Cor.

Hail, great king!

To sour your happiness, I must report

The queen is dead.

Cym.
Whom worse than a physician
Would this report become? But I consider,
By medicine life may be prolong'd, yet death
Will seize the doctor too.-How ended she?

Cor. With horror, madly dying, like her life;
Which, being cruel to the world, concluded
Most cruel to herself. What she confess'd,
I will report, so please you: These her women
Can trip me, if I err; who, with wet cheeks,
Were present when she finish'd.

Cym.

Pr'ythee, say.

Cor. First, she confess'd she never lov'd you; only Affected greatness got by you, not you:

Married your royalty, was wife to your place;

Abhorr'd your person.

Сут.

She alone knew this:

And, but she spoke it dying, I would not

Believe her lips in opening it. Proceed.

Cor. Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to love

With such integrity, she did confess

Was as a scorpion to her sight; whose life,

But that her flight prevented it, she had

Ta'en off by poison.

Cym.

O most delicate fiend!

Who is't can read a woman?-Is there more?

Cor. More, sir, and worse. She did confess, she had

For you a mortal mineral: which, being took,

Should by the minute feed on life, and, ling'ring,
By inches waste you: In which time she purpos'd,
By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to
O'ercome you with her show: yes, and in time,
(When she had fitted you with her craft,) to work

bore in hand to love ] i. e. insidiously taught to depend on her love.

Her son into the adoption of the crown.
But failing of her end by his strange absence,
Grew shameless-desperate; open'd, in despite
Of heaven and men, her purposes; repented
The evils she hatch'd were not effected; so,
Despairing, died.

Cym.

Heard you all this, her women? Lady. We did so, please your highness.

Cym.

Were not in fault, for she was beautiful;

Mine eyes

Mine ears, that heard her flattery; nor my heart,

That thought her like her seeming: it had been vicious, To have mistrusted her: yet, O my daughter!

That it was folly in me, thou may'st say,

And prove it in thy feeling. Heaven mend all!

Enter LUCIUS, IACHIMO, the Soothsayer, and other
Roman Prisoners, guarded; POSTHUMUS behind, and
IMOGEN.

Thou com'st not, Caius, now for tribute; that
The Britons have raz'd out, though with the loss
Of many a bold one; whose kinsmen have made suit,
That their good souls may be appeas'd with slaughter
Of you their captives, which ourself have granted:
So, think of your estate.

Luc. Consider, sir, the chance of war: the day
Was yours by accident; had it gone
with us,

We should not, when the blood was cool, have threaten'd

Our prisoners with the sword. But since the gods

Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives
May be call'd ransome, let it come: sufficeth,
A Roman with a Roman's heart can suffer:
Augustus lives to think on't: and so much
For my peculiar care. This one thing only
I will entreat; My boy, a Briton born,
Let him be ransom'd: never master had
A page so kind, so duteous, diligent,

So tender over his occasions, true,

So feat, so nurse-like: let his virtue join

With my request, which, I'll make bold, your highness
Cannot deny; he hath done no Briton harm,

Though he have serv'd a Roman: save him, sir,
And spare no blood beside.

Cym.

His favour is familiar? to me.

I have surely seen him:

Boy, thou hast look'd thyself into my grace,

And art mine own.-I know not why, nor wherefore,
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.

No, no: alack,

There's other work in hand; I see a thing
Bitter to me as death; your life, good master,
Must shuffle for itself.

Luc.

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?

Cym.

What would'st thou, boy?

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 your vassal, Am something nearer.

8 So feat,] So ready; so dexterous in waiting.

9 His favour is familiar —] I am acquainted with his countenance. 1 I know not why, nor wherefore,

To say, live, boy:] I know not what should induce me to say, live, boy.

Cym.

Wherefore ey'st him so?

Imo. I'll tell you, sir, in private, if you please

To give me hearing.

Cym.

And lend my best attention.

Imo. Fidele, sir.

Cym.

Thou art, my good youth, my page;

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

[CYMBELINE and IMOGEN converse apart.

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

One sand another

Arv.
Not more resembles: That sweet rosy lad,
Who died, and was Fidele:- What think you?
Gui. The same dead thing alive.

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

bear;

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

He would have spoke to us.

Gui.

Bel. Be silent; let's see further.
Pis.

But we saw him dead.

It is my mistress:

[Aside.

Since she is living, let the time run on,

To good, or bad.

Сут.

[CYMBELINE and IMOGEN come forward. Come, stand thou by our side;

Make thy demand aloud.-Sir, [to IACH.] 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.

What's that to him?

[Aside.

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 didst 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 remember2,-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, (O 'would
Our viands had been poison'd! or, at least,
Those which I heav'd to head!) the good Posthúmus,
(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:

Сут.

Come to the matter.

I stand on fire:

2 Quail to remember,] To quail, is to sink into dejection.