter, and the heir of 's kingdom, whom He purpos'd to his wife's sole son—a widow That late he married-hath referr'd(2) herself Unto(3) a poor but worthy gentleman: she's wedded; Is outward sorrow; though, I think, the king Be touch'd at very heart. Sec. Gent. None but the king? First Gent. He that hath lost her too: so is the queen, That most desir'd the match: but not a courtier, Although they wear their faces to the bent Of the king's looks, hath a heart that is not Sec. Gent. And why so? First Gent. He that hath miss'd the princess is a thing Too bad for bad report: and he that hath her I mean, that married her, alack, good man! First Gent. I do extend him, sir, within himself; Crush him together, rather than unfold His measure duly. Sec. Gent. What's his name and birth? First Gent. I cannot delve him to the root: his father Was call'd Sicilius, who did join(5) his honour, Against the Romans, with Cassibelan; But had his titles by Tenantius, whom He serv'd with glory and admir'd success,— So gain'd the sur-addition Leonatus : And had, besides this gentleman in question, Two other sons, who, in the wars o' the time, Died with their swords in hand; for which their father, That he quit being; and his gentle lady, To his protection; calls him Posthumus Leonatus ;(6) Even out of your report. But, pray you, tell me, First Gent. His only child. He had two sons,-if this be worth your hearing, I' the swathing-clothes the other, from their nursery Sec. Gent. How long is this ago? First Gent. Some twenty years. Sec. Gent. That a king's children should be so convey'd ! So slackly guarded! and the search so slow, That could not trace them! First Gent. Howsoe'er 'tis strange, Or that the negligence may well be laugh'd at, First Gent. We must forbear: here comes the gentle man, The queen, and princess. Enter the Queen, POSTHUMUS, and IMOGEN. [Exeunt. Queen. No, be assur'd you shall not find me, daughter, After the slander of most stepmothers, Evil-ey'd unto you: you're my prisoner, but Your gaoler shall deliver you the keys That lock up your restraint.-For you, Posthúmus, I will be known your advocate: marry, yet You lean'd unto his sentence with what patience Post. I will from hence to-day. The Queen. Please your highness, You know the peril.— I'll fetch a turn about the garden, pitying [Exit. Imo. Dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant Can tickle where she wounds !-My dearest husband, His rage can do on me: you must be gone; Post. My queen! my mistress! Than doth become a man! I will remain Who to my father was a friend, to me Known but by letter: thither write, my queen, Queen. Re-enter Queen. Be brief, I pray you: If the king come, I shall incur I know not How much of his displeasure.-[Aside] Yet I'll move him But he does buy my injuries, to be friends; Post. Should we be taking leave As long a term as yet we have to live, The loathness to depart would grow. Adieu! Imo. Nay, stay a little : Were you but riding forth to air yourself, When Imogen is dead. Post. How, how! another? You gentle gods, give me but this I have, And sear up my embracements(7) from a next [Exit. With bonds of death!-Remain, remain thou here [Putting on the ring. While sense can keep it on!(8) And, sweetest, fairest, As I my poor self did exchange for you, I still win of you: for my sake wear this; Upon this fairest prisoner. Imo. [Putting a bracelet upon her arm. O the gods! When shall we see again ?(9) Post. Alack, the king! Enter CYMBELINE and Lords. Cym. Thou basest thing, avoid! hence, from my sight! If after this command thou fraught the court With thy unworthiness, thou diest: away! Post. The gods protect you! [Exit. And bless the good remainders of the court! I'm gone. Imo. There cannot be a pinch in death More sharp than this is. Сут. O disloyal thing, That shouldst repair my youth, thou heapest A year's age on me !(10) Imo. I beseech you, sir, Harm not yourself with your vexation : I'm senseless of your wrath; a touch more rare Subdues all pangs, all fears. Past grace? obedience? Cym. Imo. Past hope, and in despair; that way, past grace. Cym. That mightst have had the sole son of my queen! Imo. O bless'd, that I might not! I chose an eagle, And did avoid a puttock. Cym. Thou took'st a beggar; wouldst have made my throne |