Imagens das páginas

Oh, master! what a strange infection
Is fallen into thine ear? What false Italian,
As poisonous tongu'd, as handed, hath prevail'd
On thy too ready hearing i-Disloyal ? No:
She's punish'd for her truth; and undergoes,
More goddess-like than wife-like, such assaults,
As would take in some virtue.-Oh, my master!
Thy mind to her is now as low, as were
Thy fortunes.-How! that I should murder her?..
Upon the love, and truth, and vows, which I
Have made to thy command ?-I, her ?--her bloodi.
If it be so to do good service, never
Let me be counted serviceable. How look I,
That I should seem to lack humanity,
So much as this fact comes to ? [Reading the Letter.
Do't: The letter,
That I have sent her, by her own command
Shall give thee opportunity :-Oh, damn'd paper!.
Black as the ink that's on thee!
Lo, here she comes.

I am ignorant in what I am commanded.

Imog. How now, Pisanio ?
Pisanio. Madam, here is a letter from my lord.
Imog. Who? thy lord ? that is my lord ? Leona-

[Imogen takes the Letter,
Oh, learn'd indeed were that astronomer,
That knew the stars, as I his characters;
He'd lay the future open.—You good gods,
Let what is here contain'd relish of love,
Of my lord's health, of his content!
Good wax, thy leave:--Bless'd be,
You bees, thai make these locks of counsel !
Good news, gods !

[Reading.] Justice, and your father's wrath, should - he take me in his dominions, could not be so cruel to me,

as you, Oh, the dearest of creatures, would not even renew me with your eyes. Take notice, that I am in Cambria, at Milford Haven : What your own love will, out of this, advise you, follow. So, he wishes you all happiness, that remains loyal to his vow, and your, increasing in love,


O, for a horse with wings! Hear'st thou, Pisanio?
He is at Milford Haven: Read, and tell me
How far 'tis thither. If one of mean affairs
May plod it in a week, why may not I
Glide thither in a day :--Then, true Pisanio,
How far is i:
To this same blessed Milford ?
How may we steal from hence ?
I pr’ythee, speak,
How many score of miles may we well ride
"Twixt hour and hour?

Pisanio. One score, 'twixt sun and sun,
Madam, is enough for you; and too much too.

Imog. Why, one that rode to his execution, man, Could never go so slow:But this is foolery :Go, bid my woman feign a sickness; say She'll home to her father: and provide me, presently, A riding suit; no costlier than would fit A franklin's housewife.

Pisanio. Madam, you're best consider,

Imog. I see before me, man, nor here, nor here, Nor what ensues; but have a fog in them, That I cannot look through. Away, I pr’ythee ; Do as I bid thee: there's no more to say ; Accessible is none but Milford way. Exeunt.


A Forest in Wales, with a Cave.


the Cave. Bel. A goodly day not to keep house, with such Whose roof's as low as ours: See, boys : This gate Instructs

you how to adore the heavens ; and bow's

To morning's holy office: The gates of monarchs
Are arch'd so high, that giants may jet through,
And keep their impious turbands on, without
Good morrow to the sun.-Hail, thou fair Heaven!
We house i' the rock, yet use thee not so hardly
As prouder livers do.

Guid. Hail, Heaven !
Aro. Hail, Heaven!

Bel. Now, for our mountain sport: up to yon hill, Your legs are young; I'll tread these fats. Consider, When

you, above, perceive me like a crow, That it is place, which lessens, and sets off. And you may then revolve what tales I have told you, Of courts, of princes, of the tricks in war: This service is not service, so being done, But being so allow'd : To apprehend thus, Draws us a profit from all things we see: And often, to our comfort, shall we find The sharded beetle in a safer hold Than is the full-wing'd eagle. Guid. Out of your proof you speak : we, poor un


Have never wing'd from view o' the nest; nor know

What air's from home. Haply, this life is best,
If quiet life be best; sweeter to you,
That have a sharper known; well corresponding

your stiff age : but, unto us, it is
A cell of ignorance; travelling a-będ;
A prison for a debtor, that not dares
To stride a limit.

Arv. What should we speak of,
When we are old as you, when we shall hear
The rain and wind beat dark December, how,
In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse
The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing.

Bel. How you speak !
Did you but know the city's usuries,
And felt them knowingly; the art o' the court,
As hard to leave, as keep; whose top to climb
Is certain falling, or so slippery, that
The fear's as bad as falling; the toil of the war,
A pain that only seems to seek out danger
l' the name of fame, and honour; which dies i' the

And hath as oft a slanderous epitaph,
As record of fair act; nay, many times,
Doth ill deserve by doing well; what's worse,
Must court'sy at the censure:-Oh, boys, this story,
The world may read in me: my body's mark'd
With Roman swords; and my report was once
First with the best of note : Cymbeline lov'd me;
And, when a soldier was the theme, my name
Was not far off: then was I as a tree,
Whose boughs did bend with fruit: but, in one night,
A storm, or robbery, call it what you will,
Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves,
And left me bare to weather,

Guid. Uncertain favour !
Bel. My fault being nothing, (as I have told you oft)

But that two villains, whose false oaths prevaila
Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline,
I was confederate with the Romans : so,
Follow'd my banishment; and, this twenty years,
This rock, and these demesnes, have been my world :
Where I have liv'd at honest freedom; paid
More pious debts to Heaven, than in all
The fore end of my time. But, up to the mountains;
This is not hunters' language :-He, that strikes
The venison first, shall be the lord o’the feast;
To him the other two shall minister;
And we will fear no poison, which attends
In place of greater state. I'll meet you in the vallies.

(Exeunt Guiderius and ARVIRAGUS.
How bard it is, to hide the sparks of nature !
These boys know little, they are sods to the king;
Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive.
They think, they are mine: and, though train’d up

thus meanly l' the cave, wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit The roofs of palaces; and nature prompts them, In simple and low things, to prince it, much Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore,The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, whom The king, his father, call’d Guiderius,—Jove! When on my three-foot stoo! I sit, and tell The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out Into my story: say, “ Thus mine enemy fell; And thus I set my foot on his neck: even then The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats, Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture That acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal, (Once, Arviragus,) in as like a figure, Strikes life into my speech, and shows much more His own conceiving.

(A Horn sounds. Hark! the game is rous'd! Oh, Cymbeline! Heaven, and my conscience, knows, Thou didst unjustly banish me: whereon,


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