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Would this report become ? But I consider,
By medicine 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 cruel to the world, concluded
Most cruel to herself. What she confess'd
I will report, so please you : these her women
Can trip me, if I err; who with wet cheeks
Were present when she finish’d.

Prithee, say.
Cor. First, she confess'd she never loved you,

Affected greatness got by you, not you:
Married your royalty, was wife to your place ;
Abhorr’d your person.

She alone knew this;
And, but she spoke it dying, I would not
Believe her lips in opening it. Proceed.
Cor. Your daughter, whom she bore in hand

to love
With such integrity, she did ccnfess
Was as a scorpion to her sight; whose life,
But that her flight prevented it, she had
Ta'en off by poison.

O most delicate fiend !
Who is 't can read a woman ? Is there more ?
Cor. More, sir, and worse. She did confess

she had For you a mortal mineral ; which, being took, Should by the minute feed on life and lingering *By inches waste you: in which time she pur

posed, By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to


50 60

47. delicate, fine, subtle.

43. bore in hand to love, beguiled into the belief that she loved her.

50. mineral, poison.

O’ercome you with her show, and in time,
When she had fitted you with her craft, to work
Her son into the adoption of the crown:
But, failing of her end by his strange absence,
Grew shameless-desperate ; open'd, in despite
Of heaven and men, her purposes; repented
The evils she hatch'd were not effected; so
Despairing died.

Heard you all this, her women ?
First Lady. We did, so please your highness.

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

To have mistrusted her: yet, O my daughter !
That it was folly in me, thou mayst say,
And prove it in thy feeling. Heaven mend all!

Mine eyes


Enter Lucius, Iachimo, the Soothsayer, and

other Roman Prisoners, guarded ; POSTHUMUS

behind, and I MOGEN.
Thou comest not, Caius, now for tribute ; that
The Britons have razed out, though with the loss
Of many a bold one; whose kinsmen have made

That their good souls may be appeased with

slaughter 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,

55. to work her son into the 68. prove it in thy feeling. adoption of the crown, to procure attest it by your own sufferings. his adoption as heir.

74. estate, condition.

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We should not, when the blood was cool, have

Our prisoners 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 :
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

Cannot deny; he hath done no Briton harm,
Though he have served a Roman : save him, sir,
And spare no blood beside.

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.

I humbly thank your highness. 100
Luc. I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad;
And yet I know thou wilt.

No, no: alack, There's other work in hand : I see a thing Bitter to me as death : your life, good master,

90 IIO

83 my peculiar care, my ministering to his wants. personal concern.

95. nor; omitted in Ff, sup87. over his occasions, in plied by Rowe.

Must shuffle for itself.

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 perplex'd ?

What wouldst 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

Am something nearer.

Wherefore eyest him so ?
Imo. I'll tell you, sir, in private, if you please
To give me hearing.

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

Imo. Fidele, sir.

Сут. Thou 'rt 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 revived from death? Arv.

One sand another 120
Not more resembles that sweet rosy lad
Who died, and was Fidele. What think you?

Gui. The same dead thing alive.
Bel. Peace, peace! see further; he eyes us

not ; forbear; Creatures


be alike: were't he, I am sure He would have spoke to us.

I 20.

One sand another not dropped out : more resembles. Some words

Not more resembles [. are perhaps lost.

Walker con- Than he resembles) that sweet rosy jectured that two half lines had lad, etc.



But we saw him dead.
Bel. Be silent; let's see further.

[Aside] It is my mistress :
Since she is living, let the time run on
To good or bad.

[Cymbeline and Imogen come forward. Сут.

Come, stand thou by our side; Make thy demand aloud. [To Iachimo] Sir, step

you forth; 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 falsehood. On, speak to

him. Imo. My boon is, that this gentleman may render Of whom he had this ring. Post.

[Aside] What's that to him? Cym. That diamond upon your finger, say How came it yours?

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

How ! me? Iach. I am glad to be constrain’d to utter that Which torments me to conceal. By villany I got this ring : 'twas Leonatus' jewel ; Whom thou didst banish ; and—which more may

grieve thee, As it doth mea nobler sir ne'er lived 'Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou hear more, my

lord ? Cym. All that belongs to this. Iach.

That paragon, thy daughter,For whom my heart drops blood, and my false spirits Quail to remember- Give me leave; I faint. Cym. My daughter ! what of her?

Renew thy strength:




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