You have put me into rhyme. Farewell; you are angry. [Exit. Post. Still going?-This is a lord! O noble misery! To be i'the field, and ask, what news, of me! To-day, how many would have given their honours To have sav'd their carcasses? took heel to do't, And yet died too? I, in mine own woe charm'd,* Could not find death, where I did hear him groan; Nor feel him, where he struck: Being an ugly monster, "Tis strange, he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds, For being now a favourer to the Roman, Enter Two British Captains, and Soldiers. 1 Cap. Great Jupiter be prais'd! Lucius is taken: 'Tis thought, the old man and his sons were angels. I, in mine own woe charm'd,] Alluding to the common superstition of charms being powerful enough to keep men unhurt in battle. It was derived from our Saxon ancestors, and so is common to us with the Germans, who are above all other people given to this superstition. 5 great the answer be-] Answer, as once in this play before, is retaliation. 2 Cap. There was a fourth man, in a silly habit," That gave the affront with them." 1 Cap. So 'tis reported: But none of them can be found.-Stand! who is there? Post. A Roman; Who had not now been drooping here, if seconds Had answer'd him. 2 Cup. Lay hands on him; a dog! A leg of Rome shall not return to tell What crows have peck'd them here: He brags his service As if he were of note: bring him to the king. Enter CYMBELINE, attended; BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS, PISANIO, and Roman Captives. The Captains present POSTHUMUS to CYMBELINE, who delivers him over to a Gaoler: after which, all go out. SCENE IV. A Prison. Enter POSTHUMUS, and Two Gaolers. 1 Gaol. You shall not now be stolen, you have locks upon you; So, graze, as you find pasture. 6 2 Gaol. Ay, or a stomach. a silly habit,] Silly is simple or rustick. "That gave the affront with them.] That is, that turned their faces to the enemy. 8 Enter Cymbeline, &c.] This is the only instance in these plays of the business of the scene being entirely performed in dumb show. The direction must have proceeded from the players, as it is perfectly unnecessary, and our author has elsewhere [in Hamlet] expressed his contempt of such mummery. RITSON. Post. Most welcome, bondage! for thou art a way, I think, to liberty: Yet am I better Than one that's sick o'the gout: since he had rather Groan so in perpetuity, than be cur'd By the sure physician, death; who is the key To unbar these locks. My conscience! thou art fetter'd More than my shanks, and wrists: You good gods, give me The penitent instrument, to pick that bolt, I know, you are more clement than vile men, Solemn Musick. [He sleeps. Enter, as an Apparition, SICI 9 Solemn musick, &c.] It is the universal opinion that this vision, masque, and prophecy, were the interpolation of the players. One would think that, Shakspeare's style being too refined for his audiences, the managers had employed some playwright of the old school to regale them with a touch of "King Cambyses' vein." The margin would be too honourable a place for so impertinent an interpolation. LIUS LEONATUS, Father to POSTHUMUS, an old Man, attired like a Warrior; leading in his Hand an ancient Matron, hii Wife, and Mother to POSTHUMUS, with Musick before them. Then, after other Musick, 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, show With Mars fall out, with Juno chide, Rates and revenges. Hath my poor boy done aught but well, I died, whilst in the womb he stay'd Whose father then (as men report, Thou should'st have been, and shielded him Sici. Great nature, like his ancestry, That he deserv'd the praise a'the world, 1 Bro. When once he was mature for man, That could stand up his parallel; Moth. With marriage wherefore was he mock'd, To be exil'd, and thrown Sici. Why did you suffer Iachimo, To taint his nobler heart and brain And to become the geck' and scorn 2 Bro. For this, from stiller seats we came, Our fealty, and Tenantius' right, 1 Bro. Like hardiment Posthumus hath The graces for his merits due; No longer exercise, ope; Upon a valiant race, thy harsh And potent injuries: look out; 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. And to become the ge-] A geck is a fool. |