Abbildungen der Seite
PDF
EPUB

Were not in fault, for she 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 !
That it was folly in me thou may't say,
And
prove it in thy feeling. Heav'n mend all!

SCENE V.
Enter Lucius, Iachimo, and other Roman Prisoners,

Posthumus bebind, and Imogen.
Thou com't 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 ourself 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 pris'ners 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 intréat; my boy, a Briton born,
Let him be ransom'd; never master had
A page so kind, fo duteous, diligent,
So tender over his occafions, true,
So feat, so nurse-like ; let his virtue join
With my request, which I'll make bold your Highness
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;
His favour is familiar to me,
Boy, thou haft look'd thyself into my grace,
And art mine own. I know not why, nor wherefore
To say, Live, boy : ne'er thank thy master, live :
And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt,
Fitting my bounty and thy state, I'll give it:
Yea, though thou demand a pris'ner,

The

[ocr errors]

The nobleft ta'en.

Imo. I humbly thank your Highness.

Luc. Į 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 see a thing
Bitter to me as death; your life, good master,
Muft fhuffle for itself.

Luc. The boy disdains me,
He leaves me, scorns me : briefly die their joys,
That place them on the truth of girls and boys.
Why stands he so perplext ?

Cym. What wouldit thou, boy?
I love thee more and more: think more and more,
What's best to ask. Know't him thou look’st on ? speak,
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 vaffai
Am something nearer.

Cym. Wherefore eye'ft him fo ?

Imo. I tell you, Sir, in private, if you please
To give me hearing.

Cym. Ay, with all my heart,
And lend my best attention. What's thy name?

Imo. Fidele, Sir.

Cym. Thou’rt my good youth, my page,
I'll be thy master : walk with me, speak freely.

(Cymbeline and Imogen go afide, Bel. Is not this Boy reviv'd from death?

Aru. One sand
Another doth not more resemble, than,

He the sweet rosiè lad who died, and was
Bi Fidele.

Guid. Ev'n the same dead thing alive.

Bel. Peace, peace, see 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 saw him dead.
Bel. Be filent; let's see further,
Pif. 'Tis my mistress-
VOL. VIII.

Ec

Since 1

[ocr errors]
[ocr errors]

322

Since she is living, let the time run on,
To good, or bad.

Cym. Come, stand thou by our fide.
Make thy demand aloud, Sir, step you forth, [Fo lachimo.
Give answer to this boy, and do it freely,
Or by our greatness and the grace of it
Which is our honour, bitter torture shall
Winnow the truth from falfhood. On, speak 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, say How came it yours?

lach. Thou'lt torture me to leave unspoken, that Which to be spoke would torture thee,

Cym. How? me ?

Tach. I'm glad to conftrain'd to utter what Torments me to conceal. By villainy I got this ring; ?twas Leonatus' jewel Whom thou didft banish:and, (which more may grieve they As it doth me) a nobler Sir ne'er liv'd "Twixt sky and ground. Will you hear more ?

Cym. All that Belongs to this.

lach. That paragon, thy daughter, For whom my heart drops blood, and my false spirits Quail to remember-give me leave, I faint- [Sevara

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

lack. Upon a time, (unhappy was the clock That ftruck the hour) it was in Rome, (accurs'd The mansion where) 'twas at a feast, (oh would Our viands had been poison'd! or at least Those which I heav'd to head :) the good PofbumusWhat should I say? he was too good to be Where ill men were, and was the beft of all Amongst the rar'ft of good ones- -Gitting fadly, Hearing us praise our loves of Italy For beauty, that made barren the swell'd boaft

Of him that beft could speak ; for ftature, laming
The shrine of Venus, or straight-pight Minerva ;
Postures beyond brief nature ; for condition,
A shop of all the qualities, that man
Loves woman for; besides, that hook of wiving,
Fairness, which strikes the eye-

Cym. I stand on fire.
Come to the matter.

lacb. All too soon I shall, Unless thou wouldft grieve quickly. This Postbumus,

(Most like a noble Lord in love, and one | That had a royal lover) took his hint;

And, not dispraising whom we prais’d, (therein
He was as calm as virtue) he began
His mistress' picture; which by his tongue made,
And then a mind put in't, either.our brags
Were crack’d-of kitchin-trulls, or his description
Prov'd us unspeaking sots.

Cym. Nay, nay, to th' purpose.

lacb. Your daughter's chastity; there it begins :
He spake of her, as Dian had hot dreams,
And the alone were cold; whereat, I wretch
Made scruple of his praise, and wag'd with him
Pieces of gold, 'gainst this which then he wore
Upon his honour'd finger, to attain
In suit the place of's bed, and win this ring,
By her and mine adultery. He, true Knight,
No lefser of her honour confident
Than I did truly find her, stakes this ring,
(And would so, had it been a carbuncle.
Of Pbaebus' wheel; and might so safely, had it
Been all the worth of's car.) Away to Britain
Poft I in this defign: well may you, Sir,
Remember me at Court, where I was taught
By your chaste daughter the wide difference
'Twixt amorous, and villainous. Being thus quench'd
Of hope, not longing, mine Italian brain

Gan in your duller Britain operate
Most vilely; for my vantage excellent:
And to be brief, my practice so prevailid,
E e 2

That

That I return'd with fimular proof enough
TO

o make the noble Leonatus mad,
By wounding his belief in her renown,
With tokens thus, and thus; averring notes
Of chamber-hanging, pictures, this her bracelet,
(Oh cunning how I got it!) nay, fome marks
Of secret on her person, that he could not
But think her bond of chastity quite crack'd,
I having ta'en the forfeit; whereupon,
Methinks I see him now
Poft. Ay, so thou doft,

[Coming forward,
Italian fiend ! ah me, most credulous fool,
Egregious murderer, thief, any thing
That's due to all the villains past, in being,
To comemoh give me cord, or knife, or poison,
Some upright justicer! Thou King, send out
For torturers ingenious ; it is I
That all th' abhorred things o'th' earth amend,
By being worse than they. I am Posthumus,
That kill'd thy daughter: villain-like, I lie;
That caus'd a lefler villain than my self,
A facrilegious thief, to do't. The temple
Of virtue was the, yea, and she her self,
Spit, and throw stones, caft mire upon me, fet
The dogs o'th' street to bait me : 'every villain
Be cali'd Pofthumus Leonatus, and
Be villainy less than 'twas. Oh Imogen!
My Queen, my life, my wife! oh Imogen,
Imogen, Imogen!

Imo. Peace, my Lord, hear, hear

Poft. Shall's have a play of this thou scornful page,
There lye thy part.

Striking ber, she falls,
Pif. Oh gentlemen, oh, help,
Mine and your mistress Oh, my Lord Pofbumus ?
You ne'er kill'd Imogen 'till now-help, help,
Mine honour'd Lady

Cym. Does the world go round ?
Poft. How come these staggers on me?
Pis. Wake, my mistress !

Cym. If this be so, the Gods do mean to strike me
To death with mortal joy.

Pil

[merged small][merged small][ocr errors]
« ZurückWeiter »