not What monster's her accuser?-Leonatus! O, master! what a strange infection Is fallen into thy ear? What false Italian (As poisonous tongued as handed) hath prevailed On thy too ready hearing?-Disloyal? No: She's punished for her truth; and undergoes, More goddess-like than wife-like, such assaults As would take in some virtue. O, my master! Thy mind to her is now as low as were Thy fortunes. How! that I should murder her, Upon the love, and truth, and vows which I Have made to thy command? I, her? her blood? 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?" Do't: the letter
That I have sent her, by her own command Shall give thee opportunity." O damned paper! 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. Enter IMOGEN.
I am ignorant in what I am commanded. Imo. How now, Pisanio?
Pisa. Madam, here is a letter from my lord. Imo. Who? thy lord? that is my lord? Leonatus? O, learned indeed were that astronomer That knew the stars as I his characters; He'd lay the future open.-You good gods, Let what is here contained 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. Blessed 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. So he wishes you all happiness, that remains loyal to his vow, and your, increasing in love,
"LEONATUS POSTHUMUS."
O, for a horse with wings!--Hear'st thou, Pisanio? He is at Milford-Haven: read, and tell me How far 'tis thither. If one of mean affairs why may not I Then, true Pisanio
May plod it in a week, Glide thither in a day? (Who long'st, like me, to see thy lord; who long'st,-
O, 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 blesséd 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
Why should excuse be born or ere begot? We'll talk of that hereafter. Pr'y thee, speak, How many score of miles may we well ride "Twixt hour and hour.
Pisa. One score, 'twixt sun and sun, Madam, 's enough for you; and too much too.
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 allowed: 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-winged eagle. O, this life Is nobler than attending for a check; Richer than doing nothing for a bribe; Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk : Such gains the cap of him that makes him fine, Yet keeps his book uncrossed: no life to ours. Gui. Out of your proof you speak: we, poor unfledged,
Have never winged 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 abed; A prison for a debtor, that not dares To stride a limit.
Arv. When we are old as you? When we shall hear The rain and wind beat dark December, how, In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing: We are beastly; subtile 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 prisoned bird, And sing our bondage freely. How you speak!
What should we speak of,
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 of 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'sey at the censure:- O, boys, this story
The world may read in me: my body's marked 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,
Bel. My fault being nothing (as I have told you oft)
But that two villains, whose false oaths prevailed Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline I was confederate with the Romans: so Followed 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 moun- tains;
This is not hunters' language: he that strikes The venison first shall be the lord o'the feast; To him the other two shall minister; And we will fear no poison, which attends In place of greater state. I'll meet you in the valleys.
[Exeunt GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS. How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature! These boys know little they are sons to the king; Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive. They think they are mine: and, though trained 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. This Polydore,- The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, whom The king his father called Guiderius,― Jove! 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 his neck;' even then The princely blood flows in his cheek; he sweats, Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in
That acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal (Once Arviragus), in as like a figure
Strikes life into my speech, and shews much more His own conceiving. Hark! the game is roused! O Cymbeline! heaven and my conscience knows Thou didst unjustly banish me; whereon, At three and two years old, I stole these babes; Thinking to bar thee of succession, as Thou reft'st me of my lands. Euriphile, Thou wast their nurse; they took thee for their mother,
And every day do honour to her grave: Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan called, They take for natural father. The game
SCENE IV.-Near Milford-Haven.
Enter PISANIO and IMOGEN.
Imo. Thou told'st me, when we came from horse, the place
Was near at hand: ne'er longed my mother so To see me first, as I have now.-Pisanio! man! 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 perplexed Beyond self-explication: put thyself Into a 'haviour 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 it be summer news, Smile to 't before: if winterly, thou need'st But keep that countenance still.-My husband's hand!
That drug-damned Italy hath out-craftied him, And he's at some hard point.-Speak, man: thy
"Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath played the strumpet in my bed; the testimonies whereof lie bleeding in me. I speak not out of weak surmises; but from proof as strong as my grief, and as certain as I expect my revenge. That part thou, Pisanio, must act for me, if thy faith be not tainted with the breach of hers. Let thine own hands take away her life: I shall give thee opportunity at Milford-Haven; she hath my letter for the purpose: where, if thou fear to strike, and to make me certain it is done, thou art the pander to her dishonour, and equally to me disloyal."
Pisa. What shall I need to draw my sword? the paper
Hath cut her throat already.—No, 't is slander, Whose edge is sharper than the sword; whose tongue
Outvenoms all the worms of Nile; whose breath Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie All corners of the world: kings, queens, and states, Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave This viperous slander enters. What cheer,
To break it with a fearful dream of him, And cry myself awake? that's false to his bed, Is it?
Imo. I false? thy conscience witness.-Iachimo, Thou didst accuse him of incontinency; Thou then look'dst like a villain; now, methinks Thy favour's good enough.-Some jay of Italy, Whose mother was her painting, hath betrayed him:
Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion; And, for I am richer than to hang by the walls, I must be ripped: to pieces with me!-O, Men's vows are women's traitors! All good seeming,
By thy revolt, O husband, shall be thought Put on for villany; not born where't grows, But worn, a bait for ladies.
Did scandal many a holy tear; took pity From most true wretchedness: so thou, Posthu- mus,
Wilt lay the leaven on all proper men; Goodly and gallant, shall be false and perjured, From thy great fail.-Come, fellow, be thou honest; Do thou thy master's bidding: when thou see'st him,
A little witness my obedience. Look! I draw the sword myself: take it, and hit The innocent mansion of my love, my heart: Fear not; 't is empty of all things but grief: Thy master is not there; who was, indeed, The riches of it. Do his bidding; strike. Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause; But now thou seem'st a coward.
Pisa. Hence, vile instrument! Thou shalt not damn my hand. Imo. Why, I must die; And if I do not by thy hand, thou art No servant of thy master's: against self-slaughter There is a prohibition so divine,
That cravens my weak hand, Come, here's my
Something's afore't: soft, soft; we'll no defence; Obedient as the scabbard.-What is here? The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus, All turned to heresy? Away, away, Corrupters of my faith! you shall no more Be stomachers to my heart! Thus may poor fools Believe false teachers. Though those that are be-
Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor Stands in worse case of woe:
And thou, Posthumus, thou that didst set up My disobedience 'gainst the king my father, And make me put into contempt the suits Of princely fellows, shalt hereafter find It is no act of common passage, but A strain of rareness: and I grieve myself To think, when thou shalt be disedged by her That now thou tir'st on, how thy memory Will then be panged by me.-Pr'y thee, despatch: The lamb entreats the butcher: where 's thy knife? Thou art too slow to do thy master's bidding, When I desire it too.
You think of other place. The ambassador, Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford-Haven To-morrow now, if you could wear a mind Dark as your fortune is,—and but disguise That which, to appear itself, must not yet be But by self-danger,-you should tread a course Pretty and full of view: yea, haply near The residence of Posthumus: so nigh, at least, That though his actions were not visible, yet Report should render him hourly to your ear, As truly as he moves.
Well, then, here's the point: You must forget to be a woman; change Command into obedience; fear and niceness (The handmaids of all women, or, more truly, Woman its pretty self), to a waggish courage; Ready in gibes, quick-answered, saucy, and As quarrellous as the weasel: nay, you must Forget that rarest treasure of your cheek, Exposing it (but, O, the harder heart! Alack, no remedy!) to the greedy touch Of common-kissing Titan; and forget Your laboursome and dainty trims, wherein You made great Juno angry.
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