For wrying but a little?-O, Pisanio!
Every good servant does not all commands:
No bond, but to do just ones.-Gods! if you
Should have ta'en vengeance on my faults, I never
Had liv'd to put on this: so had you saved
The noble Imogen to repent; and struck

Me wretch, more worth your vengeance. But, alack,||
You snatch some hence for little faults; that's love,
To have them fall no more: you some permit

To second ills with ills, each elder worse;
And make them dread it to the doers' thrift.
But Imogen is your own: Do your best wills,

And make me bless'd to obey !-1 am brought hither
Among the Italian gentry, and to fight
Against my lady's kingdom: 'Tis enough

That, Britain, I have kill'd thy mistress; peace!

I'll give no wound to thee. Therefore, good heavens,
Hear patiently my purpose: I'll disrobe me
Of these Italian weeds, and suit myself
As does a Briton peasant: so I'll fight
Against the part I come with; so I'll die
For thee, O Imogen, even for whom my life
Is, every breath, a death: and thus, unknown,
Pitied nor hated, to the face of peril

Myself I'll dedicate. Let me make men know
More valour in me, than my habits show.
Gods, put the strength o’the Leonati in me!
To shame the guise o'the world, I will begin
The fashion, less without, and more within.

[Exit.

SCENE II.-The same. Enter, at one side, Lucius, Iachimo, and the Roman Army; at the other side, the British Army; Leonatus Posthumus following it, like a poor Soldier. They march over, and go out. Alarums. Then enter again in skirmish Iachimo and Posthumus: he vanquisheth and disarmeth Iachimo, and then leaves him.

lach. The heaviness and guilt within my bosom Takes off my manhood: I have belied a lady, The princess of this country, and the air on't Revengingly enfeebles me; Or could this carl,

A very drudge of nature's, have subdu'd me,

In my profession? Knighthoods and honours, borne
As I wear mine, are titles but of scorn.

If that thy gentry, Britain, go before
This lout, as he exceeds our lords, the odds

Is, that we scarce are men, and you are gods. [Exit. The Battle continues; the Britons fly; Cymbeline is taken; then enter, to his rescue, Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus.

Bel. Stand, stand! We have the advantage of the ground;

The lane is guarded: nothing routs us, but

The villany of our fears.

Though you, it seems, come from the fliers. Lord. I did.

Post. No blame be to you, sir; for all was lost, But that the heavens fought: The king himself Of his wings destitute, the army broken, And but the backs of Britons seen, ail flying Through a straight lane; the enemy full-hearted, Lolling the tongue with slaughtering, having work More plentiful than tools to do't, struck down Some mortally, some slightly touch'd, some falling Merely through fear; that the strait pass was damm'd With dead men, hurt behind, and cowards living To die with lengthen'd shame.

Lord.

Where was this lane? Post. Close by the battle, ditch'd, and wall'd with turf;

Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier,-

An honest one, I warrant; who deserv'd

;

So long a breeding, as his white beard came to,
In doing this for his country;-athwart the lane,
He, with two striplings, (lads more like to run
The country base, than to commit such slaughter;
With faces fit for masks, or rather fairer
Than those for preservation cas'd, or shame.)
Made good the passage: cried to those that fled,
Our Britain's harts die flying, not our men :
To darkness fleet souls that fly backwards! Stand
Or we are Romans, and will give you that
Like beasts, which you shun beastly; and may save,
Three thousand confident, in act as many,
But to look back in frown: Stand, stand.-These three,
(For three performers are the file, when all
The rest do nothing,) with this word, Stand, stand,
Accommodated by the place, more charming,
With their own nobleness, (which would have turn'd
A distaff to a lance,) gilded pale looks,

Part, shame, part, spirit renew'd; that some, turn'd coward

But by example (O, a sin in war,

Damn'd in the first beginners!) 'gan to look
The way that they did, and to grin like lions
Upon the pikes o'the hunters. Then began
A stop i'the chaser, a retire; anon,

A rout, confusion thick: Forthwith, they fly

Chickens, the way which they stoop'd eagles; slaves, The strides they victors made: And now our cowards (Like fragments in hard voyages,) became

The life o'the need; having found the back-door open
Of the unguarded hearts, Heavens, how they wound!
Some, slain before; some, dying; some, their friends
O'er-borne i'the former waye: ten, chac'd by one,
Are now each one the slaughter-man of twenty:
Those, that would die or ere resist, are grown
The mortal bugs o'the field.

Lord.

This was strange chance : A narow lane! an old man, and two boys! Post. Nay, do not wonder at it: You are made Rather to wonder at the things you hear, Than to work any. Will you rhyme upon't, And vent it for a mockery? Here is one: Two boys, an old man twice a boy, a lane, Preserv'd the Britons, was the Romans' bane. Lord. Nay, be not angry, sir.

Post.
'Lack, to what end?
Who dares not stand his foe, I'll be his friend:
For if he'll do, as he is made to do,

I know, he'll quickly fly my friendship too.
You have put me into rhyme.

Post. Still going?-This is a lord! O noble misery! To be i'the field, and ask, what news, of me! To-day, how many would have given their honours To have sav'd their carcasses? took heel to do't, And yet died too? I, in mine own woe charm'd, Could not find death, where I did hear him groan; Nor feel him, where he struck: Being an ugly monster, "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, But yield me to the veriest hind, 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 not 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 have peck'd them here. He brags his service

As if he were of note: bring him to the king. Enter Cymbeline, attended; Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanio, and Roman Captives. The Captains present Posthumus to Cymbeline, who delivers him over to a Gaoler: After which, all go out,

SCENE IV.-A Prison. Enter Posthumus, and two Gaolers.

1 Gaol. You shall not now be stolen, you have locks

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 tenth, 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 ;

Solemn music. Enter, as an Apparition, Sicilius 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 music before them. Then, after other music, follow the tes young Leonati, brothers 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,

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 villany?

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 hast thou thus adjourn'd
The graces for his merits due ;
Being all to dolours turn'd?

Sici. Thy crystal window ope; look qut;
No longer exercise

Upon a valiant race thy harsh

And potent injuries:

Moth. Since, Jupiter, our son is good,

Take off his miseries.

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 fly.

Jupiter descends in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an Eagle; he throws a thunder-bolt. The Ghosts fall on their knees.

Jupit. 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
Upon your never-withering banks of flowers:
Be not with mortal accidents oppress'd;

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. [Ascends.
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 blest fields; his royal bird
Prunes the immortal wing, and cloys his beak,
As when his god is pleas'd,

Post. [Waking.] Sleep, thou hast been a grandsire and begot

A father to me: and thou hast created

A mother, and two brothers: But (O scorn!)
Gone! they went hence so soon as they were born.
And so I am awake.-Poor wretches that depend
On greatness' favour, dream as I have done;
Wake, and find nothing.-But, alas, I swerve:
Many dream not to find, neither deserve,
And yet are steep'd in favours; so am I,
That have this golden chance, and know not why,
What fairies haunt this ground? a book? O, rare one!
Be not, as is our fangled world, a garment
Nobler than that it covers: Let thy effects
So follow, to be most unlike our courtiers,
As good as promise.

[Reads.] When as a lion's whelp shall, to himself known, without seeking find, and be embraced by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be topped branches, which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate, and flourish in peace and plenty.

Fis still a dream; or else such stuff as madmen

Tongue, and brain not: either both or nothing:
Or senseless speaking, or a speaking such

As sense cannot untie. Be what it is,
The action of my life is like it, which
I'll keep, if but for sympathy.

Re-enter Gaolers.

Gaol. Come, sir, are you ready for death? Post. Over-roasted rather: ready long ago. Gaol. Hanging is the word, sir; if you be ready for that, you are well cooked.

Post. So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators, the dish pays the shot.

Gaol. A heavy reckoning for you, sir: But the comfort is, you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more tavern bills; which are often the sadness of parting, as the procuring of mirth: you come in faint for want of meat, depart reeling with too much drink; sorry that you have paid too much, and sorry that you are paid too much; purse and brain both empty: the brain the heavier for being too light, the purse too light, being drawn of heaviness: O! of this contradiction you shall now be quit.-O the charity of a penny cord! it sums up thousands in a trice: you have no true debiter and creditor but it; of what's past, is, and to come, the discharge :-Your neck, sir, is pen, book, and counters; so the acquittance follows.

Post. I am merrier to die, than thou art to live. Gaol. Indeed, sir. he that sleeps feels not the toothach: But a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think, he would change places with his officer: for, look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go.

Post. Yes, indeed, do I, fellow.

Gaol. Your death has eyes in's head then; I have not seen him so pictured: you must either be directed by some that take upon them to know; or take upon yourself that, which I'am sure you do not know; or jump the after-inquiry on your own peril: and how you shall speed in your journey's end, I think you'll never return to tell one.

Post. I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes to direct them the way I am going, but such as wink and will not use them.

Gaol. What an infinite mock is this, that a man should have the best use of eyes, to see the way of blindness! I am sure, hanging's the way of winking. Enter a Messenger.

Mes. Knock off his manacles; bring your prisoner to the king.

Post. Thou bringest good news ;-I am called to be made free.

Gaol. I'll be hanged then.

Post. Thou shalt be then freer than a gaoler; no bolts for the dead. [Exeunt Post. and Mes. Gaol. Unless a man would marry a gallows, and beget young gibbets, I never saw one so prone. Yet, on my conscience, there are verier knaves desire to live, for all he be a Roman: and there be some of them too, that die against their wills; so should I, if I were one. I would we were all of one mind, and one mind good; O, there were desolation of gaolers, and gal lowses! I speak against my present profit; but my wish hath a preferment in't.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V-Cymbeline's Tent. Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanio, Lords, Of ficers and Attendants.

Cym. Stand by my side, you whom the gods have made

In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen:
Further to boast, were neither true nor modest,
Unless I add, we are honest.
Cym.
Bow your knees;
Arise, my knights o'the battle; I create you
Companions to our person, and will fit you
With diguities becoming your estates.

Enter Cornelius, and Ladies.

There's business in these faces :-Why so sadly
Greet you our victory? you ok like Romans,
And not o'the court of Britain.
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 crr; who, with wet cheeks,
Were present when she finish'd.

Cym.

O most delicate fiend!

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

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 Ro
man 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 threat
en'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 highnes
Cannot deny; he hath done no Briton harm,
Though he have serv'd a Roman: save him, sir,
And spare no blood beside.
Cym.

I have surely seen him :
His favour is familiar to me.-
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.

No, no; alack,

Imo. 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,

Cym.

What wouldst 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.
Cymis

Wherefore ey'st him so?