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Cym. No tidings of him?
Pisanio. He hath been search'd among the dead and
But no trace of him.
Cym. To my grief, I am
The heir of his reward; which I will add
you, the liver, heart, and brain of Britain,
[To Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus. By whom, I grant, she lives: 'Tis now the time To ask of whence you are -report it.
In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen:
Cym. Bow your knees:
Arise my knights o' the battle; I create you
[Drums and Trumpets.
Enter Two Lords; Iachimo, Caius Lucius, Imo-
Thou com'st not, Caius, now for tribute; that
Of many a bold one; whose kinsmen have made suit,
Luc. Consider, sir, the chance of war; the day
We should not, when the blood was cool, have threaten'd
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:
Though he hath serv'd a Roman: Save him, sir,
Cym. I have surely seen him;
His favour is familiar to me.
Boy, thou hast look'd thyself into my grace,
To say, live, boy: ne'er thank thy master; live:
[imogen looks at Iachimo. Know'st him thou look'st on? speak,
Wilt have him live? Is he thy kin? thy friend?
Than I to your highness; who, being born your vassal,
Am something nearer.
Cym. Wherefore ey'st him so?
Imog. I'll tell you, sir, in private, if you please
To give me hearing.
Cym. Ay, with all my heart:
Walk with me; speak freely.
[cymbeline and Imogen walk aside.
Bel. Is not this boy reviv'd from death?
Not more resembles :—That sweet rosy lad,
Bel. Peace, peace! see further.
Pisanio. [Aside.] It is my mistress: Since she is living, let the time run on, To good, or bad.
Cymbeline and IMOGEN come forward. Cym. Come, stand thou by our side;
Make thy demand aloud. Sir, step you forth;
Give answer to this boy, and do it freely;
Or, by our greatness,
Bitter torture shall
Winnow the truth from falsehood.—On, speak to him, Imog. 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. Thoul't torture me to leave unspoken that Which, to be spoke, would torture thee.
Cym. 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 me,) a nobler sir ne'er liv'd
Twixt sky and ground. Will you hear more, my lord?
Cym. All that belongs to this.
Iach. That paragon, thy daughter,—
tor 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,
Iach. Upon a time, (unhappy was the clock That struck the hour!) it was in Rome, (accurs'd The mansion where!) 'twas at a feast, (Oh, 'would Our viands had been poison'd! or, at least,
Those which I heav'd to head!) the good Posthu
Cym. Come to the matter.
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!—
In suit the place of his bed, and win this ring
Away to Britain
Post I in this design: well may you, sir,
To be brief, my practice so prevail'd,
By wounding his belief in her renown
That he could not
But think her bond of chastity quite crack'd,
I having ta'en the forfeit.
Methinks, I see him now,-
Italian fiend!—Ah me, most credulous fool,
Egregious murderer, thief, any thing
That's due to all the villains past, in being,
To come!—Oh, give me cord, or knife, or poison,
I am Posthumus,
That kill'd thy daughter :—the temple
Of virtue was she; yea, and she herself.
Imog. Peace, my lord; hear, hear
Post. Thou scornful page, there is no peace for me. [Striking her; she falls. Pisanio. Oh, gentlemen, help, help
Mine, and your mistress :—Oh, my Lord Posthumus! You ne'er kill'd Imogen till now :—Help! help!— Mine honour'd lady!
Post. How come these staggers on me?
Pisanio. Wake, my mistress!
Cym. If this be so, the gods do mean to strike me To death with mortal joy.
Imog. Why did you throw your wedded lady from
Think, that you are upon a rock; and now,
Throw me again.
[Runs into his Arms.
Post. Hang there like fruit, my soul,
Till the tree die!
Cym. My child! my child! my dearest Imogen!
Imog. Your blessing, sir.
[Kneeling. Bel. Though you did love this youth, I blame you
You had a motive for't.
an Arvirag s. Cy
. I ogen, Thy mot er's dead.
Imog. I am sorry for't, my lord.
Cym. Oh, she was naught; and 'long of her it was, That we meet here so strangely: but her son
Is gone, we know not how, nor where.
[pisanio and Imogen retire with Posthumus; the Guards take off his chains.