Cymbeline by William Shakespeare (me reader .TXT) 📖

toothache; 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.

POSTHUMUS.
Yes, indeed do I, fellow.

GAOLER.
Your Death has eyes in's head, then; I have not seen him so
pictur'd. You must either be directed by some that take upon them
to know, or to 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.

POSTHUMUS.
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.

GAOLER.
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.]

MESSENGER.
Knock off his manacles; bring your prisoner to the King.

POSTHUMUS.
Thou bring'st good news; I am call'd to be made free.

GAOLER.
I'll be hang'd then.

POSTHUMUS.
Thou shalt be then freer than a gaoler; no bolts for the dead.

[Exeunt all but the GAOLER.]

GAOLER.
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 gallowses! I speak against my
present profit, but my wish hath a preferment in't.

[Exit.]


SCENE V.

CYMBELINE'S tent.

[Enter CYMBELINE, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS, PISANIO,
LORDS, [OFFICERS, and Attendants.]

CYMBELINE.
Stand by my side, you whom the gods have made
Preservers of my throne. Woe is my heart
That the poor soldier that so richly fought,
Whose rags sham'd gilded arms, whose naked breast
Stepp'd before targes of proof, cannot be found.
He shall be happy that can find him, if
Our grace can make him so.

BELARIUS.
I never saw
Such noble fury in so poor a thing;
Such precious deeds in one that promis'd nought
But beggary and poor looks.

CYMBELINE.
No tidings of him?

PISANIO.
He hath been search'd among the dead and living,
But no trace of him.

CYMBELINE.
To my grief, I am
The heir of his reward;

[To BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS.]

which I will add
To you, the liver, heart, and brain of Britain,
By whom I grant she lives. 'Tis now the time
To ask of whence you are. Report it.

BELARIUS.
Sir,
In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen.
Further to boast were neither true nor modest,
Unless I add, we are honest.

CYMBELINE.
Bow your knees.
Arise my knights o' the battle. I create you
Companions to our person and will fit you
With dignities becoming your estates.

[Enter CORNELIUS and LADIES.]

There's business in these faces. Why so sadly
Greet you our victory? You look like Romans,
And not o' the court of Britain.

CORNELIUS.
Hail, great King!
To sour your happiness, I must report
The Queen is dead.

CYMBELINE.
Who 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?

CORNELIUS.
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.

CYMBELINE.
Prithee, say.

CORNELIUS.
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.

CYMBELINE.
She alone knew this;
And, but she spoke it dying, I would not
Believe her lips in opening it. Proceed.

CORNELIUS.
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.

CYMBELINE.
O most delicate fiend!
Who is't can read a woman? Is there more?

CORNELIUS.
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, and, in time,
When she had fitted you with her craft, to work
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.

CYMBELINE.
Heard you all this, her women?

LADY.
We did, so please your Highness.

CYMBELINE.
Mine eyes
Were not in fault, for she was beautiful;
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 mayst 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.

LUCIUS.
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 ransom, 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.

CYMBELINE.
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, 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.

IMOGEN.
I humbly thank your Highness.

LUCIUS.
I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad,
And yet I know thou wilt.

IMOGEN.
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.

LUCIUS.
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?

CYMBELINE.
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?

IMOGEN.
He is a Roman, no more kin to me
Than I to your Highness; who, being born your vassal,
Am something nearer.

CYMBELINE.
Wherefore ey'st him so?

IMOGEN.
I'll tell you, sir, in private, if you please
To give me hearing.

CYMBELINE.
Ay, with all my heart,
And lend my best attention. What's thy name?

IMOGEN.
Fidele, sir.

CYMBELINE.
Thou'rt my good youth, my page;
I'll be thy master. Walk with me; speak freely.

[CYMBELINE and IMOGEN talk apart.]

BELARIUS.
Is not this boy, reviv'd from death, -

ARVIRAGUS.
One sand another
Not more resembles, - that sweet rosy lad
Who died, and was Fidele. What think you?

GUIDERIUS.
The same dead thing alive.

BELARIUS.
Peace, peace! see further. He eyes us not; forbear;
Creatures may be alike. Were't he, I am sure
He would have spoke to us.

GUIDERIUS.
But we saw him dead.

BELARIUS.
Be silent; let's see further.

PISANIO.

[Aside.]

It is my mistress.
Since she is living, let the time run on
To good or bad.

[CYMBELINE and IMOGEN come forward.]

CYMBELINE.
Come, stand thou by our side;
Make thy demand aloud.

[To IACHIMO.]

Sir, 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.

IMOGEN.
My boon is, that this gentleman may render
Of whom he had this ring.

POSTHUMUS.

[Aside.]

What's that to him?

CYMBELINE.
That diamond upon your finger, say
How came it yours?

IACHIMO.
Thou'lt torture me to leave unspoken that
Which, to be spoke, would torture thee.

CYMBELINE.
How! me?

IACHIMO.
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?

CYMBELINE.
All that belongs to this.

IACHIMO.
That paragon, thy daughter, -
For whom my heart drops blood, and my false spirits
Quail to remember, - Give me leave; I faint.

CYMBELINE.
My daughter! What of her? Renew thy strength.
I had rather thou shouldst live while Nature will
Than die ere I hear more. Strive, man, and speak.

IACHIMO.
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 Posthumus -
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 -

CYMBELINE.
I stand on fire:
Come to the matter.

IACHIMO.
All too soon I shall,
Unless thou wouldst grieve quickly. This Posthumus,
Most like a noble lord in love and one
That had a royal lover, took his hint;
And not dispraising whom we prais'd, - therein
He was as calm as virtue, - he began
His mistress' picture; which by his tongue being made,
And then a mind put in't, either our brags
Were crack'd of kitchen trulls,