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Augustus lives to think on 't: and so much
For my peculiar care. This one thing only
I will entreat my boy, a Briton born,
Let him be ransom'd: never master had
A page so kind, so duteous, diligent,
So tender over his occasions, 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 have serv'd a Roman: save him, sir, And spare no blood beside.

Cym.

I have surely seen him:
His favour is familiar to me.
Boy, thou hast 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 do demand a prisoner,
The noblest ta'en.

Imo.
I humbly thank your highness.
Luc. I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad;
And yet, I know thou wilt.

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He leaves me, scorns me: briefly die their joys, That place them on the truth of girls and boys. Why stands he so perplex'd?

Cym.

What would'st thou, boy? I love thee more and more; think more and more What's best to ask. Know'st 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 vassal,

Am something nearer.
Cym.
Wherefore ey'st him so?
Imo. I'll 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 art my good youth, my page; I'll be thy master: Walk with me; speak freely. [CYMBELINE and IMOGEN converse apart. Bel. Is not this boy reviv'd from death? Arv. One sand another Not more resembles that sweet rosy lad Who died, and was Fidele :-What think you?

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Unless thou would'st grieve quickly.—This Posthumus

(Most like a noble lord in love, and one
That had a royal lover) took this hint;
And, not dispraising whom we prais'd, (therein
He was as calm as virtue,) he began

His mistress' picture; which by his tongue being made,

And then a mind put in 't, either our brags
Were crack'd of kitchen trulls, or his description
Prov'd us unspeaking sots.

Cyn.
Nay, nay, to the purpose.
Iach. Your daughter's chastity-there it
begins.

He spake of her, as Dian had hot dreams,
And she alone were cold: Whereat, I, wretch!
Made scruple of his praise; and wager'd with
him

Pieces of gold, 'gainst this which then he wore
Upon his honour'd finger, to attain

In suit the place of his bed, and win this ring
By hers and mine adultery: he, true knight,
No lesser of her honour confident

Than I did truly find her, stakes this ring;
And would so, had it been a carbuncle
Of Phoebus' wheel; and might so safely, had it
Been all the worth of his car. Away to Britain
Post I in this design: Well may you, sir,
Remember me at court, where I was taught
Of 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 prevail'd
That I return'd with simular proof enough
To 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,
(0, cunning, how I got it!) nay, some 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,—

Post.

Ay, so thou dost,
[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 come!-O, give me cord, or knife, or poison,
Some upright justicer!* Thou, king, send out
For torturers ingenious: it is I

That all the abhorred things o' the earth amend,
By being worse than they. I am Posthumus,
That kill'd thy daughter:-villain-like, I lie;
That caus'd a lesser villain than myself,
A sacrilegious thief, to do 't:-the temple
Of virtue was she; yea, and she herself.
Spit, and throw stones, cast mire upon me, set
The dogs o' the street to bay me: every villain
Be call'd Posthumus Leonatus; and
Be villainy less than 't was !-O Imogen!
My queen, my life, my wife! O Imogen,
Imogen, Imogen!

Imo. Post.

Peace, my lord; hear, hear!Shall's have a play of this? Thou scornful page,

There lie thy part. [Striking her she falls. O, gentlemen, help

Pis.

Mine, and your mistress :-0, my lord Posthumus!

You ne'er kill'd Imogen till now:-Help, help!— Mine honour'd lady!

Cym.

Does the world go round? Post. How come these staggers on me?

Pis.

Wake, my mistress!

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Have, said she, given his mistress that confection Which I gave him for cordial, she is serv'd

As I would serve a rat.

Cym.

What's this, Cornelius?
Cor. The queen, sir, very oft importun'd me
To temper poisons for her; still pretending
The satisfaction of her knowledge only
In killing creatures vile, as cats and dogs
Of no esteem: I, dreading that her purpose
Was of more danger, did compound for her
A certain stuff, which, being ta'en, would cease
The present power of life; but, in short time,
All offices of nature should again

Do their due functions.-Have you ta'en of it?
Imo. Most like I did, for I was dead.
Bel.

There was our error.

Gui.

My boys,

This is sure, Fidele.

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I am sorry for thee.

By thine own tongue thou art condemn'd, and

must

Endure our law: Thou art dead.

Imo.

I thought had been my lord.

Cym.

That headless man

Bind the offender,

And take him from our presence.

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This man is better than the man he slew,
As well descended as thyself; and hath
More of thee merited, than a band of Clotens
Had ever scar for.-Let his arms alone;

They were not born for bondage.

[To the guard.

Сут. Why, old soldier, Wilt thou undo the worth thou art unpaid for, By tasting of our wrath? How of descent As good as we?

Arv. In that he spake too far. Cym. And thou shalt die for 't. Bel. We will die all three: But I will prove, that two of us are as good As I have given out him.-My sons, I must, For mine own part, unfold a dangerous speech, Though, haply, well for you.

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By leave;-Thou hadst, great king, a subject

who Was call'd Belarius.

Cym.

A banish'd traitor.

Bel.

What of him? he is

He it is that hath

Assum'd this age :" indeed, a banish'd man;

I know not how a traitor.

a Assum'd this age-put on these appearances of age.

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As I have receiv'd it. Cya.

Nursing of my sons?

Bel. I am too blunt and saucy: Here's my knee;

Ere I arise I will prefer my sons;

Then, spare not the old father. Mighty sir,
These two young gentlemen, that call me father,
And think they are my sons, are none of mine;
They are the issue of your loins, my liege,
And blood of your begetting.
Cym.

How! my issue? Bel. So sure as you your father's. I, old Morgan,

Am that Belarius whom you sometime banish'd: Your pleasure was my mere offence, my punish

ment

Itself, and all my treason; that I suffer'd
Was all the harm I did. These gentle princes
(For such and so they are) these twenty years
Have I train'd up those arts they have, as I
Could put into them; my breeding was, sir, as
Your highness knows. Their nurse, Euriphile,
Whom for the theft I wedded, stole these children
Upon my banishment: I mov'd her to 't;
Having receiv'd the punishment before,

For that which I did then: Beaten for loyalty,
Excited me to treason: Their dear loss,
The more of you 't was felt, the more it shap'd
Unto my end of stealing them. But, gracious sir,
Here are your sons again; and I must lose
Two of the sweet'st companions in the world:
The benediction of these covering heavens
Fall on their heads like dew! for they are worthy
To inlay heaven with stars.

Сукл.
Thou weep'st, and speak'st.
The service, that you three have done, is more
Unlike than this thou tell'st: I lost my children;
If these be they, I know not how to wish

A pair of worthier sons.

Be pleas'd awhile.—

Bel. This gentleman, whom I call Polydore, Most worthy prince, as yours, is true Guiderius: This gentleman, my Cadwal, Arviragus, Your younger princely son; he, sir, was lapp'd In a most curious mantle, wrought by the hand Of his queen mother, which, for more probation, I can with ease produce. Сука.

Guiderius had

Upon his neck a mole, a sanguine star; It was a mark of wonder.

This is he;

Who hath upon him still that natural stamp :
It was wise Nature's end in the donation,
To be his evidence now.

Cym.

O, what, am I

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And all the other by-dependencies,

From chance to chance; but nor the time, nor place,

Will serve our long intergatories. See,
Posthumus anchors upon Imogen;

And she, like harmless lightning, throws her eye
On him, her brothers, me, her master, hitting
Each object with a joy; the counterchange
Is severally in all. Let's quit this ground,
And smoke the temple with our sacrifices.
Thou art my brother: So we'll hold thee ever.
[TO BELARIUS.

Imo. You are my father too; and did relieve me, To see this gracious season.

Cym.
All o'erjoy'd,
Save these in bonds; let them be joyful too,
For they shall taste our comfort.

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As

Aro.

You holp us, sir, you did mean indeed to be our brother; Joy'd are we that you are.

Post. Your servant, princes.-Good my lord of Rome,

Call forth your soothsayer: As I slept, methought,

Great Jupiter, upon his eagle back,
Appear'd to me, with other spritely shows
Of mine own kindred: when I wak'd, I found
This label on my bosom; whose containing
Is so from sense in hardness, that I can
Make no collection" of it; let him show
His skill in the construction.

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The fit and apt construction of thy name,
Being Leo-natus, doth import so much:
The piece of tender air, thy virtuous daughter,
[To CYMBELINE.
Which we call mollis aer; and mollis aer
We term it mulier: which mulier I divine
Is this most constant wife; who, even now,
Answering the letter of the oracle,
Unknown to you, unsought, were clipp'd about
With this most tender air.

Cym.

This hath some seeming.

Sooth. The lofty cedar, royal Cymbeline, Personates thee: and thy lopp'd branches point Thy two sons forth; who, by Belarius stolen, For many years thought dead, are now reviv'd, To the majestic cedar join'd; whose issue Promises Britain peace and plenty.

Well,

Cym. My peace we will begin :-And, Caius Lucius, Although the victor, we submit to Cæsar, And to the Roman empire; promising To pay our wonted tribute, from the which We were dissuaded by our wicked queen: Whom heavens, in justice, (both on her, and hers,) Have laid most heavy hand."

Sooth. The fingers of the powers above do tune
The harmony of this peace. The vision
Which I made known to Lucius, ere the stroke
Of this yet scarce-cold battle, at this instant
Is full accomplish'd: For the Roman eagle,
From south to west on wing soaring aloft,
Lessen'd herself, and in the beams o' the sun
So vanish'd: which foreshow'd our princely
eagle,

The imperial Cæsar, should again unite
His favour with the radiant Cymbeline,
Which shines here in the west.

Cym.
Laud we the gods;
And let our crooked smokes climb to their

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