Such noble fury in fo poor a thing: Such precious deeds in one that promis'd nought Cym. No tidings of him? Pif. He hath been fearch'd among the dead and living, But no trace of him. Cymb. To my grief, I am The heir of his reward; which I will add To you, (the liver, heart, and brain of Britain ;) [To Bel. Guid. and Arvirag. 'Tis now the time By whom, I grant, fhe lives. Report it. In Cambria are we born, and Gentlemen: Cym. Bow your knees; Arife my Knights o'th' battel; I create you Enter Cornelius, and Ladies. you There's bufinefs in these faces: why fo fadly Cor. Hail, great King! To four your happiness, I must report Cym. Whom worse than a phyfician gary, fhould promife poor Looks too? No; it was not the This fets the Matter entirely right, and makes Belarius speak Sense and to the purpofe. For there was the extraordinary Thing; he promis'd Nothing but poor Luck, and yet perform'd fuch Wonders. Mr. Warburton. Who, Who, being cruel to the world, concluded I will report, fo please you: These her women Cym. Pr'ythee, fay. Cor. First, the confefs'd, the never lov'd you: only Affected Greatnefs got by you, not you: Married your Royalty, was wife to your Abhorr'd your perfon. Cym. She alone knew this: And, but the spoke it dying, I would not Place; Cor. Your Daughter, whom the bore in hand to love With fuch integrity, fhe did confefs, Was as a fcorpion to her fight; whofe life, Cym. O moft delicate fiend! Who is't can read a woman? is there more? Cor. More, Sir, and worfe. She did confefs, fhe had Cym. Heard you all this, her Women? Were not in fault, for fhe 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, oh my daughter! Gg 2 That That it was folly in me, thou may'st say, Thou com'ft not, Caius, now for Tribute; That Luc. Confider, Sir, the chance of war; the day We should not, when the blood was cool, have threatned So feat, fo nurfe-like; let his virtue join With my request, which, I'll make bold, your Highness Cym. I've furely seen him; His favour is familiar to me. Boy, Thou haft look'd thy felf into my grace, And art mine own. I know not why, nor wherefore, Imo. I humbly thank your Highness. Luc. I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad; And yet I know thou wilt. Imo. No, no, alack, There's other work in hand; I fee a thing Luc. The boy difdains me, He leaves me, fcorns me: briefly die their joys, Cym. What would't thou, boy? I love thee more and more: think more and more, Imo. He is a Roman; no more kin to me, Than I to your Highness: who, being born your vassal, Cym. Wherefore eye'ft him fo? Imo. I'll tell you, Sir, in private, if you please To give me hearing. Cym. Ay, with all my heart, And lend my beft attention. What's thy name? Cym. Thou art my good youth, my page; I'll be thy mafter: walk with me, fpeak freely. [Cymbel. and Imo. walk afide. Bel. Is not this boy reviv'd from death? Arv. One fand another (56) Not more resembles, than He th' sweet rofie lad, Guid. The fame dead thing alive. Bel. Peace, peace, fee more; he eyes us not; forbear, Creatures may be alike: were't he, I'm fure, He would have spoke t'us. Guid. But we law him dead. Not more refembles that fweet rofie Youth, [afide. A flight Corruption has made stark Nonsense of this Paffage. One Grain of Sand certainly might refemble another; but it could never resemble a human Form. I believe, I have restor❜d the Poet's Meaning; The Verse is none of the smootheft; but, resembles, must be pronounc'd as a diffillable. Since G3 1 Since he is living, let the time run on, To good, or bad. [Cymb. and Imog. come forward. Make thy demand aloud. Sir, step you forth, [To Iach. Winnow the truth from falfhood. On; fpeak to him. Poft. What's that to him? Cym. That diamond upon your finger, fay, How came it yours? Iach. Thou'lt torture me to leave unspoken That, Which to be spoke would torture thee. Cym. How? me? Tach. I'm glad to be constrain'd to utter what Torments me to conceal. By villany 1 got this Ring; 'twas Leonatus' jewel, Whom thou didft banish: and (which more may grieve thee, As it doth me) a nobler Sir ne'er liv'd 'Twixt sky and ground. Will you hear more, my lord? Cym. All that belongs to this. Iach. That paragon, thy daughter, For whom my heart drops blood, and my false spirits Cym. My daughter, what of her? renew thy ftrength; Iach. Upon a time, (unhappy was the clock, Thofe which I heav'd to head:) the good Pofthumus - For (57) Hearing us praise our Loves of Italy For Beauty, that made barren the well'd Boaft of |