To th' fmothering of the Senfe, how far it is
To this fame bleffed Milford. And by th' way
Tell me how Wales was made fo Happy, as
T' inherit fuch a Haven. But first of all,
How may we fteal from hence: And for the Gap
That we fhall make in time, from our hence-going,
And our return, to excufe--but firft, how get hence,
Why should Excufe be born or e'er begot?
We'll talk of that hereafter. Prithee speak,
How many Score of Miles may we well ride
Twixt Hour and Hour?
Pif. One Score 'twixt Sun, and Sun,
Madam's enough for you: And too much too.
Imo. Why, one that rode to's Execution, Man, Could never go fo flow: I have heard of riding Wagers, Where Horfes have been nimbler than the Sands That run i' th' Clocks behalf. But this is Foolery, Go, bid my Woman feign a Sickness, fay She'll home to her Father, and provide me prefently A riding Suit: No coftlier than would fit A Franklin's Houfwife.
Pif. Madam, you're beft confider.
Imo. I fee before me, Man, nor here, nor here,
Nor what enfues but have a Fog in them,
That I cannot look through. Away, I prithee,
Do as I bid thee; there's no more to fay;
Acceffible is none but Milford way.
SCENE II. A Foreft with a Cave.
Enter Bellarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus.
Bel. A goodly Day, not to keep Houfe with fuch,
Whofe Roof's as low as ours: See, Boys! this Gate
Inftructs you how t'adore the Heav'ns; and bows you
To a Morning's holy Office. The Gates of Monarchs
Are Arch'd fo high, that Giants may jet through
And keep their impious Turbands on, without
Good Morrow to the Sun. Hail, thou fair Heav'e,
We house i'th' Rock, yet ufe thee not so hardly,
As prouder Livers do.
Bel. Now for our Mountain fport, up to yond Hill,
Your Legs are young: I'll tread these Flats. Confider,
When you above perceive me like a Crow,
That it is Place, which leffens and fets off,
And you may then revolve what Tales I have told you,
Of Courts of Princes, of the Tricks in War,
This Service, is not Service, fo being done,
But being fo allow'd. To apprehend thus,
Draws us a Profit from all things we fee:
And often to our Comfort, fhall we find
The fharded Beetle, in a safer hold
Than is the full-wing'd Eagle. Oh this Life,
Is nobler than attending for a Check;
Richer, than doing nothing for a Bauble;
Prouder, than ruftling in unpaid-for Silk:
Such gain the Cap of him, that makes them fine,
Yet keeps his Book uncrofs'd; no Life to ours.
Guid. Out of your Proof you fpeak: we poor unfledg'd
Have neyer wing'd from view o' th' Neft; nor know not
What Air's from Home. Hap'ly this Life is beft,
If quiet Life is beft, fweeter to you
That have a fharper known: Well correfponding
With your ftiff Age; but unto us, it is
A Cell of Ignorance; travelling a Bed,
A Prifon, or a Debtor, that not dares
To ftride a limit.
Arv. What fhould we speak of
When we are old as you? when we shall hear
The Rain and Wind beat dark December? How
In this our pinching Cave, fhall we discourse
The freezing Hours away? We have feen nothing,
We are beaftly; fubtle as the Fox for Prey,
Like warlike as the Wolf, for what we eat:
Our Valour is to chafe what flies, our Cage
We make a Quire, as doth the prifon'd Bird,
And fing our Bondage freely.
Did you but know the City's Ufuries,
And felt them knowingly; the art o' th' Court,
As hard to leave, as keep, whofe top to climb
Ts certain falling, or so flipp'ry, that
The Fear's as bad as Falling. The Toil o' th' War,
A Pain, that only feems to feek out Danger
I'th' name of Fame, and Honour; which dies i'th' fearch, And hath as oft a fland'rous Epitaph,
As Record of fair act; nay, many times
Doth ill deferve, by doing well: what's worse
Muft curt'fie at the Cenfure.
The World may read in me:
With Roman Swords; and my report was once
First with the beft of Note.
Cymbeline lov'd me,
And when a Soldier was the Theme, my Name
Was not far off: Then was I as a Tree
Whofe Boughs did bend with Fruit. But in one Night,
A Storm, or Robbery, call it what you will,
Shook down my mellow Hangings, nay my Leaves,
And left me bare to Weather.
Bel. My Fault being nothing, as I have told you oft,
But that two Villains, whofe falfe Oaths prevail'd
Before my perfect Honour, fwore to Cymbeline,
I was Confederate with the Romans: So
Follow'd my Banifhment, and this Twenty years,
This Rock, and thefe Demefnes, have been my World,
Where I have liv'd at honeft freedom, pay'd
More pious Debts to Heav'n, than in all
The fore-end of my time. But, up to th' Mountains,
This is not Hunters Language; he that strikes
The Venison firft, fhall be the Lord o'th' Feast,
To him the other two fhall minifter,
And we will fear no Poison, which attends
In place of greater State:
I'll meet you in the Valleys.
How hard it is to hide the fparks of Nature?
Thefe Boys know little they are Sons to th' King,
Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive.
They think they are mine, and though train'd up thus meanly I'th' Cave, where, on the Bow, their Thoughts do hit
The Roofs of Palaces, and Nature prompts them
In fimple and low things, to Prince it, much
Beyond the trick of others. This Polydor,
The Heir of Cymbeline and Britain, whom
The King his Father call'd Guiderius, Jove!
When on my Three-foot Stool I fit, and tell
The warlike Feats I have done, his Spirits fly out
Into my Story: Say, thus mine Enemy fell,
And thus I fet my Foot on's Neck, even then
The Princely Blood flows in his Cheek, he fweats,
Strains his young Nerves, and puts himself in pofture
That acts my Words. The younger Brother Cadwall,
Once Arviragus, in as like a Figure
Strikes Life into my Speech, and shews much more
His own conceiving. Hark, the Game is rouz'd----
Oh Cymbeline! Heav'n and my Confcience knows
Thou didft unjustly banifh me: whereon
At three, and two Years old, I ftole thefe Babes,
Thinking to bar thee of Succeffion, as
Thou reft'ft me of my Lands. Euriphile,
Thou waft their Nurfe,they took thee for theirMother,
And every day do Honour to her Grave;
My felf Belarius, that am Morgan call'd,
They take for natural Father. The Game is up.
Enter Pifanio and Imogen.
Imo. Thou told'ft me when we came from Horse, the Place Was near at hand: Ne'er long'd my Mother fo
To fee me firft, as I have now----Pifanio! Man!
Where is Pofthumus? What is in thy Mind
That makes thee ftare thus? Wherefore breaks that Sigh
From th'inward of thee? One, One, but painted thus
Would be interpreted a thing perplex'd
Beyond Self-explication. Put thy felf
Into a 'haviour of lefs Fear, e'er Wildness
Vanquish my ftaieder Senfes. What's the Matter?
Why tender'st thou that Paper to me, with
A Look untender? If't be Summer News,
Smile to't before, if Winterly, thou need'st
But keep that Count'nance ftill. My Husband's Hand?
That Drug-damn'd Italy, hath out-craftied him,
And he's at fome hard point. Speak, Man, thy Tongue
May take off fome Extremity, which to read
Would be even Mortal to me.
And you fhall find me, wretched Man, a thing
The most difdain'd of Fortune.
HY Miftrefs, Pifanio, hath play'd the Strumpet in my Bed: The Teftimonies whereof lye bleeding in me. I Speak not out of weak Surmises, but from Proof as strong as my Grief, and as certain as I expect my Revenge. That part, thou Pifanio, must act for me, if thy Faith be not tainted with the breach of hers; let thine own Hands take away her Life: I shall give thee opportunity at Milford-Haven. at Milford-Haven. She hath my Letter for the Purpofe; where, if thou fear to strike, and to make me certain it is done, thou art the Pander to her Dishonour, and equally to me Difloyal.
Pif. What fhall I need to draw my Sword, the Paper
Hath cut her Throat already. No, 'tis Slander,
Whose Edge is sharper than the Sword, whofe Tongue
Out-venoms all the Worms of Nile, whofe Breath
Rides on the pofting Winds, and doth belye
All Corners of the World. Kings, Queens, and States,
Maids, Matrons, nay the Secrets of the Grave
This viperous Slander enters. What chear, Madam?
Imo. Falfe to his Bed! What is it to be falfe?
To lye in watch there, and to think on him?
To weep 'twixt Clock and Clock? If sleep charge Nature,
To break it with a fearful Dream of him,
And cry my felf awake? that's falfe to's Bed; is it?
Pif. Alas, good Lady!
Imo. I falfe! thy Confcience witness, Iachimo,
Thou didst accufe him of Incontinency,
Thou then look'dst like a Villain: Now, methinks,
Thy Favour's good enough. Some Jay of Italy,
Whofe Wother was her Painting, hath betray'd him:
Poor I am ftale, a Garment out of Fashion,
And for I am richer than to hang by th' Walls,
I must be ript; To Pieces with me: Oh!
Mens Vows are Womens Traitors. All good feeming
By thy Revolt, oh Husband, fhall be thought
Put on for Villany: not born where't grows,
But worn a Bait for Ladies.
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