Solemn Music. Enter, as an apparition, SICILIUS LEONATUS, father to POSTHUMUS, an old man, attired like a warrior; leading in his hand an ancient Matron, his wife, and mother to PostHUMUS, with music before them. Then, after other music, follow the two young LEONATI, brothers to POSTHUMUS, with wounds, as they died in the wars. They circle POSTHUMUS round, as he lies sleeping.

Sici. No more, thou thunder-master, shew
Thy spite on mortal flies:

With Mars fall out, with Juno chide,

That thy adulteries

Rates and revenges.

Hath my poor boy done aught but well,

Whose face I never saw?

I died whilst in the womb he stayed,

Attending Nature's law.

Whose father then (as men report

Thou orphans' father art)

Thou shouldst have been, and shielded him

From this earth-vexing smart.

Moth. Lucina lent not me her aid,

But took me in my throes;
That from me was Posthumus ript,
Came crying 'mongst his foes,
A thing of pity!

Sici. Great nature, like his ancestry,
Moulded the stuff so fair,

That he deserved the praise o' the world,
As great Sicilius' heir.

1st Bro. When once he was mature for man, In Britain where was he

That could stand up his parallel ;
Or fruitful object be

In

eye

of Imogen, that best

Could deem his dignity?

Moth. With marriage wherefore was he mocked,

To be exiled, and thrown

From Leonati' seat, and cast

From her his dearest one,
Sweet Imogen?

Sici. Why did you suffer Iachimo,

Slight thing of Italy,

To taint his nobler heart and brain

With needless jealousy ;

And to become the geck and scorn
O' the other's villany?

2nd Bro. For this, from stiller seats we came,

Our parents, and us twain,

That, striking in our country's cause,
Fell bravely, and were slain;
Our fealty, and Tenantius' right,
With honour to maintain.

1st Bro. Like hardiment Posthumus hath
To Cymbeline performed:

Then, Jupiter, thou king of gods,
Why hast thou thus adjourned
The graces for his merits due;

Being all to dolours turned?

Sici. Thy crystal window ope; look out;
No longer exercise,

Upon a valiant race, thy harsh
And potent injuries:

Moth. Since, Jupiter, our son is good,
Take off his miseries.

Sici. Peep through thy marble mansion; help!
Or we poor ghosts will cry

To the shining synod of the rest,
Against thy deity.

2nd Bro. Help, Jupiter; or we appeal,

And from thy justice fly.

JUPITER descends in thunder and lightning, sitting

upon an eagle; he throws a thunder-bolt. The Ghosts fall on their knees.

Jup. No more, you petty spirits of region low,

Offend our hearing; hush!-How dare you, ghosts, Accuse the thunderer, whose bolt you know,

Sky-planted, batters all rebelling coasts?
Poor shadows of Elysium, hence; and rest
Upon your never-withering banks of flowers:
Be not with mortal accidents oppressed;

No care of yours it is; you know t' is ours.
Whom best I love, I cross; to make my gift,
The more delayed, delighted. Be content;
Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift:

His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent.
Our Jovial star reigned at his birth, and in
Our temple was he married.-Rise, and fade!
He shall be lord of lady Imogen,

And happier much by his affliction made.
This tablet lay upon his breast; wherein
Our pleasure his full fortune doth confine;
And so, away: no farther with your din

Express impatience, lest you stir up mine.—
Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline. [Ascends.
Sici. He came in thunder: his celestial breath
Was sulphurous to smell: the holy eagle
Stooped, as to foot us; his ascension is
More sweet than our blessed fields: his royal bird
Prunes the immortal wing, and cloys his beak,
As when his god is pleased.

And so I am awake.-Poor wretches that depend
On greatness' favour, dream as I have done;
Wake, and find nothing.-But, alas, I swerve:
Many dream not to find, neither deserve,
And yet are steeped in favours; so am I,
That have this golden chance, and know not why.
What fairies haunt this ground? A book? O
rare one!

Be not, as is our fangled world, a garment
Nobler than that it covers: let thy effects
So follow, to be most unlike our courtiers,
As good as promise.

"When as a lion's whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking, find, and be embraced by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopped branches, which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate, and flourish in peace and plenty."

"Tis still a dream; or else such stuff as madmen
Tongue, and brain not: either both, or nothing:
Or senseless speaking, or a speaking such
As sense cannot untie. Be what it is,

The action of my life is like it, which
I'll keep, if but for sympathy.

Gaol. Come, sir, are you ready for death? Post. Over-roasted rather: ready long ago. Gaol. Hanging is the word, sir; if you be ready for that, you are well cooked.

Post. So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators, the dish pays the shot.

Gaol. A heavy reckoning for you, sir: but the comfort is, you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more tavern bills; which are often the sadness of parting, as the procuring of mirth: you come in faint for want of meat, depart reeling with too much drink: sorry that you have paid too much, and sorry that you are paid too much; purse and brain both empty : the brain the heavier for being too light, the purse too light, being drawn of heaviness: O!

Post. I am merrier to die than thou art to live. Gaol. Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the tooth-ache: but a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would change places with his officer; for, look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go. Post. Yes, indeed do I, fellow.

Gaol. Your death has eyes in 's head then; I have not seen him so pictured: you must either be directed by some that take upon them to know; or take upon yourself that which I am sure you do not know; or jump the after-inquiry on your own peril and how you shall speed in your journey's end, I think you'll never return to tell one.

Post. I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes to direct them the way I am going, but such as wink, and will not use them.

Gaol. What an infinite mock is this, that a man should have the best use of eyes, to see the way of blindness! I am sure hanging's the way of winking.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. Knock off his manacles; bring your prisoner to the king.

Post. Thou bringest good news: I am called to be made free.

Gaol. I'll be hanged, then.

Post. Thou shalt be then freer than a gaoler; no bolts for the dead.

[Exeunt POSTHUMUS and Messenger. Gaol. Unless a man would marry a gallows, and beget young gibbets, I never saw one so prone. Yet, on my conscience, there are verier knaves desire to live, for all he be a Roman : and there be some of them too that die against their wills; so should I, if I were one. I would we were all of one mind, and one mind good; O, there were desolation of gaolers and gallowses! I speak against my present profit; but my wish hath a preferment in 't. [Exeunt.

SCENE V.-CYMBELINE'S Tent.

Enter CYMBELINE, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS, PISANIO, Lords, Officers, and Attendants.

Cym. Stand by my side, you whom the gods

have made

Preservers of my throne. Woe is my heart That the poor soldier that so richly fought, Whose rags shamed gilded arms, whose naked breast

Stepped before targe of proof, cannot be found:

To sour your happiness, I must report
The queen is dead.

Cym. Whom worse than a physician Would this report become? But I consider, By medicine life may be prolonged, 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 confessed I will report, so please you: these her women Can trip me, if I err; who, with wet cheeks, Were present when she finished.

Iach. I am glad to be constrained 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 me) a 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:

I had rather thou shouldst live while nature will, Than die ere I hear more: strive, man, and speak. Iach. Upon a time (unhappy was the clock That struck the hour!)-it was in Rome (accursed The mansion where!)—'t was at a feast (O 'would Our viands had been poisoned! or, at least, Those which I heaved 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
Amongst the rar'st of good ones), sitting sadly,
Hearing us praise our loves of Italy

For beauty that made barren the swelled boast
Of him that best could speak: for feature, laming
The shrine of Venus, or straight-pight Minerva,
Postures beyond brief nature; for condition,
A shop of all the qualities that man

Loves woman for; besides, that hook of wiving,
Fairness, which strikes the eye :-
I stand on fire:

Сут. Come to the matter.

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

Cym.

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 wagered with him Pieces of gold, 'gainst this, which then he wore Upon his honoured 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 villanous.

quenched

Being thus

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 prevailed,
That I returned 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 cracked,
I having ta'en the forfeit. Whereupon,-
Methinks I see him now,-

[Coming forward.
Italian fiend!-Ah me, most credulous fool,
Egregious murderer, thief, anything
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 abhorréd things o' the earth amend,
By being worse than they. I am Posthumus,
That killed thy daughter :-villain-like, I lie;
That caused 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 called Posthumus Leonatus; and
Be villany less than 't was!-O Imogen!
My queen, my life, my wife! O Imogen!
Imogen, Imogen!

Imo.

Peace, my lord; hear, hear!