Imatges de pÓgina

'Twere best not call; I dare not call; yet famine,
Ere it clean o'er-throw nature, makes it valiant.
Plenty aod peace breeds cowards, hardness ever
Of hardiness is mother. Ho! wbo's here?
If any thing that's civil, speak; if savage,
Take, or lend ---ho! no answer? then I'll enter.
Best draw my sword; and if mine enemy
But fear the sword like me, he'll scarcely look on't.
Grant such a foe, good heav'ns! [She goes into the cave.

Enter Bellarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus.
Bel. You Polidore have prov'd best woodman, and
Are master of the feast; Cadwal and I
Will play the cook, and servant, 'tis our match:
The sweat of industry would dry, and die
But for the end it works to. Come, our stomachs
Will make what's homely favo’ry; weariness
Can snore

upon the fint, when resty sloth
Finds the down pillow hard. Now peace be here,
Poor house, that keep'st thy self!

Guid. I'm throughly weary.
Arv. I'm weak with toil, yet strong in appetite.

Guid. There is cold meat i'ch' cave, we'll brouze on that
Whilst what we've kill'd be cook’d.
Bel. Stay, come not in -

(Looking in. But that it eats our victuals, I should think It were a Fairy

Guid. What's the matter, Sir ?

Bel. By Jupiter an Angel! or if not, An earthly paragon. Behold divineness No elder than a boy.

Enter Imogen. Imo. Good master, harm me not; Before I enter'd here, I called, and thought



T' have begg’d, or bought, what I have took : good troth
I have stoln nought, nor would not, though I'd found
Gold strewd i'th' floor. Here's mony for my meat,
I would have left it on the board fo foon
As I had made my meal: and parted thence
With prayers for the provider.

Guid. Mony, youth ?

Arv. All gold and silver rather turn to dirt!
As 'tis no better reckond, but of those
Who worship dirty gods.

Imo. I see you're angry:
Know, if you kill me for my fault, I should
Have dy'd, had I not made it.

Bel. Whither bound?
Imo. To Milford-Haven.
Bel. What's your name?

Imo. Fidele, Sir; I have a kinsman, who
Is bound for Italy: he’embark'd at Milford,
To whom being going, almost spent with hunger,
I'm faln in this offence.

Bel. Prythee, fair youth,
Think us no churls; nor measure our good minds
By this rude place we live in. Well-encounter'd!
'Tis almost night, you shall have better cheer
Ere you depart, and thanks to stay and eat it.
Boys, bid him welcome.

Guid. Were you a woman, youth,
I should wooe hard, but be your groom in honesty;
I bid for you, as I do buy.

Arv. I'll make't my comfort
He is a man; I'll love him as my brother:
And such a welcome as I'd give to him,
After long absence, such is yours. Most welcome!


Be sprightly, for you fall ’mongst friends.
Imo. 'Mongst friends ?

If brothers, would it had been so, that they
Had been my father's sons; then had my prize
Been less, and so more equal ballasting
To thee, Pofthumus.

Bel. He wrings at some distress.
Guid. Would I could free't!

Arv. Or I, whate’er it be,
Wbat pain it cost, what danger ; gods!
Bel. Hark, boys.

Imo. Great men,
That had a court no bigger than this cave,
That did attend themselves, and had the virtue
Which their own conscience seald them; laying by
That nothing-gift of differing multitudes,
Could not out-peer these twain. Pardon me gods,
I'd change my sex to be companion with them,
Since Leonatus is false.

Bel. It shall be so:
Boys, we'll go dress our hunt. Fair youth come in;
Discourse is heavy, fasting; when we've supp'd
We'll mannerly demand thee of thy story,
So far as thou wilt speak.

Guid. I pray draw near.
Av. The night to th' owl, and morn to th’lark, less welcome!

(Exeunt. *


less welcome!


Enter two Roman Senators, and Tribunes. I Sen.

HIS is the tenor of the Emperor's writ;

That since the common men are now in action 'Gainst the Pannonians and Dalmatians, And that the legions now in Gallia, are




Cym. A


Cymbeline's Palace.
Enter Cymbeline, Lords, and Pifanio.
. GAIN; and bring me word how 'tis with her;

A fever with the absence of her son ;
Madness, of which her life's in danger; heav'ns!
How deeply you at once do touch me. Imogen,
The great part of my comfort, gone! my queen
Upon a desperate bed, and in a time
When fearful wars point at me! her son gone,
So needful for this present! it strikes me, past
The hope of comfort. But for thee, fellow,
Who needs must know of her departure, and
Dost seem so ignorant, we'll force it from thee
By a sharp torture.

Pif. Sir, my life is yours,
I set it at your will: but for my mistress,
I nothing know where she remains; why gone,
Nor when she purposes return. Beseech your highness,
Hold me your loyal servant.

Full weak to undertake our war against
The fall’n off Britains; that we do incite
The gentry to this business. He creates
Lucius pro-consul: and to you the tribunes
For this immediate levy, he coinmands
His absolute commission. Long live Cæfar !

Tri. Is Lucius gen’ral of the forces ?
2 Sen. Ay.
Tri. Remaining now in Gallia ?

I Sen. With those legions
Which I have spoke of, whereunto your levy
Must be suppliant: the words of your commission
Will tie you to the numbers and the time
Of their dispatch.

Tri. We will discharge our duty.

[Exeunt. Lord.

Lord. Good my liege,
The day that she was missing, he was here;
I dare be bound he's true, and shall perform
All parts of his subjection loyally. For Cloten,
There wants no diligence in seeking him,
And will no doubt be found.

Cym. The time is troublesome;
We'll slip you for a season, but our jealousie
Do's yet depend.

Lord. So please your majesty,
The Roman legions all from Gallia drawn,
Are landed on your coast, with large supply
Of Roman Gentlemen, by th’ senate sent.

Cym. Now for the counsel of my son and queen:
I am amaz'd with matter.

Lord. Good my liege,
Your preparation can affront no less
Than what you hear of. Come more, for more you're ready ;
The want is, but to put these powers in motion,
That long to move.

Cym. I thank you ; let's withdraw
And meet the time, as it seeks uś. We fear not
What can from Italy annoy us, but
We grieve at chances here. Away.

Pif. I heard no letter from my master, since
I wrote him Imogen was slain. 'Tis strange;
Nor hear I from my mistress, who did promise
To yield me often tidings. Neither know I
What is betide to Cloten, but remain
Perplext in all. The heavens still must work;
Wherein I'm false, I'm honest; not true, to be true.
These present wars shall find I love my country,
Ev’n to the note o'th' king, or I'll fall in them;



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