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Our grace can make him so,
Bel. I never saw
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
go. Poft. Yes indeed do I, fellow.
Goal. Your death has eyes in's head then ; I have not seen him so pictur’d: you must either be directed by some that take upon them to know; or to take upon your self that which I am sure you do not know; or lump the after-enquiry on your own peril; and how you "Thall speed in your journey's-end, I think you'll never return to tell Poft. I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes, to direct them
I am going, but such as wink, and will not use them. Goal. What an infinite mock is this, that a man should have the beft use of eyes, to seek the way of blindness : I am sure such hanging's the way of winking
Enter a Messenger. Mef. Knock off his manacles, bring your prisoner to the King. Poft. Thou bring'it good news, I am called to be made free. Goal. I'll be hang'd then. Poft. Thou shalt be then freer than a goaler: no bolts for the dead.
[Exeunt. Goal. Unless a man would marry a gallows, and beget young gibbets, I never saw one so prone. Yet on my conscience, there are verier knaves desire to live, for all he be a Roman: and there be some of them too that die against their wills ; so should I, if I were one. I would we were all of one mind, and one mind good; Othere were desolation of goalers, and gallowses; I speak against my present profit, but my with hath a preferment in't.
[Exit. SCENE IV. c. 3 looks ... old edit. Warb. emerd.
Cym. No tidings of him?
Pis. He hath been search'd among the dead and living, But no trace of him.
Cym. To my grief, I am
[To Bellarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus. By whom, I grant, she lives. 'Tis now the time To ask of whence you are. Report it.
Cym. Bow your knees,
Enter Cornelius and Ladies.
Cor. Hail, great King !
Cym. Whom worse than a physician
Cor. With horror, madly dying, like her self,
Cym. Průythee say.
Cor. First, the confefs'd she never lov'd you, only
Abhorr’d your person.
Cym. She alone knew this:
Cor. Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to love
Cym. O moit delicate fiend!
Cor. More, Sir, and worse. She did confess she had
Cym. Heard you all this, her women?
Cym. + 'Yet mine eyes
4 Mine eyes
S C Ε Ν Ε
V. Enter Lucius, Iachimo, and other Roman Prisoners,
Posthumus bebind, and Imogen. Thou com'st not, Caius, now for tribute ; that The Britons have ras'd out, though with the loss Of many a bold one ; whose kinsmen have made fuit That their good souls may be appeas'd with Naughter Of you their captives, which our self have granted. So think of your estate.
Luc. Consider, 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 prisʼners with the sword. But since the Gods Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives May be call'd ransom, let it come. Sufficeth, A Roman with a Roman's heart can suffer.. Auguftus lives to think on't. And so much For my peculiar care. This one thing only I will intreat; my boy, a Briton born, Let him be ransom'd; never master had A page so kind, so duteous, diligent, So tender over his occasions, true, So feat, so nurse-like ; let his virtue join With my request, which I'll make bold your Highnell Cannot deny: he hath done no Briton harm, Though he hath serv'd a Roman. Save him, Sir, And spare no blood beside.
Cym. I've furely seen him ;
Imo. I humbly thank your Highness.
Luc. I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad,
Imo. No, no, alack,
Luc. The boy disdains me,
Cym. What wouldst thou, boy?
Imo. He is a Roman, no more kin to me,
Cym. Wherefore eye'st him so ?
Imo. I'll tell you, Sir, in private, if you please
Cym. Ay, with all my heart,
Imo. Fidele, Sir.
Cym. Thou’rt my good youth, my page,
[Cymbeline and Imogen go afide. Bel. Is not this boy reviv'd from death?
Arv. One fand
Guid. & 'Ev'n the same dead thing alive.
Bel. Peace, peace, see more ; he eyes us not, forbear,