You look on me: what wreck discern you in me Deserves your pity? What, To hide me from the radiant sun and solace I' the dungeon by a snuff? I pray you, sir, Deliver with more openness your answers To my demands. Why do you pity me? That others do— I was about to say—enjoy your—But It is an office of the gods to venge it, Not mine to speak on 't.
You do seem to know Something of me, or what concerns me: pray you,— Since doubling things go ill often hurts more Than to be sure they do; for certainties Either are past remedies, or, timely knowing, The remedy then born—discover to me What both you spur and stop. Had I this cheek To bathe my lips upon; this hand, whose touch, Whose every touch, would force the feeler's soul To the oath of loyalty; this object, which Takes prisoner the wild motion of mine eye, Fixing it only here; should I, damn'd then, Slaver with lips as common as the stairs That mount the Capitol; join gripes with hands Made hard with hourly falsehood—falsehood, as With labour; then by-peeping in an eye Base and unlustrous as the smoky light That's fed with stinking tallow; it were fit That all the plagues of hell should at one time Encounter such revolt.
My lord, I fear, Has forgot Britain. And himself. Not I, Inclined to this intelligence, pronounce The beggary of his change; but 'tis your graces That from pay mutest conscience to my tongue Charms this report out. Let me hear no more. O dearest soul! A lady So fair, and fasten'd to an empery, Would make the great'st king double,—to be partner'd With tomboys hired with that self-exhibition Which your own coffers yield!
Be revenged; Or she that bore you was no queen, and you Recoil from your great stock. If this be true,— As I have such a heart that both mine ears Must not in haste abuse—if it be true, How should I be revenged? Should he make me Live, like Diana's priest, betwixt cold sheets, Whiles he is vaulting variable ramps, In your despite, upon your purse?
Revenge it. I dedicate myself to your sweet pleasure, More noble than that runagate to your bed, And will continue fast to your affection, Still close as sure. What, ho, Pisanio! Let me my service tender on your lips. I do condemn mine ears that have So long attended thee. If thou wert honourable, Thou wouldst have told this tale for virtue, not For such an end thou seek'st,—as base as strange. Thou wrong'st a gentleman, who is as far From thy report as thou from honour, and Solicit'st here a lady that disdains Thee and the devil alike.
What ho, Pisanio! The king my father shall be made acquainted Of thy assault: if he shall think it fit, A saucy stranger in his court to mart As in a Romish stew and to expound His beastly mind to us, he hath a court He little cares for and a daughter who He not respects at all.
O happy Leonatus! I may say The credit that thy lady hath of thee Deserves thy trust, and thy most perfect goodness Her assured credit. Blessed live you long! A lady to the worthiest sir that ever Country call'd his!
Give me your pardon. I have spoke this, to know if your affiance Were deeply rooted; and shall make your lord, That which he is, new o'er: and he is one The truest manner'd; such a holy witch That he enchants societies into him; Half all men's hearts are his.
You make amends. He sits 'mongst men like a descended god: He hath a kind of honour sets him off, More than a mortal seeming. Be not angry, Most mighty princess, that I have adventured To try your taking a false report; which hath Honour'd with confirmation your great judgment In the election of a sir so rare, Which you know cannot err: the love I bear him Made me to fan you thus, but the gods made you, Unlike all others, chaffless.
Pray, your pardon. All's well, sir: take my power i' the court for yours. My humble thanks. I had almost forgot To entreat your grace but in a small request, And yet of moment to, for it concerns Your lord; myself and other noble friends, Are partners in the business.
Pray, what is't? Some dozen Romans of us and your lord— The best feather of our wing—have mingled sums To buy a present for the emperor Which I, the factor for the rest, have done In France: 'tis plate of rare device, and jewels Of rich and exquisite form; their values great; And I am something curious, being strange, To have them in safe stowage: may it please you To take them in protection? Willingly; And pawn mine honour for their safety: since My lord hath interest in them, I will keep them In my bedchamber.
They are in a trunk, Attended by my men: I will make bold To send them to you, only for this night; I must aboard to-morrow. O, no, no. Yes, I beseech; or I shall short my word By lengthening my return. From Gallia I cross'd the seas on purpose and on promise To see your grace. I thank you for your pains: But not away to-morrow!
O, I must, madam: Therefore I shall beseech you, if you please To greet your lord with writing, do't to-night: I have outstood my time; which is material To the tender of our present. I will write. Send your trunk to me; it shall safe be kept, And truly yielded you. You're very welcome. Was there ever man had such luck!
I had a hundred pound on't: and then a whoreson jackanapes must take me up for swearing; as if I borrowed mine oaths of him and might not spend them at my pleasure. What got he by that? You have broke his pate with your bowl. When a gentleman is disposed to swear, it is not for any standers-by to curtail his oaths, ha?
No my lord; [Aside] nor crop the ears of them. Whoreson dog! I give him satisfaction? I am not vexed more at any thing in the earth: a pox on't! I had rather not be so noble as I am; they dare not fight with me, because of the queen my mother: every Jack-slave hath his bellyful of fighting, and I must go up and down like a cock that nobody can match.
Sayest thou? It is not fit your lordship should undertake every companion that you give offence to. No, I know that: but it is fit I should commit offence to my inferiors. Ay, it is fit for your lordship only. Why, so I say.
Did you hear of a stranger that's come to court to-night? A stranger, and I not know on't! There's an Italian come; and, 'tis thought, one of Leonatus' friends. Who told you of this stranger? One of your lordship's pages. Is it fit I went to look upon him? You cannot derogate, my lord. Not easily, I think. Come, I'll go see this Italian: what I have lost to-day at bowls I'll win to-night of him. Come, go. Alas, poor princess, Thou divine Imogen, what thou endurest, Betwixt a father by thy step-dame govern'd, A mother hourly coining plots, a wooer More hateful than the foul expulsion is Of thy dear husband, than that horrid act Of the divorce he'ld make!
The heavens hold firm The walls of thy dear honour, keep unshaked That temple, thy fair mind, that thou mayst stand, To enjoy thy banish'd lord and this great land! Who's there? Please you, madam Imogen. What hour is it? Almost midnight, madam. I have read three hours then: mine eyes are weak: Fold down the leaf where I have left: to bed: Take not away the taper, leave it burning; And if thou canst awake by four o' the clock, I prithee, call me. Sleep hath seized me wholly [Exit Lady] To your protection I commend me, gods.
From fairies and the tempters of the night Guard me, beseech ye. The crickets sing, and man's o'er-labour'd sense Repairs itself by rest. Our Tarquin thus Did softly press the rushes, ere he waken'd The chastity he wounded. Cytherea, How bravely thou becomest thy bed, fresh lily, And whiter than the sheets! That I might touch! But kiss; one kiss!
Rubies unparagon'd, How dearly they do't! But my design, To note the chamber: I will write all down: Such and such pictures; there the window; such The adornment of her bed; the arras; figures, Why, such and such; and the contents o' the story.
Ah, but some natural notes about her body, Above ten thousand meaner moveables Would testify, to enrich mine inventory. O sleep, thou ape of death, lie dull upon her! And be her sense but as a monument, Thus in a chapel lying! Come off, come off: [Taking off her bracelet] As slippery as the Gordian knot was hard! On her left breast A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops I' the bottom of a cowslip: here's a voucher, Stronger than ever law could make: this secret Will force him think I have pick'd the lock and ta'en The treasure of her honour.
No more. To what end? She hath been reading late The tale of Tereus; here the leaf's turn'd down Where Philomel gave up. I have enough: To the trunk again, and shut the spring of it. I lodge in fear; Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here. The scene closes] previous scene Act II, Scene 3. Your lordship is the most patient man in loss, the most coldest that ever turned up ace. It would make any man cold to lose. But not every man patient after the noble temper of your lordship. You are most hot and furious when you win.
Winning will put any man into courage. If I could get this foolish Imogen, I should have gold enough. It's almost morning, is't not? Day, my lord. I would this music would come: I am advised to give her music o' mornings; they say it will penetrate. First, a very excellent good-conceited thing; after, a wonderful sweet air, with admirable rich words to it: and then let her consider. So, get you gone. If this penetrate, I will consider your music the better: if it do not, it is a vice in her ears, which horse-hairs and calves'-guts, nor the voice of unpaved eunuch to boot, can never amend.
Here comes the king. I am glad I was up so late; for that's the reason I was up so early: he cannot choose but take this service I have done fatherly. Attend you here the door of our stern daughter? Will she not forth? I have assailed her with music, but she vouchsafes no notice.
The exile of her minion is too new; She hath not yet forgot him: some more time Must wear the print of his remembrance out, And then she's yours. You are most bound to the king, Who lets go by no vantages that may Prefer you to his daughter. Frame yourself To orderly soliciting, and be friended With aptness of the season; make denials Increase your services; so seem as if You were inspired to do those duties which You tender to her; that you in all obey her, Save when command to your dismission tends, And therein you are senseless.
So like you, sir, ambassadors from Rome; The one is Caius Lucius. A worthy fellow, Albeit he comes on angry purpose now; But that's no fault of his: we must receive him According to the honour of his sender; And towards himself, his goodness forespent on us, We must extend our notice. Our dear son, When you have given good morning to your mistress, Attend the queen and us; we shall have need To employ you towards this Roman. Come, our queen.
If she be up, I'll speak with her; if not, Let her lie still and dream. I Know her women are about her: what If I do line one of their hands? I will make One of her women lawyer to me, for I yet not understand the case myself. Who's there that knocks? A gentleman. No more? Yes, and a gentlewoman's son. That's more Than some, whose tailors are as dear as yours, Can justly boast of. What's your lordship's pleasure? Your lady's person: is she ready? Ay, To keep her chamber.
There is gold for you; Sell me your good report. Good morrow, fairest: sister, your sweet hand. Good morrow, sir. You lay out too much pains For purchasing but trouble; the thanks I give Is telling you that I am poor of thanks And scarce can spare them. Still, I swear I love you. If you but said so, 'twere as deep with me: If you swear still, your recompense is still That I regard it not. This is no answer.
But that you shall not say I yield being silent, I would not speak. I pray you, spare me: 'faith, I shall unfold equal discourtesy To your best kindness: one of your great knowing Should learn, being taught, forbearance. To leave you in your madness, 'twere my sin: I will not. Fools are not mad folks. Do you call me fool? I am much sorry, sir, You put me to forget a lady's manners, By being so verbal: and learn now, for all, That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce, By the very truth of it, I care not for you, And am so near the lack of charity— To accuse myself—I hate you; which I had rather You felt than make't my boast.
You sin against Obedience, which you owe your father. For The contract you pretend with that base wretch, One bred of alms and foster'd with cold dishes, With scraps o' the court, it is no contract, none: And though it be allow'd in meaner parties— Yet who than he more mean? A hilding for a livery, a squire's cloth, A pantler, not so eminent. Profane fellow Wert thou the son of Jupiter and no more But what thou art besides, thou wert too base To be his groom: thou wert dignified enough, Even to the point of envy, if 'twere made Comparative for your virtues, to be styled The under-hangman of his kingdom, and hated For being preferred so well.
The south-fog rot him! He never can meet more mischance than come To be but named of thee. His meanest garment, That ever hath but clipp'd his body, is dearer In my respect than all the hairs above thee, Were they all made such men. To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently— Cloten. I am sprited with a fool. Frighted, and anger'd worse: go bid my woman Search for a jewel that too casually Hath left mine arm: it was thy master's: 'shrew me, If I would lose it for a revenue Of any king's in Europe.
I do think I saw't this morning: confident I am Last night 'twas on mine arm; I kiss'd it: I hope it be not gone to tell my lord That I kiss aught but he. I hope so: go and search. You have abused me: 'His meanest garment! Ay, I said so, sir: If you will make't an action, call witness to't. I will inform your father. Your mother too: She's my good lady, and will conceive, I hope, But the worst of me. So, I leave you, sir, To the worst of discontent. I'll be revenged: 'His meanest garment!
What means do you make to him? Not any, but abide the change of time, Quake in the present winter's state and wish That warmer days would come: in these sear'd hopes, I barely gratify your love; they failing, I must die much your debtor. Your very goodness and your company O'erpays all I can do.
By this, your king Hath heard of great Augustus: Caius Lucius Will do's commission throughly: and I think He'll grant the tribute, send the arrearages, Or look upon our Romans, whose remembrance Is yet fresh in their grief. I do believe, Statist though I am none, nor like to be, That this will prove a war; and you shall hear The legions now in Gallia sooner landed In our not-fearing Britain than have tidings Of any penny tribute paid. Our countrymen Are men more order'd than when Julius Caesar Smiled at their lack of skill, but found their courage Worthy his frowning at: their discipline, Now mingled with their courages, will make known To their approvers they are people such That mend upon the world.
The swiftest harts have posted you by land; And winds of all the comers kiss'd your sails, To make your vessel nimble. Welcome, sir. I hope the briefness of your answer made The speediness of your return. Your lady Is one of the fairest that I have look'd upon. And therewithal the best; or let her beauty Look through a casement to allure false hearts And be false with them. Here are letters for you. Their tenor good, I trust. Was Caius Lucius in the Britain court When you were there?
He was expected then, But not approach'd. All is well yet. If I had lost it, I should have lost the worth of it in gold. I'll make a journey twice as far, to enjoy A second night of such sweet shortness which Was mine in Britain, for the ring is won.
The stone's too hard to come by. Not a whit, Your lady being so easy. Make not, sir, Your loss your sport: I hope you know that we Must not continue friends. Good sir, we must, If you keep covenant. Had I not brought The knowledge of your mistress home, I grant We were to question further: but I now Profess myself the winner of her honour, Together with your ring; and not the wronger Of her or you, having proceeded but By both your wills.
If you can make't apparent That you have tasted her in bed, my hand And ring is yours; if not, the foul opinion You had of her pure honour gains or loses Your sword or mine, or masterless leaves both To who shall find them.
Sir, my circumstances, Being so near the truth as I will make them, Must first induce you to believe: whose strength I will confirm with oath; which, I doubt not, You'll give me leave to spare, when you shall find You need it not.
First, her bedchamber,— Where, I confess, I slept not, but profess Had that was well worth watching—it was hang'd With tapesty of silk and silver; the story Proud Cleopatra, when she met her Roman, And Cydnus swell'd above the banks, or for The press of boats or pride: a piece of work So bravely done, so rich, that it did strive In workmanship and value; which I wonder'd Could be so rarely and exactly wrought, Since the true life on't was— Posthumus Leonatus.
This is true; And this you might have heard of here, by me, Or by some other. More particulars Must justify my knowledge. So they must, Or do your honour injury. The chimney Is south the chamber, and the chimney-piece Chaste Dian bathing: never saw I figures So likely to report themselves: the cutter Was as another nature, dumb; outwent her, Motion and breath left out.
This is a thing Which you might from relation likewise reap, Being, as it is, much spoke of. The roof o' the chamber With golden cherubins is fretted: her andirons— I had forgot them—were two winking Cupids Of silver, each on one foot standing, nicely Depending on their brands. This is her honour! Let it be granted you have seen all this—and praise Be given to your remembrance—the description Of what is in her chamber nothing saves The wager you have laid.
Then, if you can, [Showing the bracelet] Be pale: I beg but leave to air this jewel; see! And now 'tis up again: it must be married To that your diamond; I'll keep them. Once more let me behold it: is it that Which I left with her? Sir—I thank her—that: She stripp'd it from her arm; I see her yet; Her pretty action did outsell her gift, And yet enrich'd it too: she gave it me, and said She prized it once.
May be she pluck'd it off To send it me. She writes so to you, doth she? O, no, no, no! Here, take this too; [Gives the ring] It is a basilisk unto mine eye, Kills me to look on't. Let there be no honour Where there is beauty; truth, where semblance; love, Where there's another man: the vows of women Of no more bondage be, to where they are made, Than they are to their virtues; which is nothing.
Have patience, sir, And take your ring again; 'tis not yet won: It may be probable she lost it; or Who knows if one of her women, being corrupted, Hath stol'n it from her? Very true; And so, I hope, he came by't. Back my ring: Render to me some corporal sign about her, More evident than this; for this was stolen.
By Jupiter, I had it from her arm. Hark you, he swears; by Jupiter he swears. There, take thy hire; and all the fiends of hell Divide themselves between you! Sir, be patient: This is not strong enough to be believed Of one persuaded well of— Posthumus Leonatus. Never talk on't; She hath been colted by him. If you seek For further satisfying, under her breast— Worthy the pressing—lies a mole, right proud Of that most delicate lodging: by my life, I kiss'd it; and it gave me present hunger To feed again, though full.
You do remember This stain upon her? Ay, and it doth confirm Another stain, as big as hell can hold, Were there no more but it. Will you hear more? Spare your arithmetic: never count the turns; Once, and a million! I'll be sworn— Posthumus Leonatus. No swearing. If you will swear you have not done't, you lie; And I will kill thee, if thou dost deny Thou'st made me cuckold. I'll deny nothing. O, that I had her here, to tear her limb-meal!
I will go there and do't, i' the court, before Her father. I'll do something— [Exit] Philario. Quite besides The government of patience!
You have won: Let's follow him, and pervert the present wrath He hath against himself. With an my heart. Is there no way for men to be but women Must be half-workers? We are all bastards; And that most venerable man which I Did call my father, was I know not where When I was stamp'd; some coiner with his tools Made me a counterfeit: yet my mother seem'd The Dian of that time so doth my wife The nonpareil of this.
O, vengeance, vengeance! Me of my lawful pleasure she restrain'd And pray'd me oft forbearance; did it with A pudency so rosy the sweet view on't Might well have warm'd old Saturn; that I thought her As chaste as unsunn'd snow. O, all the devils! This yellow Iachimo, in an hour,—wast not? Could I find out The woman's part in me! For there's no motion That tends to vice in man, but I affirm It is the woman's part: be it lying, note it, The woman's; flattering, hers; deceiving, hers; Lust and rank thoughts, hers, hers; revenges, hers; Ambitions, covetings, change of prides, disdain, Nice longing, slanders, mutability, All faults that may be named, nay, that hell knows, Why, hers, in part or all; but rather, all; For even to vice They are not constant but are changing still One vice, but of a minute old, for one Not half so old as that.
I'll write against them, Detest them, curse them: yet 'tis greater skill In a true hate, to pray they have their will: The very devils cannot plague them better. Now say, what would Augustus Caesar with us? Caius Lucius. When Julius Caesar, whose remembrance yet Lives in men's eyes and will to ears and tongues Be theme and hearing ever, was in this Britain And conquer'd it, Cassibelan, thine uncle,— Famous in Caesar's praises, no whit less Than in his feats deserving it—for him And his succession granted Rome a tribute, Yearly three thousand pounds, which by thee lately Is left untender'd.
And, to kill the marvel, Shall be so ever. There be many Caesars, Ere such another Julius. Britain is A world by itself; and we will nothing pay For wearing our own noses. That opportunity Which then they had to take from 's, to resume We have again.
Remember, sir, my liege, The kings your ancestors, together with The natural bravery of your isle, which stands As Neptune's park, ribbed and paled in With rocks unscalable and roaring waters, With sands that will not bear your enemies' boats, But suck them up to the topmast.
A kind of conquest Caesar made here; but made not here his brag Of 'Came' and 'saw' and 'overcame: ' with shame— That first that ever touch'd him—he was carried From off our coast, twice beaten; and his shipping— Poor ignorant baubles! Come, there's no more tribute to be paid: our kingdom is stronger than it was at that time; and, as I said, there is no moe such Caesars: other of them may have crook'd noses, but to owe such straight arms, none.
Son, let your mother end. We have yet many among us can gripe as hard as Cassibelan: I do not say I am one; but I have a hand. Why tribute? If Caesar can hide the sun from us with a blanket, or put the moon in his pocket, we will pay him tribute for light; else, sir, no more tribute, pray you now.
You must know, Till the injurious Romans did extort This tribute from us, we were free: Caesar's ambition, Which swell'd so much that it did almost stretch The sides o' the world, against all colour here Did put the yoke upon 's; which to shake off Becomes a warlike people, whom we reckon Ourselves to be. Say, then, to Caesar, Our ancestor was that Mulmutius which Ordain'd our laws, whose use the sword of Caesar Hath too much mangled; whose repair and franchise Shall, by the power we hold, be our good deed, Though Rome be therefore angry: Mulmutius made our laws, Who was the first of Britain which did put His brows within a golden crown and call'd Himself a king.
I am sorry, Cymbeline, That I am to pronounce Augustus Caesar— Caesar, that hath more kings his servants than Thyself domestic officers—thine enemy: Receive it from me, then: war and confusion In Caesar's name pronounce I 'gainst thee: look For fury not to be resisted. Thus defied, I thank thee for myself. Thou art welcome, Caius. I am perfect That the Pannonians and Dalmatians for Their liberties are now in arms; a precedent Which not to read would show the Britons cold: So Caesar shall not find them.
Let proof speak. His majesty bids you welcome. Make pastime with us a day or two, or longer: if you seek us afterwards in other terms, you shall find us in our salt-water girdle: if you beat us out of it, it is yours; if you fall in the adventure, our crows shall fare the better for you; and there's an end.
So, sir. I know your master's pleasure and he mine: All the remain is 'Welcome! Wherefore write you not What monster's her accuser? Leonatus, O master! What false Italian, As poisonous-tongued as handed, hath prevail'd On thy too ready hearing? No: She's punish'd for her truth, and undergoes, More goddess-like than wife-like, such assaults As would take in some virtue.
O my master! Upon the love and truth and vows which I Have made to thy command? I, her? If it be so to do good service, never Let me be counted serviceable.
How look I, That I should seem to lack humanity so much as this fact comes to? Black as the ink that's on thee! Senseless bauble, Art thou a feodary for this act, and look'st So virgin-like without?
Lo, here she comes. Madam, here is a letter from my lord. You good gods, Let what is here contain'd relish of love, Of my lord's health, of his content, yet not That we two are asunder; let that grieve him: Some griefs are med'cinable; that is one of them, For it doth physic love: of his content, All but in that!
Good wax, thy leave. Blest be You bees that make these locks of counsel! Lovers And men in dangerous bonds pray not alike: Though forfeiters you cast in prison, yet You clasp young Cupid's tables. Good news, gods!
Take notice that I am in Cambria, at Milford-Haven: what your own love will out of this advise you, follow. Hear'st thou, Pisanio? He is at Milford-Haven: read, and tell me How far 'tis thither. If one of mean affairs May plod it in a week, why may not I Glide thither in a day?
Then, true Pisanio,— Who long'st, like me, to see thy lord; who long'st,— let me bate,-but not like me—yet long'st, But in a fainter kind:—O, not like me; For mine's beyond beyond—say, and speak thick; Love's counsellor should fill the bores of hearing, To the smothering of the sense—how far it is To this same blessed Milford: and by the way Tell me how Wales was made so happy as To inherit such a haven: but first of all, How we may steal from hence, and for the gap That we shall make in time, from our hence-going And our return, to excuse: but first, how get hence: Why should excuse 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? One score 'twixt sun and sun, Madam, 's enough for you: [Aside] and too much too. Why, one that rode to's execution, man, Could never go so slow: I have heard of riding wagers, Where horses have been nimbler than the sands That run i' the clock's behalf. But this is foolery: Go bid my woman feign a sickness; say She'll home to her father: and provide me presently A riding-suit, no costlier than would fit A franklin's housewife.
Madam, you're best consider. I see before me, man: nor here, nor here, Nor what ensues, but have a fog in them, That I cannot look through.
A goodly day not to keep house, with such Whose roof's as low as ours! Stoop, boys; this gate Instructs you how to adore the heavens and bows you To a morning's holy office: the gates of monarchs Are arch'd so high that giants may jet through And keep their impious turbans on, without Good morrow to the sun. Hail, thou fair heaven! We house i' the rock, yet use thee not so hardly As prouder livers do.
Hail, heaven! Now for our mountain sport: up to yond hill; Your legs are young; I'll tread these flats. Consider, When you above perceive me like a crow, That it is place which lessens and sets 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, so being done, But being so allow'd: to apprehend thus, Draws us a profit from all things we see; And often, to our comfort, shall we find The sharded beetle in a safer hold Than is the full-wing'd eagle.
O, this life Is nobler than attending for a cheque, Richer than doing nothing for a bauble, Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk: Such gain the cap of him that makes 'em fine, Yet keeps his book uncross'd: no life to ours. Out of your proof you speak: we, poor unfledged, Have never wing'd from view o' the nest, nor know not What air's from home.
Haply this life is best, If quiet life be best; sweeter to you That have a sharper known; well corresponding With your stiff age: but unto us it is A cell of ignorance; travelling a-bed; A prison for a debtor, that not dares To stride a limit. What should we speak of When we are old as you?
We have seen nothing; We are beastly, subtle as the fox for prey, Like warlike as the wolf for what we eat; Our valour is to chase what flies; our cage We make a quire, as doth the prison'd bird, And sing our bondage freely. How you speak! Did you but know the city's usuries And felt them knowingly; the art o' the court As hard to leave as keep; whose top to climb Is certain falling, or so slippery that The fear's as bad as falling; the toil o' the war, A pain that only seems to seek out danger I' the name of fame and honour; which dies i' the search, And hath as oft a slanderous epitaph As record of fair act; nay, many times, Doth ill deserve by doing well; what's worse, Must court'sy at the censure:—O boys, this story The world may read in me: my body's mark'd With Roman swords, and my report was once First with the best of note: Cymbeline loved me, And when a soldier was the theme, my name Was not far off: then was I as a tree Whose 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.
Uncertain favour! My fault being nothing—as I have told you oft— But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail'd Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline I was confederate with the Romans: so Follow'd my banishment, and this twenty years This rock and these demesnes have been my world; Where I have lived at honest freedom, paid More pious debts to heaven than in all The fore-end of my time. But up to the mountains! I'll meet you in the valleys. These boys know little they are sons to the king; Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive.
They think they are mine; and though train'd up thus meanly I' the cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit The roofs of palaces, and nature prompts them In simple and low things to prince it much Beyond the trick of others.
When on my three-foot stool I sit and tell The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out Into my story: say 'Thus, mine enemy fell, And thus I set my foot on 's neck;' even then 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, Cadwal, Once Arviragus, in as like a figure, Strikes life into my speech and shows much more His own conceiving.
O Cymbeline! Euriphile, Thou wast their nurse; they took thee for their mother, And every day do honour to her grave: Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call'd, They take for natural father. The game is up. Thou told'st me, when we came from horse, the place Was near at hand: ne'er long'd my mother so To see me first, as I have now. Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind, That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that sigh From the inward of thee?
One, but painted thus, Would be interpreted a thing perplex'd Beyond self-explication: put thyself Into a havior of less fear, ere wildness Vanquish my staider senses. 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 countenance still.
My husband's hand! That drug-damn'd Italy hath out-craftied him, And he's at some hard point. In a series of battles, Posthumus disguised as a peasant defeats and disarms Iachimo; the Britons flee and Cymbeline is…. Posthumus, still seeking death and failing to find it as a poor British soldier, reverts to his earlier role as…. Posthumus, in chains, falls asleep and is visited by the ghosts of his dead family and by the god Jupiter,….
Cymbeline knights Belarius and the two young men in gratitude for their valor, and sends in search of the poor…. You can get your own copy of this text to keep. Download it to get the same great text as on this site, or purchase a full copy to get the text, plus explanatory notes, illustrations, and more. Synopsis: On the journey to Milford Haven, Pisanio reveals to Imogen that he is supposed to kill her. Contents Characters in the Play. Entire Play Cymbeline, which takes place in ancient Britain, is filled with hidden identities, extraordinary schemes, and violent acts.
Act 1, scene 1 At the court of King Cymbeline, the princess, Imogen, has secretly married a gentleman named Posthumus Leonatus. Act 1, scene 2 An encounter between Cloten and Posthumus, reported in 1.
Act 1, scene 5 The queen obtains a box that she is told contains poison. Act 1, scene 6 Iachimo arrives in Britain and begins his attempt to seduce Imogen by telling her that Posthumus is betraying her with….
Act 2, scene 1 Cloten and two lords discuss the arrival of Iachimo. Act 2, scene 2 As Imogen sleeps, the trunk that she is keeping for Iachimo opens, and Iachimo emerges. Act 2, scene 3 Cloten serenades Imogen in an attempt to win her love. Act 2, scene 5 Posthumus, in soliloquy, attacks women as the embodiment of all that is vicious. Act 3, scene 2 Pisanio receives two letters from Posthumus—one in which Pisanio is instructed to kill Imogen, and another written to Imogen, telling….
Act 3, scene 3 Three men enter as if from a cave, the two younger men protesting the limitations of their mountain lives. Act 3, scene 4 On the journey to Milford Haven, Pisanio reveals to Imogen that he is supposed to kill her. Act 3, scene 6 Imogen, disguised as a boy named Fidele, stumbles, exhausted and famished, into the cave of Belarius and the two young….
I know the shape of 's leg, this is his hand, His foot Mercurial, his Martial thigh, The brawns of Hercules, but his Jovial face. Murder in heaven? Pisanio, All curses madded Hecuba gave the Greeks, And mine to boot, be darted on thee! Thou, Conspir'd with that irregulous devil, Cloten, Hast here 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 bravest vessel of the world Struck the main-top! O Posthumus!
Where is thy head? Ay me! Pisanio might have kill'd thee at the heart, And left this head on. How should this be? The drug he gave me, which he said was precious And cordial to me, have I not found it Murderous to the senses? That confirms it home; This is Pisanio's deed, and Cloten's: O! Give colour to my pale cheek with thy blood, That we the horrider may seem to those Which chance to find us. Weeps she still, sayst thou? Dost thou think in time She will not quench, and let instructions enter Where folly now possesses?
Do thou work: When thou shalt bring me word she loves my son, I'll tell thee on the instant thou art then As great as is thy master; greater, for His fortunes all lie speechless, and his name Is at last gasp; return he cannot, nor Continue where he is; to shift his being Is to exchange one misery with another, And every day that comes comes to decay A day's work in him.
What shalt thou expect, To be depender on a thing that leans, Who cannot be new built, nor has no friends, So much as but to prop him? Tell thy mistress how The case stands with her; do 't as from thyself. Think what a chance thou changest on, but think Thou hast thy mistress still, to boot, my son, Who shall take notice of thee. I'll move the king To any shape of thy preferment such As thou'lt desire; and then myself, I chiefly, That set thee on to this desert, am bound To load thy merit richly.
Call my women; Think on my words. The violets, cowslips, and the prime-roses Bear to my closet. Fare thee well, Pisanio: Think on my words. You good gods, Let what is here contain'd relish of love, Of my lord's health, of his content, yet not That we two are asunder; let that grieve him,-- Some griefs are med'cinable; that is one of them, For it doth physic love,--of his content, All but in that!
Good wax, thy leave. Bless'd be You bees that make these locks of counsel! Lovers And men in dangerous bonds pray not alike; Though forfeiters you cast in prison, yet You clasp young Cupid's tables. Good news, gods! Justice, and your father's wrath, should he take me in his dominion, could not be so cruel to me, as you, O the dearest of creatures, would not even renew me with your eyes.
Take notice that I am in Cambria, at Milford-Haven; what your own love will out of this advise you, follow. Hear'st thou, Pisanio? He is at Milford-Haven; read, and tell me How far 'tis thither. If one of mean affairs May plod it in a week, why may not I Glide thither in a day?
Then, true Pisanio,-- Who long'st, like me, to see thy lord; who long'st,-- O! Why should excuse be born or ere begot? We'll talk of that hereafter. Prithee, speak, How many score of miles may we well ride 'Twixt hour and hour? I see a man's life is a tedious one; I have tir'd myself, and for two nights together Have made the ground my bed; I should be sick But that my resolution helps me.
Milford, When from the mountain-top Pisanio show'd thee, Thou wast within a ken. O Jove! I think Foundations fly the wretched; such, I mean, Where they should be reliev'd. Two beggars told me I could not miss my way; will poor folks lie, That have afflictions on them, knowing 'tis A punishment or trial? Yes; no wonder, When rich ones scarce tell true. To lapse in fulness Is sorer than to lie for need, and falsehood Is worse in kings than beggars.
My dear lord!
0コメント