Clo. Thou precious Varlet,
My Taylor made them not

   Gui. Hence then, and thanke
The man that gaue them thee. Thou art some Foole,
I am loath to beate thee

   Clot. Thou iniurious Theefe,
Heare but my name, and tremble

   Gui. What's thy name?
  Clo. Cloten, thou Villaine

   Gui. Cloten, thou double Villaine be thy name,
I cannot tremble at it, were it Toad, or Adder, Spider,
'Twould moue me sooner

   Clot. To thy further feare,
Nay, to thy meere Confusion, thou shalt know
I am Sonne to'th' Queene

   Gui. I am sorry for't: not seeming
So worthy as thy Birth

   Clot. Art not afeard?
  Gui. Those that I reuerence, those I feare: the Wise:
At Fooles I laugh: not feare them

   Clot. Dye the death:
When I haue slaine thee with my proper hand,
Ile follow those that euen now fled hence:
And on the Gates of Luds-Towne set your heads:
Yeeld Rusticke Mountaineer.

Fight and Exeunt.

Enter Belarius and Aruiragus.

  Bel. No Companie's abroad?
  Arui. None in the world: you did mistake him sure

   Bel. I cannot tell: Long is it since I saw him,
But Time hath nothing blurr'd those lines of Fauour
Which then he wore: the snatches in his voice,
And burst of speaking were as his: I am absolute
'Twas very Cloten

   Arui. In this place we left them;
I wish my Brother make good time with him,
You say he is so fell

   Bel. Being scarse made vp,
I meane to man; he had not apprehension
Of roaring terrors: For defect of iudgement
Is oft the cause of Feare.
Enter Guiderius.

But see thy Brother

   Gui. This Cloten was a Foole, an empty purse,
There was no money in't: Not Hercules
Could haue knock'd out his Braines, for he had none:
Yet I not doing this, the Foole had borne
My head, as I do his

   Bel. What hast thou done?
  Gui. I am perfect what: cut off one Clotens head,
Sonne to the Queene (after his owne report)
Who call'd me Traitor, Mountaineer, and swore
With his owne single hand heel'd take vs in,
Displace our heads, where (thanks the Gods) they grow
And set them on Luds-Towne

   Bel. We are all vndone

   Gui. Why, worthy Father, what haue we to loose,
But that he swore to take our Liues? the Law
Protects not vs, then why should we be tender,
To let an arrogant peece of flesh threat vs?
Play Iudge, and Executioner, all himselfe?
For we do feare the Law. What company
Discouer you abroad?
  Bel. No single soule
Can we set eye on: but in all safe reason
He must haue some Attendants. Though his Honor
Was nothing but mutation, I, and that
From one bad thing to worse: Not Frenzie,
Not absolute madnesse could so farre haue rau'd
To bring him heere alone: although perhaps
It may be heard at Court, that such as wee
Caue heere, hunt heere, are Out-lawes, and in time
May make some stronger head, the which he hearing,
(As it is like him) might breake out, and sweare
Heel'd fetch vs in, yet is't not probable
To come alone, either he so vndertaking,
Or they so suffering: then on good ground we feare,
If we do feare this Body hath a taile
More perillous then the head

   Arui. Let Ord'nance
Come as the Gods fore-say it: howsoere,
My Brother hath done well

   Bel. I had no minde
To hunt this day: The Boy Fideles sickenesse
Did make my way long forth

   Gui. With his owne Sword,
Which he did waue against my throat, I haue tane
His head from him: Ile throw't into the Creeke
Behinde our Rocke, and let it to the Sea,
And tell the Fishes, hee's the Queenes Sonne, Cloten,
That's all I reake.
Enter.

  Bel. I feare 'twill be reueng'd:
Would (Polidore) thou had'st not done't: though valour
Becomes thee well enough

   Arui. Would I had done't:
So the Reuenge alone pursu'de me: Polidore
I loue thee brotherly, but enuy much
Thou hast robb'd me of this deed: I would Reuenges
That possible strength might meet, wold seek vs through
And put vs to our answer

   Bel. Well, 'tis done:
Wee'l hunt no more to day, nor seeke for danger
Where there's no profit. I prythee to our Rocke,
You and Fidele play the Cookes: Ile stay
Till hasty Polidore returne, and bring him
To dinner presently

   Arui. Poore sicke Fidele.
Ile willingly to him, to gaine his colour,
Il'd let a parish of such Clotens blood,
And praise my selfe for charity.
Enter.

  Bel. Oh thou Goddesse,
Thou diuine Nature; thou thy selfe thou blazon'st
In these two Princely Boyes: they are as gentle
As Zephires blowing below the Violet,
Not wagging his sweet head; and yet, as rough
(Their Royall blood enchaf'd) as the rud'st winde,
That by the top doth take the Mountaine Pine,
And make him stoope to th' Vale. 'Tis wonder
That an inuisible instinct should frame them
To Royalty vnlearn'd, Honor vntaught,
Ciuility not seene from other: valour
That wildely growes in them, but yeelds a crop
As if it had beene sow'd: yet still it's strange
What Clotens being heere to vs portends,
Or what his death will bring vs.
Enter Guidereus.

  Gui. Where's my Brother?
I haue sent Clotens Clot-pole downe the streame,
In Embassie to his Mother; his Bodie's hostage
For his returne.

Solemn Musick.

  Bel. My ingenuous Instrument,
(Hearke Polidore) it sounds: but what occasion
Hath Cadwal now to giue it motion? Hearke

   Gui. Is he at home?
  Bel. He went hence euen now

   Gui. What does he meane?
Since death of my deer'st Mother
It did not speake before. All solemne things
Should answer solemne Accidents. The matter?
Triumphes for nothing, and lamenting Toyes,
Is iollity for Apes, and greefe for Boyes.
Is Cadwall mad?
Enter Aruiragus, with Imogen dead, bearing her in his Armes.

  Bel. Looke, heere he comes,
And brings the dire occasion in his Armes,
Of what we blame him for

   Arui. The Bird is dead
That we haue made so much on. I had rather
Haue skipt from sixteene yeares of Age, to sixty:
To haue turn'd my leaping time into a Crutch,
Then haue seene this

   Gui. Oh sweetest, fayrest Lilly:
My Brother weares thee not the one halfe so well,
As when thou grew'st thy selfe

   Bel. Oh Melancholly,
Who euer yet could sound thy bottome? Finde
The Ooze, to shew what Coast thy sluggish care
Might'st easilest harbour in. Thou blessed thing,
Ioue knowes what man thou might'st haue made: but I,
Thou dyed'st a most rare Boy, of Melancholly.
How found you him?
  Arui. Starke, as you see:
Thus smiling, as some Fly had tickled slumber,
Not as deaths dart being laugh'd at: his right Cheeke
Reposing on a Cushion

   Gui. Where?
  Arui. O'th' floore:
His armes thus leagu'd, I thought he slept, and put
My clowted Brogues from off my feete, whose rudenesse
Answer'd my steps too lowd

   Gui. Why, he but sleepes:
If he be gone, hee'l make his Graue, a Bed:
With female Fayries will his Tombe be haunted,
And Wormes will not come to thee

   Arui. With fayrest Flowers
Whil'st Sommer lasts, and I liue heere, Fidele,
Ile sweeten thy sad graue: thou shalt not lacke
The Flower that's like thy face. Pale-Primrose, nor
The azur'd Hare-Bell, like thy Veines: no, nor
The leafe of Eglantine, whom not to slander,
Out-sweetned not thy breath: the Raddocke would
With Charitable bill (Oh bill sore shaming
Those rich-left-heyres, that let their Fathers lye
Without a Monument) bring thee all this,
Yea, and furr'd Mosse besides. When Flowres are none
To winter-ground thy Coarse-
  Gui. Prythee haue done,
And do not play in Wench-like words with that
Which is so serious. Let vs bury him,
And not protract with admiration, what
Is now due debt. To'th' graue

   Arui. Say, where shall's lay him?
  Gui. By good Euriphile, our Mother

   Arui. Bee't so:
And let vs (Polidore) though now our voyces
Haue got the mannish cracke, sing him to'th' ground
As once to our Mother: vse like note, and words,
Saue that Euriphile, must be Fidele

   Gui. Cadwall,
I cannot sing: Ile weepe, and word it with thee;
For Notes of sorrow, out of tune, are worse
Then Priests, and Phanes that lye

   Arui. Wee'l speake it then

   Bel. Great greefes I see med'cine the lesse: For Cloten
Is quite forgot. He was a Queenes Sonne, Boyes,
And though he came our Enemy, remember
He was paid for that: though meane, and mighty rotting
Together haue one dust, yet Reuerence
(That Angell of the world) doth make distinction
Of place 'tweene high, and low. Our Foe was Princely,
And though you tooke his life, as being our Foe,
Yet bury him, as a Prince

   Gui. Pray you fetch him hither,
Thersites body is as good as Aiax,
When neyther are aliue

   Arui. If you'l go fetch him,
Wee'l say our Song the whil'st: Brother begin

   Gui. Nay Cadwall, we must lay his head to th' East,
My Father hath a reason for't

   Arui. 'Tis true

   Gui. Come on then, and remoue him

   Arui. So, begin.

SONG.

  Guid. Feare no more the heate o'th' Sun,
Nor the furious Winters rages,
Thou thy worldly task hast don,
Home art gon, and tane thy wages.
Golden Lads, and Girles all must,
As Chimney-Sweepers come to dust

   Arui. Feare no more the frowne o'th' Great,
Thou art past the Tirants stroake,
Care no more to cloath and eate,
To thee the Reede is as the Oake:
The Scepter, Learning, Physicke must,
All follow this and come to dust

   Guid. Feare no more the Lightning flash

   Arui. Nor th' all-dreaded Thunderstone

   Gui. Feare not Slander, Censure rash

   Arui. Thou hast finish'd Ioy and mone

   Both. All Louers young, all Louers must,
Consigne to thee and come to dust

   Guid. No Exorcisor harme thee,
  Arui. Nor no witch-craft charme thee

   Guid. Ghost vnlaid forbeare thee

   Arui. Nothing ill come neere thee

   Both. Quiet consumation haue,
And renowned be thy graue.
Enter Belarius with the body of Cloten.

  Gui. We haue done our obsequies:
Come lay him downe

   Bel. Heere's a few Flowres, but 'bout midnight more:
The hearbes that haue on them cold dew o'th' night
Are strewings fit'st for Graues: vpon their Faces.
You were as Flowres, now wither'd: euen so
These Herbelets shall, which we vpon you strew.
Come on, away, apart vpon our knees:
The ground that gaue them first, ha's them againe:
Their pleasures here are past, so are their paine.

Exeunt.

Imogen awakes.

Yes Sir, to Milford-Hauen, which is the way?
I thanke you: by yond bush? pray how farre thether?
'Ods pittikins: can it be sixe mile yet?
I haue gone all night: 'Faith, Ile lye downe, and sleepe.
But soft; no Bedfellow? Oh Gods, and Goddesses!
These Flowres are like the pleasures of the World;
This bloody man the care on't. I hope I dreame:
For so I thought I was a Caue-keeper,
And Cooke to honest Creatures. But 'tis not so:
'Twas but a bolt of nothing, shot of nothing,
Which the Braine makes of Fumes. Our very eyes,
Are sometimes like our Iudgements, blinde. Good faith
I tremble still with feare: but if there be
Yet left in Heauen, as small a drop of pittie
As a Wrens eye; fear'd Gods, a part of it.
The Dreame's heere still: euen when I wake it is
Without me, as within me: not imagin'd, felt.
A headlesse man? The Garments of Posthumus?
I know the shape of's Legge: this is his Hand:
His Foote Mercuriall: his martiall Thigh
The brawnes of Hercules: but his Iouiall face-
Murther in heauen? How? 'tis gone. Pisanio,
All Curses madded Hecuba gaue the Greekes,
And mine to boot, be darted on thee: thou
Conspir'd with that Irregulous diuell Cloten,
Hath heere cut off my Lord. To write, and read,
Be henceforth treacherous. Damn'd Pisanio,
Hath with his forged Letters (damn'd Pisanio)
From this most brauest vessell of the world
Strooke the maine top! Oh Posthumus, alas,
Where is thy head? where's that? Aye me! where's that?
Pisanio might haue kill'd thee at the heart,
And left this head on. How should this be, Pisanio?
'Tis he, and Cloten: Malice, and Lucre in them
Haue laid this Woe heere. Oh 'tis pregnant, pregnant!
The Drugge he gaue me, which hee said was precious
And Cordiall to me, haue I not found it
Murd'rous to'th' Senses? That confirmes it home:
This is Pisanio's deede, and Cloten: Oh!
Giue colour to my pale cheeke with thy blood,
That we the horrider may seeme to those
Which chance to finde vs. Oh, my Lord! my Lord!
Enter Lucius, Captaines, and a Soothsayer.

  Cap. To them, the Legions garrison'd in Gallia
After your will, haue crost the Sea, attending
You heere at Milford-Hauen, with your Shippes:
They are heere in readinesse

   Luc. But what from Rome?
  Cap. The Senate hath stirr'd vp the Confiners,
And Gentlemen of Italy, most willing Spirits,
That promise Noble Seruice: and they come
Vnder the Conduct of bold Iachimo,
Syenna's Brother

   Luc. When expect you them?
  Cap. With the next benefit o'th' winde

   Luc. This forwardnesse
Makes our hopes faire. Command our present numbers
Be muster'd: bid the Captaines looke too't. Now Sir,
What haue you dream'd of late of this warres purpose

   Sooth. Last night, the very Gods shew'd me a vision
(I fast, and pray'd for their Intelligence) thus:
I saw Ioues Bird, the Roman Eagle wing'd
From the spungy South, to this part of the West,
There vanish'd in the Sun-beames, which portends
(Vnlesse my sinnes abuse my Diuination)
Successe to th' Roman hoast

   Luc. Dreame often so,
And neuer false. Soft hoa, what truncke is heere?
Without his top? The ruine speakes, that sometime
It was a worthy building. How? a Page?
Or dead, or sleeping on him? But dead rather:
For Nature doth abhorre to make his bed
With the defunct, or sleepe vpon the dead.
Let's see the Boyes face

   Cap. Hee's aliue my Lord

   Luc. Hee'l then instruct vs of this body: Young one,
Informe vs of thy Fortunes, for it seemes
They craue to be demanded: who is this
Thou mak'st thy bloody Pillow? Or who was he
That (otherwise then noble Nature did)
Hath alter'd that good Picture? What's thy interest
In this sad wracke? How came't? Who is't?
What art thou?
  Imo. I am nothing; or if not,
Nothing to be were better: This was my Master,
A very valiant Britaine, and a good,
That heere by Mountaineers lyes slaine: Alas,
There is no more such Masters: I may wander
From East to Occident, cry out for Seruice,
Try many, all good: serue truly: neuer
Finde such another Master

   Luc. 'Lacke, good youth:
Thou mou'st no lesse with thy complaining, then
Thy Maister in bleeding: say his name, good Friend

   Imo. Richard du Champ: If I do lye, and do
No harme by it, though the Gods heare, I hope
They'l pardon it. Say you Sir?
  Luc. Thy name?
  Imo. Fidele Sir

   Luc. Thou doo'st approue thy selfe the very same:
Thy Name well fits thy Faith; thy Faith, thy Name:
Wilt take thy chance with me? I will not say
Thou shalt be so well master'd, but be sure
No lesse belou'd. The Romane Emperors Letters
Sent by a Consull to me, should not sooner
Then thine owne worth preferre thee: Go with me

   Imo. Ile follow Sir. But first, and't please the Gods,
Ile hide my Master from the Flies, as deepe
As these poore Pickaxes can digge: and when
With wild wood-leaues & weeds, I ha' strew'd his graue
And on it said a Century of prayers
(Such as I can) twice o're, Ile weepe, and sighe,
And leauing so his seruice, follow you,
So please you entertaine mee

   Luc. I good youth,
And rather Father thee, then Master thee: My Friends,
The Boy hath taught vs manly duties: Let vs
Finde out the prettiest Dazied-Plot we can,
And make him with our Pikes and Partizans
A Graue: Come, Arme him: Boy hee's preferr'd
By thee, to vs, and he shall be interr'd
As Souldiers can. Be cheerefull; wipe thine eyes,
Some Falles are meanes the happier to arise.

Exeunt.

Scena Tertia.

Enter Cymbeline, Lords, and Pisanio.

  Cym. Againe: and bring me word how 'tis with her,
A Feauour with the absence of her Sonne;
A madnesse, of which her life's in danger: Heauens,
How deeply you at once do touch me. Imogen,
The great part of my comfort, gone: My Queene
Vpon a desperate bed, and in a time
When fearefull Warres point at me: Her Sonne gone,
So needfull for this present? It strikes me, past
The hope of comfort. But for thee, Fellow,
Who needs must know of her departure, and
Dost seeme so ignorant, wee'l enforce it from thee
By a sharpe Torture

   Pis. Sir, my life is yours,
I humbly set it at your will: But for my Mistris,
I nothing know where she remaines: why gone,
Nor when she purposes returne. Beseech your Highnes,
Hold me your loyall Seruant

   Lord. Good my Liege,
The day that she was missing, he was heere;
I dare be bound hee's true, and shall performe
All parts of his subiection loyally. For Cloten,
There wants no diligence in seeking him,
And will no doubt be found

   Cym. The time is troublesome:
Wee'l slip you for a season, but our iealousie
Do's yet depend

   Lord. So please your Maiesty,
The Romaine Legions, all from Gallia drawne,
Are landed on your Coast, with a supply
Of Romaine Gentlemen, by the Senate sent

   Cym. Now for the Counsaile of my Son and Queen,
I am amaz'd with matter

   Lord. Good my Liege,
Your preparation can affront no lesse
Then what you heare of. Come more, for more you're ready:
The want is, but to put those Powres in motion,
That long to moue

   Cym. I thanke you: let's withdraw
And meete the Time, as it seekes vs. We feare not
What can from Italy annoy vs, but
We greeue at chances heere. Away.

Exeunt.

  Pisa. I heard no Letter from my Master, since
I wrote him Imogen was slaine. 'Tis strange:
Nor heare I from my Mistris, who did promise
To yeeld me often tydings. Neither know I
What is betide to Cloten, but remaine
Perplext in all. The Heauens still must worke:
Wherein I am false, I am honest: not true, to be true.
These present warres shall finde I loue my Country,
Euen to the note o'th' King, or Ile fall in them:
All other doubts, by time let them be cleer'd,
Fortune brings in some Boats, that are not steer'd.
Enter.


Scena Quarta.

Enter Belarius, Guiderius, & Aruiragus.

  Gui. The noyse is round about vs

   Bel. Let vs from it

   Arui. What pleasure Sir, we finde in life, to locke it
From Action, and Aduenture

   Gui. Nay, what hope
Haue we in hiding vs? This way the Romaines
Must, or for Britaines slay vs, or receiue vs
For barbarous and vnnaturall Reuolts
During their vse, and slay vs after

   Bel. Sonnes,
Wee'l higher to the Mountaines, there secure vs.
To the Kings party there's no going: newnesse
Of Clotens death (we being not knowne, nor muster'd
Among the Bands) may driue vs to a render
Where we haue liu'd; and so extort from's that
Which we haue done, whose answer would be death
Drawne on with Torture

   Gui. This is (Sir) a doubt
In such a time, nothing becomming you,
Nor satisfying vs

   Arui. It is not likely,
That when they heare their Roman horses neigh,
Behold their quarter'd Fires; haue both their eyes
And eares so cloyd importantly as now,
That they will waste their time vpon our note,
To know from whence we are

   Bel. Oh, I am knowne
Of many in the Army: Many yeeres
(Though Cloten then but young) you see, not wore him
From my remembrance. And besides, the King
Hath not deseru'd my Seruice, nor your Loues,
Who finde in my Exile, the want of Breeding;
The certainty of this heard life, aye hopelesse
To haue the courtesie your Cradle promis'd,
But to be still hot Summers Tanlings, and
The shrinking Slaues of Winter

   Gui. Then be so,
Better to cease to be. Pray Sir, to'th' Army:
I, and my Brother are not knowne; your selfe
So out of thought, and thereto so ore-growne,
Cannot be question'd

   Arui. By this Sunne that shines
Ile thither: What thing is't, that I neuer
Did see man dye, scarse euer look'd on blood,
But that of Coward Hares, hot Goats, and Venison?
Neuer bestrid a Horse saue one, that had
A Rider like my selfe, who ne're wore Rowell,
Nor Iron on his heele? I am asham'd
To looke vpon the holy Sunne, to haue
The benefit of his blest Beames, remaining
So long a poore vnknowne

   Gui. By heauens Ile go,
If you will blesse me Sir, and giue me leaue,
Ile take the better care: but if you will not,
The hazard therefore due fall on me, by
The hands of Romaines

   Arui. So say I, Amen

   Bel. No reason I (since of your liues you set
So slight a valewation) should reserue
My crack'd one to more care. Haue with you Boyes:
If in your Country warres you chance to dye,
That is my Bed too (Lads) and there Ile lye.
Lead, lead; the time seems long, their blood thinks scorn
Till it flye out, and shew them Princes borne.

Exeunt.


Actus Quintus. Scena Prima.

Enter Posthumus alone.

  Post. Yea bloody cloth, Ile keep thee: for I am wisht
Thou should'st be colour'd thus. You married ones,
If each of you should take this course, how many
Must murther Wiues much better then themselues
For wrying but a little? Oh Pisanio,
Euery good Seruant do's not all Commands:
No Bond, but to do iust ones. Gods, if you
Should haue 'tane vengeance on my faults, I neuer
Had liu'd to put on this: so had you saued
The noble Imogen, to repent, and strooke
Me (wretch) more worth your Vengeance. But alacke,
You snatch some hence for little faults; that's loue
To haue them fall no more: you some permit
To second illes with illes, each elder worse,
And make them dread it, to the dooers thrift.
But Imogen is your owne, do your best willes,
And make me blest to obey. I am brought hither
Among th' Italian Gentry, and to fight
Against my Ladies Kingdome: 'Tis enough
That (Britaine) I haue kill'd thy Mistris: Peace,
Ile giue no wound to thee: therefore good Heauens,
Heare patiently my purpose. Ile disrobe me
Of these Italian weedes, and suite my selfe
As do's a Britaine Pezant: so Ile fight
Against the part I come with: so Ile dye
For thee (O Imogen) euen for whom my life
Is euery breath, a death: and thus, vnknowne,
Pittied, nor hated, to the face of perill
My selfe Ile dedicate. Let me make men know
More valour in me, then my habits show.
Gods, put the strength o'th'Leonati in me:
To shame the guize o'th' world, I will begin,
The fashion lesse without, and more within.
Enter.


Scena Secunda.

Enter Lucius, Iachimo, and the Romane Army at one doore: and
the Britaine
Army at another: Leonatus Posthumus following like a poore
Souldier. They
march ouer, and goe out. Then enter againe in Skirmish Iachimo
and
Posthumus: he vanquisheth and disarmeth Iachimo, and then
leaues him.

  Iac. The heauinesse and guilt within my bosome,
Takes off my manhood: I haue belyed a Lady,
The Princesse of this Country; and the ayre on't
Reuengingly enfeebles me, or could this Carle,
A very drudge of Natures, haue subdu'de me
In my profession? Knighthoods, and Honors borne
As I weare mine) are titles but of scorne.
If that thy Gentry (Britaine) go before
This Lowt, as he exceeds our Lords, the oddes
Is, that we scarse are men, and you are Goddes.
Enter.

The Battaile continues, the Britaines fly, Cymbeline is taken: Then
enter
to his rescue, Bellarius, Guiderius, and Aruiragus.

  Bel. Stand, stand, we haue th' aduantage of the ground,
The Lane is guarded: Nothing rowts vs, but
The villany of our feares

   Gui. Arui. Stand, stand, and fight.
Enter Posthumus, and seconds the Britaines. They Rescue
Cymbeline, and
Exeunt.

Then enter Lucius, Iachimo, and Imogen.

  Luc. Away boy from the Troopes, and saue thy selfe:
For friends kil friends, and the disorder's such
As warre were hood-wink'd

   Iac. 'Tis their fresh supplies

   Luc. It is a day turn'd strangely: or betimes
Let's re-inforce, or fly.

Exeunt.

Scena Tertia.

Enter Posthumus, and a Britaine Lord.

  Lor. Cam'st thou from where they made the stand?
  Post. I did,
Though you it seemes come from the Fliers?
  Lo. I did

   Post. No blame be to you Sir, for all was lost,
But that the Heauens fought: the King himselfe
Of his wings destitute, the Army broken,
And but the backes of Britaines seene; all flying
Through a strait Lane, the Enemy full-heart'd,
Lolling the Tongue with slaught'ring: hauing worke
More plentifull, then Tooles to doo't: strooke downe
Some mortally, some slightly touch'd, some falling
Meerely through feare, that the strait passe was damm'd
With deadmen, hurt behinde, and Cowards liuing
To dye with length'ned shame

   Lo. Where was this Lane?
  Post. Close by the battell, ditch'd, & wall'd with turph,
Which gaue aduantage to an ancient Soldiour
(An honest one I warrant) who deseru'd
So long a breeding, as his white beard came to,
In doing this for's Country. Athwart the Lane,
He, with two striplings (Lads more like to run
The Country base, then to commit such slaughter,
With faces fit for Maskes, or rather fayrer
Then those for preseruation cas'd, or shame)
Made good the passage, cryed to those that fled.
Our Britaines hearts dye flying, not our men,
To darknesse fleete soules that flye backwards; stand,
Or we are Romanes, and will giue you that
Like beasts, which you shun beastly, and may saue
But to looke backe in frowne: Stand, stand. These three,
Three thousand confident, in acte as many:
For three performers are the File, when all
The rest do nothing. With this word stand, stand,
Accomodated by the Place; more Charming
With their owne Noblenesse, which could haue turn'd
A Distaffe, to a Lance, guilded pale lookes;
Part shame, part spirit renew'd, that some turn'd coward
But by example (Oh a sinne in Warre,
Damn'd in the first beginners) gan to looke
The way that they did, and to grin like Lyons
Vpon the Pikes o'th' Hunters. Then beganne
A stop i'th' Chaser; a Retyre: Anon
A Rowt, confusion thicke: forthwith they flye
Chickens, the way which they stopt Eagles: Slaues
The strides the Victors made: and now our Cowards
Like Fragments in hard Voyages became
The life o'th' need: hauing found the backe doore open
Of the vnguarded hearts: heauens, how they wound,
Some slaine before some dying; some their Friends
Ore-borne i'th' former waue, ten chac'd by one,
Are now each one the slaughter-man of twenty:
Those that would dye, or ere resist, are growne
The mortall bugs o'th' Field

   Lord. This was strange chance:
A narrow Lane, an old man, and two Boyes

   Post. Nay, do not wonder at it: you are made
Rather to wonder at the things you heare,
Then to worke any. Will you Rime vpon't,
And vent it for a Mock'rie? Heere is one:
``Two Boyes, an Oldman (twice a Boy) a Lane,
``Preseru'd the Britaines, was the Romanes bane

   Lord. Nay, be not angry Sir

   Post. Lacke, to what end?
Who dares not stand his Foe, Ile be his Friend:
For if hee'l do, as he is made to doo,
I know hee'l quickly flye my friendship too.
You haue put me into Rime

   Lord. Farewell, you're angry.
Enter.

  Post. Still going? This is a Lord: Oh Noble misery
To be i'th' Field, and aske what newes of me:
To day, how many would haue giuen their Honours
To haue sau'd their Carkasses? Tooke heele to doo't,
And yet dyed too. I, in mine owne woe charm'd
Could not finde death, where I did heare him groane,
Nor feele him where he strooke. Being an vgly Monster,
'Tis strange he hides him in fresh Cups, soft Beds,
Sweet words; or hath moe ministers then we
That draw his kniues i'th' War. Well I will finde him:
For being now a Fauourer to the Britaine,
No more a Britaine, I haue resum'd againe
The part I came in. Fight I will no more,
But yeeld me to the veriest Hinde, that shall
Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is
Heere made by'th' Romane; great the Answer be
Britaines must take. For me, my Ransome's death,
On eyther side I come to spend my breath;
Which neyther heere Ile keepe, nor beare agen,
But end it by some meanes for Imogen.
Enter two Captaines, and Soldiers.

  1 Great Iupiter be prais'd, Lucius is taken,
'Tis thought the old man, and his sonnes, were Angels

   2 There was a fourth man, in a silly habit,
That gaue th' Affront with them

   1 So 'tis reported:
But none of 'em can be found. Stand, who's there?
  Post. A Roman,
Who had not now beene drooping heere, if Seconds
Had answer'd him

   2 Lay hands on him: a Dogge,
A legge of Rome shall not returne to tell
What Crows haue peckt them here: he brags his seruice
As if he were of note: bring him to'th' King.
Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Aruiragus, Pisanio, and
Romane
Captiues. The Captaines present Posthumus to Cymbeline, who
deliuers him
ouer to a Gaoler.


Scena Quarta.

Enter Posthumus, and Gaoler.

  Gao. You shall not now be stolne,
You haue lockes vpon you:
So graze, as you finde Pasture

   2.Gao. I, or a stomacke

   Post. Most welcome bondage; for thou art a way
(I thinke) to liberty: yet am I better
Then one that's sicke o'th' Gowt, since he had rather
Groane so in perpetuity, then be cur'd
By'th' sure Physitian, Death; who is the key
T' vnbarre these Lockes. My Conscience, thou art fetter'd
More then my shanks, & wrists: you good Gods giue me
The penitent Instrument to picke that Bolt,
Then free for euer. Is't enough I am sorry?
So Children temporall Fathers do appease;
Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent,
I cannot do it better then in Gyues,
Desir'd, more then constrain'd, to satisfie
If of my Freedome 'tis the maine part, take
No stricter render of me, then my All.
I know you are more clement then vilde men,
Who of their broken Debtors take a third,
A sixt, a tenth, letting them thriue againe
On their abatement; that's not my desire.
For Imogens deere life, take mine, and though
'Tis not so deere, yet 'tis a life; you coyn'd it,
'Tweene man, and man, they waigh not euery stampe:
Though light, take Peeces for the figures sake,
(You rather) mine being yours: and so great Powres,
If you will take this Audit, take this life,
And cancell these cold Bonds. Oh Imogen,
Ile speake to thee in silence.

Solemne Musicke. Enter (as in an Apparation) Sicillius Leonatus,
Father
to Posthumus, an old man, attyred like a warriour, leading in his
hand an
ancient Matron (his wife, & Mother to Posthumus) with Musicke
before them.
Then after other Musicke, followes the two young Leonati
(Brothers to
Posthumus) with wounds as they died in the warrs. They circle
Posthumus
round as he lies sleeping.

  Sicil. No more thou Thunder-Master
shew thy spight, on Mortall Flies:
With Mars fall out with Iuno chide, that thy Adulteries
Rates, and Reuenges.
Hath my poore Boy done ought but well,
whose face I neuer saw:
I dy'de whil'st in the Wombe he staide,
attending Natures Law.
Whose Father then (as men report,
thou Orphanes Father art)
Thou should'st haue bin, and sheelded him,
from this earth-vexing smart

   Moth. Lucina lent not me her ayde,
but tooke me in my Throwes,
That from me was Posthumus ript,
came crying 'mong'st his Foes.
A thing of pitty

   Sicil. Great Nature like his Ancestrie,
moulded the stuffe so faire:
That he deseru'd the praise o'th' World,
as great Sicilius heyre

   1.Bro. When once he was mature for man,
in Britaine where was hee
That could stand vp his paralell?
Or fruitfull obiect bee?
In eye of Imogen, that best could deeme
his dignitie

   Mo. With Marriage wherefore was he mockt
to be exil'd, and throwne
From Leonati Seate, and cast from her,
his deerest one:
Sweete Imogen?
  Sic. Why did you suffer Iachimo, slight thing of Italy,
To taint his Nobler hart & braine, with needlesse ielousy,
And to become the geeke and scorne o'th' others vilany?
  2 Bro. For this, from stiller Seats we came,
our Parents, and vs twaine,
That striking in our Countries cause,
fell brauely, and were slaine,
Our Fealty, & Tenantius right, with Honor to maintaine

   1 Bro. Like hardiment Posthumus hath
to Cymbeline perform'd:
Then Iupiter, y King of Gods, why hast y thus adiourn'd
The Graces for his Merits due, being all to dolors turn'd?

  Sicil. Thy Christall window ope; looke,
looke out, no longer exercise
Vpon a valiant Race, thy harsh, and potent iniuries:

  Moth. Since (Iupiter) our Son is good,
take off his miseries

   Sicil. Peepe through thy Marble Mansion, helpe,
or we poore Ghosts will cry
To'th' shining Synod of the rest, against thy Deity

   Brothers. Helpe (Iupiter) or we appeale,
and from thy iustice flye.

Iupiter descends in Thunder and Lightning, sitting vppon an Eagle:
hee
throwes a Thunder-bolt. The Ghostes fall on their knees.

  Iupiter. No more you petty Spirits of Region low
Offend our hearing: hush. How dare you Ghostes
Accuse the Thunderer, whose Bolt (you know)
Sky-planted, batters all rebelling Coasts.
Poore shadowes of Elizium, hence, and rest
Vpon your neuer-withering bankes of Flowres.
Be not with mortall accidents opprest,
No care of yours it is, you know 'tis ours.
Whom best I loue, I crosse; to make my guift
The more delay'd, delighted. Be content,
Your low-laide Sonne, our Godhead will vplift:
His Comforts thriue, his Trials well are spent:
Our Iouiall Starre reign'd at his Birth, and in
Our Temple was he married: Rise, and fade,
He shall be Lord of Lady Imogen,
And happier much by his Affliction made
This Tablet lay vpon his Brest, wherein
Our pleasure, his full Fortune, doth confine,
And so away: no farther with your dinne
Expresse Impatience, least you stirre vp mine:
Mount Eagle, to my Palace Christalline.

Ascends

  Sicil. He came in Thunder, his Celestiall breath
Was sulphurous to smell: the holy Eagle
Stoop'd, as to foote vs: his Ascension is
More sweet then our blest Fields: his Royall Bird
Prunes the immortall wing, and cloyes his Beake,
As when his God is pleas'd

   All. Thankes Iupiter

   Sic. The Marble Pauement clozes, he is enter'd
His radiant Roofe: Away, and to be blest
Let vs with care performe his great behest.

Vanish

  Post. Sleepe, thou hast bin a Grandsire, and begot
A Father to me: and thou hast created
A Mother, and two Brothers. But (oh scorne)
Gone, they went hence so soone as they were borne:
And so I am awake. Poore Wretches, that depend
On Greatnesse, Fauour; Dreame as I haue done,
Wake, and finde nothing. But (alas) I swerue:
Many Dreame not to finde, neither deserue,
And yet are steep'd in Fauours; so am I
That haue this Golden chance, and know not why:
What Fayeries haunt this ground? A Book? Oh rare one,
Be not, as is our fangled world, a Garment
Nobler then that it couers. Let thy effects
So follow, to be most vnlike our Courtiers,
As good, as promise.

Reades.

When as a Lyons whelpe, shall to himselfe vnknown, without
seeking finde, and bee embrac'd by a peece of tender
Ayre: And when from a stately Cedar shall be lopt branches,
which being dead many yeares, shall after reuiue, bee ioynted to
the old Stocke, and freshly grow, then shall Posthumus end his
miseries, Britaine be fortunate, and flourish in Peace and Plentie.
'Tis still a Dreame: or else such stuffe as Madmen
Tongue, and braine not: either both, or nothing
Or senselesse speaking, or a speaking such
As sense cannot vntye. Be what it is,
The Action of my life is like it, which Ile keepe
If but for simpathy.
Enter Gaoler.

  Gao. Come Sir, are you ready for death?
  Post. Ouer-roasted rather: ready long ago

   Gao. Hanging is the word, Sir, if you bee readie for
that, you are well Cook'd

   Post. So if I proue a good repast to the Spectators, the
dish payes the shot

   Gao. A heauy reckoning for you Sir: But the comfort
is you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more
Tauerne Bils, which are often the sadnesse of parting, as
the procuring of mirth: you come in faint for want of
meate, depart reeling with too much drinke: sorrie that
you haue payed too much, and sorry that you are payed
too much: Purse and Braine, both empty: the Brain the
heauier, for being too light; the Purse too light, being
drawne of heauinesse. Oh, of this contradiction you shall
now be quit: Oh the charity of a penny Cord, it summes
vp thousands in a trice: you haue no true Debitor, and
Creditor but it: of what's past, is, and to come, the discharge:
your necke (Sir) is Pen, Booke, and Counters; so
the Acquittance followes

   Post. I am merrier to dye, then thou art to liue

   Gao. Indeed Sir, he that sleepes, feeles not the Tooth-Ache:
but a man that were to sleepe your sleepe, and a
Hangman to helpe him to bed, I think he would change
places with his Officer: for, look you Sir, you know not
which way you shall go

   Post. Yes indeed do I, fellow

   Gao. Your death has eyes in's head then: I haue not
seene him so pictur'd: you must either bee directed by
some that take vpon them to know, or to take vpon your
selfe that which I am sure you do not know: or iump the
after-enquiry on your owne perill: and how you shall
speed in your iournies end, I thinke you'l neuer returne
to tell one

   Post. I tell thee, Fellow, there are none want eyes, to
direct them the way I am going, but such as winke, and
will not vse them

   Gao. What an infinite mocke is this, that a man shold
haue the best vse of eyes, to see the way of blindnesse: I
am sure hanging's the way of winking.
Enter a Messenger.

  Mes. Knocke off his Manacles, bring your Prisoner to
the King

   Post. Thou bring'st good newes, I am call'd to bee
made free

   Gao. Ile be hang'd then

   Post. Thou shalt be then freer then a Gaoler; no bolts
for the dead

   Gao. Vnlesse a man would marry a Gallowes, & beget
yong Gibbets, I neuer saw one so prone: yet on my
Conscience, there are verier Knaues desire to liue, for all
he be a Roman; and there be some of them too that dye
against their willes; so should I, if I were one. I would
we were all of one minde, and one minde good: O there
were desolation of Gaolers and Galowses: I speake against
my present profit, but my wish hath a preferment
in't.

Exeunt.


Scena Quinta.

Enter Cymbeline, Bellarius, Guiderius, Aruiragus, Pisanio, and
Lords.

  Cym. Stand by my side you, whom the Gods haue made
Preseruers of my Throne: woe is my heart,
That the poore Souldier that so richly fought,
Whose ragges, sham'd gilded Armes, whose naked brest
Stept before Targes of proofe, cannot be found:
He shall be happy that can finde him, if
Our Grace can make him so

   Bel. I neuer saw
Such Noble fury in so poore a Thing;
Such precious deeds, in one that promist nought
But beggery, and poore lookes

   Cym. No tydings of him?
  Pisa. He hath bin search'd among the dead, & liuing;
But no trace of him

   Cym. To my greefe, I am
The heyre of his Reward, which I will adde
To you (the Liuer, Heart, and Braine of Britaine)
By whom (I grant) she liues. 'Tis now the time
To aske of whence you are. Report it

   Bel. Sir,
In Cambria are we borne, and Gentlemen:
Further to boast, were neyther true, nor modest,
Vnlesse I adde, we are honest

   Cym. Bow your knees:
Arise my Knights o'th' Battell, I create you
Companions to our person, and will fit you
With Dignities becomming your estates.
Enter Cornelius and Ladies.

There's businesse in these faces: why so sadly
Greet you our Victory? you looke like Romaines,
And not o'th' Court of Britaine

   Corn. Hayle great King,
To sowre your happinesse, I must report
The Queene is dead

   Cym. Who worse then a Physitian
Would this report become? But I consider,
By Med'cine life may be prolong'd, yet death
Will seize the Doctor too. How ended she?
  Cor. With horror, madly dying, like her life,
Which (being cruell to the world) concluded
Most cruell to her selfe. What she confest,
I will report, so please you. These her Women
Can trip me, if I erre, who with wet cheekes
Were present when she finish'd

   Cym. Prythee say

   Cor. First, she confest she neuer lou'd you: onely
Affected Greatnesse got by you: not you:
Married your Royalty, was wife to your place:
Abhorr'd your person

   Cym. She alone knew this:
And but she spoke it dying, I would not
Beleeue her lips in opening it. Proceed

   Corn. Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to loue
With such integrity, she did confesse
Was as a Scorpion to her sight, whose life
(But that her flight preuented it) she had
Tane off by poyson

   Cym. O most delicate Fiend!
Who is't can reade a Woman? Is there more?
  Corn. More Sir, and worse. She did confesse she had
For you a mortall Minerall, which being tooke,
Should by the minute feede on life, and ling'ring,
By inches waste you. In which time, she purpos'd
By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to
Orecome you with her shew; and in time
(When she had fitted you with her craft, to worke
Her Sonne into th' adoption of the Crowne:
But fayling of her end by his strange absence,
Grew shamelesse desperate, open'd (in despight
Of Heauen, and Men) her purposes: repented
The euils she hatch'd, were not effected: so
Dispayring, dyed

   Cym. Heard you all this, her Women?
  La. We did, so please your Highnesse

   Cym. Mine eyes
Were not in fault, for she was beautifull:
Mine eares that heare her flattery, nor my heart,
That thought her like her seeming. It had beene vicious
To haue mistrusted her: yet (Oh my Daughter)
That it was folly in me, thou mayst say,
And proue it in thy feeling. Heauen mend all.
Enter Lucius, Iachimo, and other Roman prisoners, Leonatus
behind, and
Imogen.

Thou comm'st not Caius now for Tribute, that
The Britaines haue rac'd out, though with the losse
Of many a bold one: whose Kinsmen haue made suite
That their good soules may be appeas'd, with slaughter
Of you their Captiues, which our selfe haue granted,
So thinke of your estate

   Luc. Consider Sir, the chance of Warre, the day
Was yours by accident: had it gone with vs,
We should not when the blood was cool, haue threatend
Our Prisoners with the Sword. But since the Gods
Will haue it thus, that nothing but our liues
May be call'd ransome, let it come: Sufficeth,
A Roman, with a Romans heart can suffer:
Augustus liues to thinke on't: and so much
For my peculiar care. This one thing onely
I will entreate, my Boy (a Britaine borne)
Let him be ransom'd: Neuer Master had
A Page so kinde, so duteous, diligent,
So tender ouer his occasions, true,
So feate, so Nurse-like: let his vertue ioyne
With my request, which Ile make bold your Highnesse
Cannot deny: he hath done no Britaine harme,
Though he haue seru'd a Roman. Saue him (Sir)
And spare no blood beside

   Cym. I haue surely seene him:
His fauour is familiar to me: Boy,
Thou hast look'd thy selfe into my grace,
And art mine owne. I know not why, wherefore,
To say, liue boy: ne're thanke thy Master, liue;
And aske of Cymbeline what Boone thou wilt,
Fitting my bounty, and thy state, Ile giue it:
Yea, though thou do demand a Prisoner
The Noblest tane

   Imo. I humbly thanke your Highnesse

   Luc. I do not bid thee begge my life, good Lad,
And yet I know thou wilt

   Imo. No, no, alacke,
There's other worke in hand: I see a thing
Bitter to me, as death: your life, good Master,
Must shuffle for it selfe

   Luc. The Boy disdaines me,
He leaues me, scornes me: briefely dye their ioyes,
That place them on the truth of Gyrles, and Boyes.
Why stands he so perplext?
  Cym. What would'st thou Boy?
I loue thee more, and more: thinke more and more
What's best to aske. Know'st him thou look'st on? speak
Wilt haue him liue? Is he thy Kin? thy Friend?
  Imo. He is a Romane, no more kin to me,
Then I to your Highnesse, who being born your vassaile
Am something neerer

   Cym. Wherefore ey'st him so?
  Imo. Ile tell you (Sir) in priuate, if you please
To giue me hearing

   Cym. I, with all my heart,
And lend my best attention. What's thy name?
  Imo. Fidele Sir

   Cym. Thou'rt my good youth: my Page
Ile be thy Master: walke with me: speake freely

   Bel. Is not this Boy reuiu'd from death?
  Arui. One Sand another
Not more resembles that sweet Rosie Lad:
Who dyed, and was Fidele: what thinke you?
  Gui. The same dead thing aliue

   Bel. Peace, peace, see further: he eyes vs not, forbeare
Creatures may be alike: were't he, I am sure
He would haue spoke to vs

   Gui. But we see him dead

   Bel. Be silent: let's see further

   Pisa. It is my Mistris:
Since she is liuing, let the time run on,
To good, or bad

   Cym. Come, stand thou by our side,
Make thy demand alowd. Sir, step you forth,
Giue answer to this Boy, and do it freely,
Or by our Greatnesse, and the grace of it
(Which is our Honor) bitter torture shall
Winnow the truth from falshood. One speake to him

   Imo. My boone is, that this Gentleman may render
Of whom he had this Ring

   Post. What's that to him?
  Cym. That Diamond vpon your Finger, say
How came it yours?
  Iach. Thou'lt torture me to leaue vnspoken, that
Which to be spoke, wou'd torture thee

   Cym. How? me?
  Iach. I am glad to be constrain'd to vtter that
Which torments me to conceale. By Villany
I got this Ring: 'twas Leonatus Iewell,
Whom thou did'st banish: and which more may greeue thee,
As it doth me: a Nobler Sir, ne're liu'd
'Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou heare more my Lord?
  Cym. All that belongs to this

   Iach. That Paragon, thy daughter,
For whom my heart drops blood, and my false spirits
Quaile to remember. Giue me leaue, I faint

   Cym. My Daughter? what of hir? Renew thy strength
I had rather thou should'st liue, while Nature will,
Then dye ere I heare more: striue man, and speake

   Iach. Vpon a time, vnhappy was the clocke
That strooke the houre: it was in Rome, accurst
The Mansion where: 'twas at a Feast, oh would
Our Viands had bin poyson'd (or at least
Those which I heau'd to head:) the good Posthumus,
(What should I say? he was too good to be
Where ill men were, and was the best of all
Among'st the rar'st of good ones) sitting sadly,
Hearing vs praise our Loues of Italy
For Beauty, that made barren the swell'd boast
Of him that best could speake: for Feature, laming
The Shrine of Venus, or straight-pight Minerua,
Postures, beyond breefe Nature. For Condition,
A shop of all the qualities, that man
Loues woman for, besides that hooke of Wiuing,
Fairenesse, which strikes the eye

   Cym. I stand on fire. Come to the matter

   Iach. All too soone I shall,
Vnlesse thou would'st greeue quickly. This Posthumus,
Most like a Noble Lord, in loue, and one
That had a Royall Louer, tooke his hint,
And (not dispraising whom we prais'd, therein
He was as calme as vertue) he began
His Mistris picture, which, by his tongue, being made,
And then a minde put in't, either our bragges
Were crak'd of Kitchin-Trulles, or his description
Prou'd vs vnspeaking sottes

   Cym. Nay, nay, to'th' purpose

   Iach. Your daughters Chastity, (there it beginnes)
He spake of her, as Dian had hot dreames,
And she alone, were cold: Whereat, I wretch
Made scruple of his praise, and wager'd with him
Peeces of Gold, 'gainst this, which then he wore
Vpon his honour'd finger) to attaine
In suite the place of's bed, and winne this Ring
By hers, and mine Adultery: he (true Knight)
No lesser of her Honour confident
Then I did truly finde her, stakes this Ring,
And would so, had it beene a Carbuncle
Of Phoebus Wheele; and might so safely, had it
Bin all the worth of's Carre. Away to Britaine
Poste I in this designe: Well may you (Sir)
Remember me at Court, where I was taught
Of your chaste Daughter, the wide difference
'Twixt Amorous, and Villanous. Being thus quench'd
Of hope, not longing; mine Italian braine,
Gan in your duller Britaine operate
Most vildely: for my vantage excellent.
And to be breefe, my practise so preuayl'd
That I return'd with simular proofe enough,
To make the Noble Leonatus mad,
By wounding his beleefe in her Renowne,
With Tokens thus, and thus: auerring notes
Of Chamber-hanging, Pictures, this her Bracelet
(Oh cunning how I got) nay some markes
Of secret on her person, that he could not
But thinke her bond of Chastity quite crack'd,
I hauing 'tane the forfeyt. Whereupon,
Me thinkes I see him now

   Post. I so thou do'st,
Italian Fiend. Aye me, most credulous Foole,
Egregious murtherer, Theefe, any thing
That's due to all the Villaines past, in being
To come. Oh giue me Cord, or knife, or poyson,
Some vpright Iusticer. Thou King, send out
For Torturors ingenious: it is I
That all th' abhorred things o'th' earth amend
By being worse then they. I am Posthumus,
That kill'd thy Daughter: Villain-like, I lye,
That caus'd a lesser villaine then my selfe,
A sacrilegious Theefe to doo't. The Temple
Of Vertue was she; yea, and she her selfe.
Spit, and throw stones, cast myre vpon me, set
The dogges o'th' street to bay me: euery villaine
Be call'd Posthumus Leonatus, and
Be villany lesse then 'twas. Oh Imogen!
My Queene, my life, my wife: oh Imogen,
Imogen, Imogen

   Imo. Peace my Lord, heare, heare

   Post. Shall's haue a play of this?
Thou scornfull Page, there lye thy part

   Pis. Oh Gentlemen, helpe,
Mine and your Mistris: Oh my Lord Posthumus,
You ne're kill'd Imogen till now: helpe, helpe,
Mine honour'd Lady

   Cym. Does the world go round?
  Posth. How comes these staggers on mee?
  Pisa. Wake my Mistris

   Cym. If this be so, the Gods do meane to strike me
To death, with mortall ioy

   Pisa. How fares my Mistris?
  Imo. Oh get thee from my sight,
Thou gau'st me poyson: dangerous Fellow hence,
Breath not where Princes are

   Cym. The tune of Imogen

   Pisa. Lady, the Gods throw stones of sulpher on me, if
That box I gaue you, was not thought by mee
A precious thing, I had it from the Queene

   Cym. New matter still

   Imo. It poyson'd me

   Corn. Oh Gods!
I left out one thing which the Queene confest,
Which must approue thee honest. If Pasanio
Haue (said she) giuen his Mistris that Confection
Which I gaue him for Cordiall, she is seru'd,
As I would serue a Rat

   Cym. What's this, Cornelius?
  Corn. The Queene (Sir) very oft importun'd me
To temper poysons for her, still pretending
The satisfaction of her knowledge, onely
In killing Creatures vilde, as Cats and Dogges
Of no esteeme. I dreading, that her purpose
Was of more danger, did compound for her
A certaine stuffe, which being tane, would cease
The present powre of life, but in short time,
All Offices of Nature, should againe
Do their due Functions. Haue you tane of it?
  Imo. Most like I did, for I was dead

   Bel. My Boyes, there was our error

   Gui. This is sure Fidele

   Imo. Why did you throw your wedded Lady fro[m] you?
Thinke that you are vpon a Rocke, and now
Throw me againe

   Post. Hang there like fruite, my soule,
Till the Tree dye

   Cym. How now, my Flesh? my Childe?
What, mak'st thou me a dullard in this Act?
Wilt thou not speake to me?
  Imo. Your blessing, Sir

   Bel. Though you did loue this youth, I blame ye not,
You had a motiue for't

   Cym. My teares that fall
Proue holy-water on thee; Imogen,
Thy Mothers dead

   Imo. I am sorry for't, my Lord

   Cym. Oh, she was naught; and long of her it was
That we meet heere so strangely: but her Sonne
Is gone, we know not how, nor where