Imatges de pàgina
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Such noble fury in fo poor a thing:

Such precious deeds in one that promis'd nought
But begg'ry and poor Luck.

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.
To ask of whence you are.
Bel. Sir,

Report it.

In Cambria are we born, and Gentlemen:
Further to boaft, were neither true nor modest,
Unless I add, we're honeft.

Cym. Bow your knees;

Arife my Knights o'th' battel; I create you
Companions to our perfon, and will fit
With dignities becoming your estates.

Enter Cornelius, and Ladies.

you

There's bufinefs in these faces: why fo fadly
Greet you our victory? you look like Romans,
And not o'th' Court of Britain.

Cor. Hail, great King!

To four your happiness, I must report
The Queen is dead.

Cym. Whom worse than a phyfician
Would this report become? but I confider,
By med'cine life may be prolong'd, yet death
Will feize the Doctor too. How ended the?
Cor. With horror, madly dying, like her felf;

gary, fhould promife poor Looks too? No; it was not the
poor Look
that was promifed: That was visible. We must read with Ĉertainty ;
But Begg'ry and poor Luck.

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
Moft cruel to her felf. What the confeft,

I will report, fo please you: These her women
Can trip me, if I err; who, with wet cheeks,
Were present when she finish'd.

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
Believe her lips in opening it. Proceed.

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,
But that her flight prevented it, fhe had
Ta'en off by poifon.

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
For you a mortal mineral; which, being took,
Should by the minute feed on life, and lingring
By inches wafte you. In which time the purpos'd,
By watching, weeping, tendance, kiffing, to
O'ercome you with her fhew: yes, and in time,
(When the had fitted you with her craft,) to work
Her fon into th' adoption of the Crown:
But failing of her end by his ftrange absence,
Grew thameless, defperate; open'd, in despight
Of heaven and men, her purpofes: repented,
The ills fhe hatch'd were not effected: fo
Defpairing, dy'd.

Cym. Heard you all this, her Women?
Lady. We did, fo please your Highness.
Cym. Mine eyes

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,
And prove it in thy feeling. Heav'n mend all!
Enter Lucius, Iachimo, and other Roman prifoners;
Leonatus behind, and Imogen.

Thou com'ft not, Caius, now for Tribute; That
The Britains have raz'd out, though with the lofs
Of many a bold one; whofe kinfmen have made fuit,
That their good fouls may be appeas'd with flaughter
Of you their Captives, which our felf have granted.
So, think of your estate.

Luc. Confider, 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 threatned
Our Prisoners with the fword. But fince the Gods
Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives
May be call'd ransome, let it come. Sufficeth,
A Roman with a Roman's heart can fuffer.
Auguftus lives to think on't And fo much
For my peculiar care. This one thing only
I will intreat; my boy, a Britain born,
Let him be ranfom'd; never mafter had
A page fo kind, fo duteous, diligent,
So tender over his occafions, true,

So feat, fo nurfe-like; let his virtue join

With my request, which, I'll make bold, your Highness
Cannot deny: he hath done no Britain harm,
Though he hath ferv'd a Roman. Save him, Sir,
And spare no blood befide.

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,
To fay," live, boy: "ne'er thank thy mafter, live;
And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt,
Fitting my bounty, and thy ftate, I'll give it:
Yea, though thou do demand a prifoner,
The nobleft ta'en.

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
Bitter to me, as death; your life, good master,
Muft fhuffle for it felf.

Luc. The boy difdains me,

He leaves me, fcorns me: briefly die their joys,
That place them on the truth of girls and boys!
Why ftands he so perplext?

Cym. What would't thou, boy?

I love thee more and more: think more and more,
What's best to ask. Know'ft him thou look'ft on? (peak,
Wilt have him live? is he thy kin? thy friend?

Imo. He is a Roman; no more kin to me,

Than I to your Highness: who, being born your vassal,
Am fomething nearer.

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?
Imo. Fidele, Sir.

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,
Who dy'd and was Fidele. What think you?

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.
Bel. Be filent: let's fee further.
Pif. 'Tis my mistress

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Not more refembles that fweet rofie Youth,
Who dy'd and was Fidele.]

[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.
Cym. Come, ftand thou by our fide.

Make thy demand aloud. Sir, step you forth, [To Iach.
Give antwer to this boy, and do it freely;
Or, by our Greatnefs and the Grace of it,
Which is our Honour, bitter torture fhall

Winnow the truth from falfhood. On; fpeak to him.
Imo. My boon is, that this gentleman may render
Of whom he had this ring.

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
Quail to remember, give me leave, I faint.→→→

Cym. My daughter, what of her? renew thy ftrength;
I'ad rather thou fhouldft live, while nature will,
Than die ere I hear more: ftrive, man, and speak.

Iach. Upon a time, (unhappy was the clock,
That ftruck the hour;) it was in Rome, (accurs'd-
The manfion where) 'twas at a feaft, (oh, would
Our viands had been poifon'd! or at least,

Thofe which I heav'd to head:) the good Pofthumus -
(What should I fay? he was too good to be
Where ill men were; and was the best of all
Amongst the rar'ft of good ones) fitting fadly,
Hearing us praife our Loves of Italy (57)

For

(57) Hearing us praise our Loves of Italy

For Beauty, that made barren the well'd Boaft

of

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