Imatges de pàgina
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I'th' Cave, there, on the Brow, their thoughts do hit
The roof of Palaces; and nature prompts them,
In simple and low things, to prince it, much
Beyond the trick of others. This Paladour, (32)
(The heir of Cymbeline and Britaine, whom
The King his father callid Guideriusg) Jove !
When on my three-foot-ftool I fit, and tell
The warlike feats I've done, his spirits fly out
Into my story: say, “ thus mine enemy fell,
« And'thus I set my foot on's neck" — even theni
The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats,
Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture
That acts my words The younger brother Cadwall, ,
(Once, Arviragus,) in as like a figure
Strikes life into my speech, and thews much more
His own conceiving. Hark, the game is rouz'd.
Oh Cymbeline! heav'n and my conscience know,
Thou didit unjustly banish me : whereon
At three and two years old, I stole these babes;
Thinking to bar thee of succession, as
Thou reft’ft me of my lands. Euriphile,
Thou waft their nurse; they take thee for their mos

ther, And every day do honour to her Grave; My self Belarius, that am Morgan call'd, They take for natural father. The game's up. [Exit. And so the Grammar and Syntax of the Sentence is compleat. We call the Arching of a Cavern, or Overhanging of a Hill, metaphorically, the Brow; and in like manner the Greeks and Latines used oepus, and Supercilium.

(32) This Polydore,] Tho' the Name be several times writ thus in the Old Books, I am persuaded it is not as the Author intended. It is a Compound purely Greek, without the Turn or Foundation of a British Name. The first Time this Name is mention'd in both the old Folio's, it is written Paladour, as I have reform'd the Text; be cause this, as well as Cadwal, is of the British Caft. What Pala in the first Name, or Wal in the other, may fignify, I am not deep enough in Cambrian to know, but dour, or dhür, means profluens aque; as Câd, does, Caput.

Enter

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Enter Pisanio, and Imogen.
Imo. Thou told'st me, when we came from Horse,

the place
Was near at hand. Ne'er long'd my mother fo
To see me first, as I have now Pisanio,
Where is Pofthumus? What is in thy mind,
That makes thee ftare thus? wherefore breaks that figh
From th' inward of thee? one, but painted thus,
Would be interpreted a thing perplex'd
Beyond self-explication. Put thy felf
Into a 'haviour of less fear, ere wildness
Vanquish my stayder senses what's the matter?
Why tender'ft thou that paper to me, with
A look untender? if't be fummer 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 some hard point. Speak, man; thy tongue
May take off some extremity, which to read
Would be ev’n mortal to me.

Pif. Please you, read;
And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing
The moft disdain'd of fortune.

Imogen reads.
JHY mistress, Pifanio, hath play'd the strumpet in

my bed : the testimonies 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 expezt my rea venge. That part thou, Pisanio, 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. She hath my letter for the purpose ; where, if thou fear to Arike, and to make me certain it is done, thou art the Pander to her dishono?', and equally to me disloyal.

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Pis. What shall I need to draw my sword ?

sword ? the paper Hath cuc her throat already. —No, 'tis flander; Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue Out-venoms all the worms of Nile ; whose breath Rides on the posting winds, and doth belye All corners of the world. Kings, Queens, and states, Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the Grave This viperous flander enters. What chear, madam?

Imo. False to his bed! what is it to be false? 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 self awake ? that false to's bed!

Pif. Alas, good lady!

Imo. I false? thy conscience witness, Iachimo, Thou did'st accuse him of incontinency, Thou then lookd’st like a villain ; now, methinks, Thy favour's good enough. Some Jay of Italy (33) (Whose mother was her painting) hath betray'd him ; (33)

Some 1 ay of Italy (Whole Mother was ber Painting) hath betray'd bim.) This Passage has strongly lain under my Suspicion, tho' I have not ventur’d to give it an Emendation. If the Text be genuine as it ftands, it seems to me to have this Sense, whose Mother was a Bird of the fame Feather ; i. e. such another gay Strumpet : which is severe enough. I have imagin’d, the Poet might have wrote ;

(Whose Mother was ber planting) i. e. was Bawd to her, and planted her on Pofthumus : which is ftill more sarcastical. Again, Mr. Rowe gives us a Reading, which I fhould very eagerly espouse, were I sure the Word were standard, and that it were not coin'd by the casual Inversion of into a W:

(Whose Wother was her Painting) i. e. whose chief Beauty was her artificial Face, her false Complexion. For Mr. Gildon, in his short Gloflary prefixd to Shakespeare's Poems, comes and boldly tells us, Wother fignifies Merit, Beauty, &c. , But I shrewdly suspect, he struck out these Interpretations to sort with the Sense of the Reading he found in Mr. Rowe; and trusted implicitly to his Theme being genuine. But I have search'd in vain, and can find no such word as Wother. SPEL MAN in his Glossary has pf (i. e. Woth) which he expounds, Eloquentia, facundia, cloquence. But this, I am afraid, in no kind will serve our Turn.

Poor

an M

Poor I am ftale, a garment out of fashion ;
And, for I'm richer than to hang by th' walls,
I must be ript: to pieces with me : oh,
Mens vows are womens traitors. - All good Seem-

ing
By thy revolt, oh husband, shall be thought
Put on for villany: not born, where't grows;
But worn, a bait for ladies.

Pif. Madam, hear me
Imo. True honest men being heard, like false Æneas,
Were in his time thought falle: and Sinon's Weeping:
Did scandal many a holy tear; took pity
From most true wretchedness. So thou, Pofthumus,
Wilt lay the leven to all proper men;
Goodly, and gallant, shall be false and perjur'd,
From thy great fail. Come, fellow, be thou honest,
Do thou thy master's bidding: when thou seeft him,
A little witness my obedience. Look!
I draw the sword my self, take it, and hit
The innocent mansion of my love, my heart ;
Fear not, 'tis empty of all things, but grief;
Thy master is not there ; who was, indeed,
The riches of it: Do his Bidding, strike;
Thou may'st be valiant in a better cause,
But now thou seem't a coward.

Pil. Hence, vile instrument!
Thou shalt not damn my hand.

Imo. Why, I muft die;
And if I do not by thy hand, thou art
No servant of thy master's. Gainst self-flaughter
There is a prohibition so divine,
That cravens my weak hand: come,

i come, here's my heart (Something's afore’t soft, foft, we'll no de

[Opening her breast. Obedient as ühe scabbard! What is here? The Scriptures of the loyal Leonatus All turn'd to Heresie? away, a way,

[Puiling his letters out of her bolom. Vôl. VI.

Dd

Cor

fence;

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Corrupters of

my
faith!

you

shall no more
Be stomachers to my heart: thus may poor fools
Believe false teachers : tho' those that are betray'd,
Do feel the treafon fharply, yet the traitor
Stands in worse case of woe. And thou, Posthumus,
That set my disobedience 'gainst the King,
And mad'st me put into contempt the suits
Of princely fellows, shalt hereafter find,
It is no act of common paffage, but
A ftrain of rareness : and I grieve my felf,
To think, when thou shalt be dif-edg’d by her
Whom now thou tir'it on, how thy memory
Will then be pang’dby me. -Prythee, dispatch ;
The lamb entreats the butcher. Where's thy knife?
Thou art too slow to do thy master's bidding,
When I desire it too.

Pif. () gracious lady!
Since I receiv'd command to do this business,
I have not slept one wink.

Imo. Do't, and to bed then.
Pif. I'll break mine eye-balls first.

Imo. Ah, wherefore then
Didst undertake it? why hast thou abus'd
So many miles, with a pretence? this place?
Mine action and thine own? our horses labour?
The time inviting thee? the perturb'd Court,
For my being absent? whereunto I never
Purpose Return. Why haft thou gone so far,
To be unbent, when thou haft ta'en thy stand,
Th' elected deer before thee?

Pis But to win time
To lose so bad employment, in the which
I have consider'd of a courie; good lady,
Hear me with patience.

lino. Talk thy tongue weary, speak.
I've heard, I am a strumpet; and mine ear
(Therein false ftruck) can take no greater wound,
Nor tent to bottom That. But, speak.
Pif. Then, Madam,

I thought

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