Cymbeline Part 18

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 G.o.ds 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 n.o.blest 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 va.s.saile 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 n.o.bler 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 n.o.ble 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 Chast.i.ty, (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 n.o.ble 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 Chast.i.ty 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