Imagens das páginas

'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.



A prison.

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;

* Petters.

Though light, take pieces for the figure's sake:
You rather mine, being yours: And so, great powers,
If you will take this audit, take this life,
And cancel these cold bonds. O Imogen!
I'll speak to thee in silence,

[He sleeps.

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 :
With Mars fall out, with Juno chide,
That thy adulteries

Rates and revenges.
Hath my poor boy done aught but well,

Whose face I never saw ?
I died, whilst in the womb he staid

Attending nature's law.
Whose father then (as men report,

Thou orphans' father art),
Thou shouldst have been, and shielded him

From this earth-vexing smart.
Moth. Lucina lent not me her aid,

But took me in my throes:
That from me was Posthumus ript;
Came crying 'mongst his foes,

A thing of pity!
Sici. Great nature, like his ancestry,
Moulded the stuff so fair,

• 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.
1 Bro. When once he was mature for man,

In Britain where was he
That could stand up his parallel;

Or fruitful object be
In eye of Imogen, that best

Could deem his dignity?
Moth. With marriage wherefore was he mock'd,

To be exil'd and thrown
From Leonati' seat, and cast
From her his dearest one,

Sweet Imogen?
Sici. Why did you suffer Iachimo.

Slight thing of Italy,
To taint his nobler heart and brain

With needless jealousy;
And to become the geck and scorn

O'the other's villainy?
2 Bro. For this, from stiller seats we came,

Our parents, and us twain,
That, striking in our country's cause,

Fell bravely, and were slain;
Our fealty, and Tenantius' right,

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
The graces for his merits due;

Being all to dolours turn'd?
Sici Thy crystal window ope; look out;

No longer exercise,
Upon a valiant race, thy harsh

And potent injuries :
Moth. Since, Jupiter, our sou is good,

Take off his miseries.

• The fool.

Sici. Peep through thy marble mansion ; help!

Or we poor ghosts will cry
To the shining synod of the rest,

Against thy deity.
2 Bro. Help, Jupiter; or we appeal,

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:
And so, away: no further with your din

Express impatience, lest you stir up mine.
Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline.

Sici. He came in thunder; his celestial breath
Was sulphurous to smell: the holy eagle
Stoop'd, as to foot us: his ascension is
More sweet than our bless'd fields: his royal bird
Prunes the immortal wing, and cloys his beak,
As when his god is pleas'd.

Thanks, Jupiter ! VOL. VII.

« AnteriorContinuar »