Imatges de pÓgina

Puts him to all the learnings that his time
Could make him the receiver of; which he took,
As we do air, fast as 'twas minister'd; and

In his spring became a harvest: Liv'd in court,
(Which rare it is to do,) most prais'd, most lov'd:
A sample to the youngest; to the more mature,
A glass that feated them; and to the graver,
A child that guided dotards: to his mistress,
For whom he now is banish'd,----her own price
Proclaims how she esteem'd him and his virtue;
By her election may be truly read,
What kind of man he is.

2 Gent. I honour him

Even out of your report. But, 'pray you, tell
Is she sole child to the king?

1 Gent. His only child.


He had two sons; (if this be worth your hearing,
Mark it,) the eldest of them at three years old,
I'the swathing clothes the other, from their nursery
Were stolen; and to this hour, no guess in know-

Which way they went.

2 Gent. How long is this ago?

1 Gent, Some twenty years.

2 Gent. That a king's children should be so convey'd!

So slackly guarded! and the search so slow,
That could not trace them!

1 Gent. Howsoe'er 'tis strange,

Or that the negligence may well be laugh'd at,
Yet is it true, sir.

2 Gent. I do well believe you.

1 Gent. We must forbear: Here comes the queen,

and princess.


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SCENE II.-The same.

Enter the Queen, POSTHUMUS and IMOGEN.

Queen. No, be assur'd, you shall not find me, daughter,

After the slander of most step-mothers,

Evil-ey'd unto you: you are my prisoner, but
Your gaoler shall deliver you the keys,

That lock up your restraint. For you, Posthumus,
So soon as I can win the offended king,

I will be known your advocate: marry, yet
The fire of rage is in him; and 'twere good,
You lean'd unto his sentence, with what patience
Your wisdom may inform you.

Post. Please your highness,

I will from hence to-day.

Queen. You know the peril :

I'll fetch a turn about the garden, pitying
The pangs of barr'd affections; though the king
Hath charg'd you should not speak together.

[Exit Queen.

Imo. O,
Dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant

Can tickle where she wounds!-My dearest husband,

I something fear my father's wrath; but nothing,
(Always reserv'd my holy duty,) what

His rage can do on me: You must be gone;
And I shall here abide the hourly shot
Of angry eyes; not comforted to live,
But that there is this jewel in the world,
That I may see again.

Post. My queen! my mistress!

O, lady, weep no more; lest I give cause
To be suspected of more tenderness
Than doth become a man! I will remain

The loyal'st husband that did e'er plight troth.
My residence in Rome at one Philario's ;
Who to my father was a friend, to me

Known but by letter: thither write, my queen,
And with mine eyes I'll drink the words you send,
Though ink be made of gall.

Re-enter Queen.

Queen. Be brief, I pray you:

If the king come, I shall incur I know not

How much of his displeasure:-Yet I'll move him

To walk this way: I never do him wrong,
But he does buy my injuries, to be friends;
Pays dear for my offences.

Post. Should we be taking leave

As long a term as yet we have to live,

The loathness to depart would grow: Adieu!
Imo. Nay, stay a little :


Were you but riding forth to air yourself,
Such parting were too petty. Look here, love;
This diamond was my mother's: take it, heart;
But keep it till you woo another wife,
When Imogen is dead..

Post. How! how! another?

You gentle gods, give me but this I have,
And sear up my embracements from a next
With bonds of death!-Remain thou here,


[Putting on the ring. While sense can keep it on! And sweetest, fairest, As I my poor self did exchange for you, To your so infinite loss; so, in our trifles I still win of you: For my sake, wear this; It is a manacle of love; I'll place it

Upon this fairest prisoner.

[Putting a bracelet on her arm.

Imo, O, the gods!

When shall we see again?

Enter CYMBELINE and Lords.

Post. Alack, the king!

Cym. Thou basest thing, avoid! hence, from my sight!

If, after this command, thou fraught the court
With thy unworthiness, thou diest: Away!
Thou art poison to my blood.

Post. The gods protect you!

And bless the good remainders of the court!

I am gone.

Imo. There cannot be a pinch in death › More sharp than this is.

Cym. O disloyal thing,

That should'st repair my youth; thou heapest

A year's age on me!

Imo. I beseech you, sir,

Harm not yourself with your vexation; I
Am senseless of your wrath; a touch more rare
Subdues all pangs, all fears.

Cym. Past grace? obedience?


Imo. Past hope, and in despair; that way, past


Cym. That might'st have had the sole son of my queen!

Imo. O bless'd, that I might not! I chose an eagle, And did avoid a puttock.

Cym. Thou took'st a beggar; would'st have made my throne

A seat for baseness.

Imo. No; I rather added

A lustre to it.

Cym. O thou vile one!

Imo. Sir,

It is your fault that I have lov'd Posthumus:

You bred him as my play-fellow; and he is
A man, worth any woman; overbuys me
Almost the sum he pays.

Cym. What!-art thou mad?

Imo. Almost, sir: Heaven restore me!-'Would I


A neat-herd's daughter! and my Leonatus

Our neighbour shepherd's son!

Re-enter Queen.

Cym. Thou foolish thing!-

They were again together: you have done

[To the Queen. Not after our command. Away with her, And pen her up.

Queen. Beseech your patience:-Peace,

Dear lady daughter, peace ;-Sweet sovereign, Leave us to ourselves; and make yourself some comfort

Out of your best advice.

Cym. Nay, let her languish

A drop of blood a-day; and, being aged,

Die of this folly!


Queen. Fye!-you must give way:


Here is your servant.-How now, sir? What news? Pis. My lord, your son, drew on my master. Queen. Ha!.

No harm, I trust, is done?

Pis. There might have been,

But that my master rather play'd than fought,
And had no help of anger: they were parted
By gentlemen at hand.

Queen. I am very glad on't.

Imo. Your son's my father's friend; he takes his


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