Imatges de pÓgina
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Poft. Most welcome bondage! for thou art a way,
I think, to liberty ; yet am I better
Than one that's sick o'th' gout, since he had rather
Groan so in perpetuity than be cur'd
By th' sure physician, death; who is the key
T’unbar these locks. My conscience! thou art fetter'd
More than my shanks and wrists ; you good gods give me
The penitent instrument to pick that bolt,
Then free for ever. Is’t enough Pm forry?
So children temp’ral fathers do appeale;
Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent ?
I cannot do it better than in gyves,
Desir’d, more than constrain'd; to fatisfie
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;
Though light, take pieces for the figure's fake,
You rather, mine being yours: and so, great powers,
If you will take this audit, take this life,
And cancel those old bonds. Oh Imogen!
I'll speak to thee in silence.

[He sleeps.

*

SCENE

**** Here follows a Vision, a Masque, and a Prophecy, which interrupt the Fa

ble without the least necessity, and unmeasurably lengthen this act. I think it plainly foisted in afterwards for meer mow, and apparently not of Shakcípear.

+ + + Salemn musick: Enter as in an apparition, Sicilius Leonatus, father to Posthumus,

an old man, attired like a warrior, leading in his hand an ancient matron, bis wife, and mother to Posthumus, with musick before them. Then after other mu

fick,

Ee 2

S CE N E IV.

Cymbeline's Tent.
Enter Cymbeline, Bellarius, Guiderius, Arviragus,

Pisanio, and lords.
Cym. STAND by my side, you whom the gods have made
Preservers of

my

throne. Wo is my heart, That the poor soldier that so richly fought, (Whose rags Tham'd gilded arms, whose naked breast

Stept

fick, follow the two young Leonati, brothers to Posthumus, with wounds as they died in the wars. They circle Posthumus round as he lyes sleeping.

Sici. No more thou thunder-master

Shew thy spite, on mortal Alies:
With Mars fall out, with Juno chide, that thy adulteries.

Rates and revenges.
Hath my poor boy done ought but well,

Whose face I never saw ?
I dy'd, whilst in the womb he stay'd,

Attending nature's law.
Whose father, yove! (as men report,

Thou orphans father art)
Thou should'st have been, and shielded him

From his earth-vexing smart.
Moth. Lucina lent not me her aid,

But took me in my throes,
That from me my Pofthumus ript;

Came crying 'mongt his foes,
A thing of pity!
Sici. Great nature, like his ancestry,

Moulded the stuff so fair;
That he deserv'd the praise o’th world,

As great Sicilius' heir.
1 Bro. When once he was mature for many

In Britain where was he
That could stand up his parallel,

Or rival object be,
In eye of Imogen, tha best

Could deem his dignity?
Moth. With marriage therefore was he mockt

To be exild, and thrown
From Leonatus' feat, and cast

From her his dearest one: Sweet Imogen!

Sici.

Stept before shields of proof,) cannot be found:
He shall be happy that can find him, if
Our grace can make him so.

Bel. I never saw
Such noble fury in so poor a thing:
Such precious deeds in one that promis’d nought
But beggʻry and poor looks.

Cym. No tidings of him?

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

Сут. .

Sici. Why did you suffer Iachimo,

Slight thing of Italy,
To taint his noble heart and brain

With needless jealousie,
And to become the geek and scorn

O'th' 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 Nain,
Our fealty and Tenantius' right,

With honour to maintain.
i Bro. Like hardiment Pofthumus 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 out;

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 th' shining synod of the rest,

Againgst thy deity.
2 Breth. Help, Jupiter, or we appeal,

And from thy justice Alie.
Jupiter descends in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an eagle; be throws a

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thunder-bolt. The ghosts fall on their knees, Jupit. No more you petty spirits of region low

Offend our hearing; húsh! how dare you ghosts

Ac.

Cym. To my grief, I am
The heir of his reward, which I will add
To you, the liver, heart, and brain of Britain,

[To Bell. Guid. and Arvirag.
By whom, I grant, she lives. 'Tis now the time
To ask of whence you are.
Report it.

Bel.

[Jup. drops a tablet.

you itir

[ Ascends.

Accuse the thunderer, whose bolt, you know,

Sky-planted, batters all rebelling coasts. Poor shadows of Eliziun, hence and rest

Upon your never-withering banks of flowers. Be not with mortal accidents opprest,

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 fon our godhead will uplift:

His comforts thrive, his tryals 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 breaft, wherein

Our pleasure, his full forture, doth confine, And so away, no farther with

your

din Express impatience, lest

up mine; Mount eagle, to my palace crystalline.

Sici. He came in thunder, his cæleftical 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 clays his beak,
As when his god is pleas’d.

All. Thanks, Jupiter.

Sici. The marble pavement closes, he is enter'd
His radiant roof: away, and to be blest
Let us with care perform his great behest.

Poft. Sleep, thou hast been a grandfire, and begot
A father to me: and thou hast created
A mother, and two brothers. But, oh 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 fairics haunt this ground? a book! oh rare one!

[Vanis.

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

Cym. Bow your knees,
Arise my knights o'th' battel, I create you

Com

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.] W

HEN as the lion's whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find,

and be embrac'd by a piece of tender air ; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopt brancbes, which being dead many years, hall 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. 'Tis still a dream; or else such stuff as mad-men Tongue, and brain not: do either both, or nothing; Or lenseless speaking, or a speaking such As sense cannot untie. But what it is, The action of my life is like it, which I'll keep If bur for sympathy.

Enter. Goaler.
Goal. Come, Sir, are you ready for death?
Poft. Over-roasted rather : ready long ago.
Goal. Hanging is the word, Sir; if you be ready for that, you are well cookt.
Poft. So if I prove a good repast to the spectators, the dish pays the shot.

Goal. 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 came 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. Oh, of this contradiction you shall now be quit: oh the charity of a penny cord, it sums up thousands in a trice; you have no true debtor, 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.

Poft. I am merrier to die, than thou art to live.

Goal. Indeed, Sir, he that sleeps, feels not the tooth-ache: 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 ihall go:

.
Poft. Yes indeed do I, fellow.

Goal. Your death has eyes in's head then; I have not seen himn so pictur’d: you inust either be directed by some that take upon them to know; or to

take

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