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'Tis strange, he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds, Sweet words, or hath more ministers than we That draw his knives i'the war.- Well, I will find
him : For being now a favourer to the Roman, No more a Briton, I have resum'd again The part I came in: Fight I will no more Put yield me to the veriest bind, that shall Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is, Here made by the Roman ; great the answer be Britons must take; For me, my ransome's death; On either side I come to spend my breath; Which neither here I'll keep, nor bear again, But end it by some means for Imogen.
Enter two British Captains, and Soldiers. 1 Cap. Great Jupiter be prais'd! Lucius is taken: 'Tis thought, the old man and his sons were angels.
2 Cap. There was a fourth man, in a silly habit, That gave the affront* with them. 1 Cap.
So 'tis reported: But none of them can be found.-Stand! who is
there? Post. A Roman; Who had uot now been drooping here, if seconds Had answer'd him. 2 Cap.
Lay hands on him ; a dog! A leg of Rome shall not return to tell, What crows bave peck'd them here. He brags his
service As if he were of note: bring him to the king.
Enter Cymbelide, atlended; Belarius, Guiderius,
Arviragus, Pisanio, and Roman captives. The Captains present Posthumus to Cymbeline, who deliver's him over to a Gaoler': after which, all go out.
Enter Posthumus, and two Gaolers. 1 Gaol. You shall not now be stolen, you have
locks upon you; So, graze, as you find pasture. 2 Gaol.
Ay, or a stomach.
(Ereunt Gaolers. Post. Most welcome, bondage! for thou art a way, I think, to liberty : Yet am I better Than one that's sick o'the gout: since he had rather Groan so in perpetuity, than be cur'd By the sure physician, death; who is the key To unbar these locks. My conscience! thou art fet.
ter'd More than my shanks, and wrists: You good gods,
give me The penitent instrument, to pick that bolt, Then, free for ever! Is't enough, I am sorry? So children temporal fathers do appease; Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent? I cannot do it better than in gyves, Desir'd, more than constrain'd: to satisfy, If of my freedom 'tis the main part, take No stricter render of me, than my all. I know, you are more clement than vile men, Who of their broken debtors take a third, A sixth, a teuth, letting them thrive again . On their abatement; that's not my desire: For Imogen's dear life, take mine; and though 'Tis not so dear, yet 'tis a life; you coin'd it: 'Tween man and man, they weigh not every stamp;
Though light, take pieces for the figure's sake:
Solemn musick. Enter, as an apparition, Sicili. us Leonatus, father to Posthumus, an old man, attired like a warrior; leading in his hand an ancient Matron, his wife, and mother to Posthumus, with musick before them. Then, after other musick, follow the two young Leonati, brother's to Posthumus, with wounds, as they died in the wars. They circle Posthumus round, as he lies sleeping.
Sici. No more, thou thunder-master, show
Thy spite on mortal flies :
Rates and revenges.
Whose face I never saw ?
Attending nature's law.
Thou orphans' father art),
From this earth-vexing smart.
But took me in my throes:
A thing of pity!
• This Scene is supposed not to be Shakspeare's, but foisted in by the Players for mere show.
That he deserv'd the praise o’the world,
As great Sicilius' heir.
In Britain where was he
Or fruitful object be
Could deem his dignity?
To be exil'd and thrown
Slight thing of Italy,
With needless jealousy;
O'the other's villainy?
Our parents, and us twain,
Fell bravely, and were slain;
With honour to maintain. 1 Bro. Like hardiment Posthumus hath
To Cymbeline perform’d: Then Jupiter, thou king of gods,
Why bast thou thus adjourn'd
Being all to dolours turn'd?
No longer exercise,
And potent injuries :
Take off his miseries.
• The fool.
Sici. Peep through thy marble mansion ; help!
Or we poor ghosts will cry
Against thy deity.
And from thy justice fiy.
Jupiter descends in thunder and lightning, sit.
ting upon an Eagle; he throws a thunderbolt. The Ghosts fall on their knees.
Jup. No more, you petty spirits of region low,
Offend our hearing; hush !-How dare you ghosts, Accuse the thunderer, whose bolt you know,
Sky-planted, batters all rebelling coasts? Poor shadows of Elysium, hence: and rest
U pou your never-withering banks of flowers : Be not with mortal accidents opprest;
No care of yours it is, you know, 'tis ours. Whom best I love, I cross; to make my gift,
The more delay'd, delighted. Be content; Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift:
His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent. Our Jovial star reign'd at his birth, and in
Our temple was he married-Rise, and fade! He shall be lord of lady Imogen,
And happier much by his affliction made. This tablet lay upon his breast; wherein
Our pleasure his full fortune doth confine:
Express impatience, lest you stir up mine.
Thanks, Jupiter ! VOL. VII.