Such noble fury in fo poor a thing: that you have paid too much, and forry that you are paid too much; purfe and brain, both empty; the brain the heavier, for being too light; the purfe too light, being drawn of heavinefs. Oh, of this contradiction you fhall now be quit: oh the charity of a penny cord, it fums up thousands in a trice; you have no true debtor, and creditor, but it; of what's paft, is, and to come, the difcharge; your neck, Sir, is pen, book, and counters; fo the acquittance follows. Poft. I am merrier to die, than thou art to live. Goal. Indeed, Sir, he that fleeps, feels not the tooth-ache: but a man that were to fleep your fleep, 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 thall go. Poft. Yes indeed do I, fellow. Goal. Your death has eyes in's head then; I have not feen him fo pictur'd: you must either be directed by fome that take upon them to know; or to take upon your felf that which I am fure you do not know; or lump the after-enquiry on your own peril; and how you "shall speed in your journey's-end, I think you'll never return to tell one. Poft. I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes, to direct them the way I am going, but fuch as wink, and will not use them. Goal. What an infinite mock is this, that a man should have the best ufe of eyes, to feek the way of blindness: I am fure fuch hanging's the way of winking. Enter a Messenger. Mef. Knock off his manacles, bring your prifoner to the King. Poft. Thou shalt be then freer than a goaler: no bolts for the dead. Goal. Unless a man would marry a gallows, and beget young gibbets, I never faw one fo prone. Yet on my confcience, there are verier knaves defire to live, for all he be a Roman: and there be fome of them too that die against their wills; fo fhould I, if I were one. I would we were all of one mind, and one mind good; O there were defolation of goalers, and gallowfes; I fpeak against my present profit, but my wish hath a preferment in't. SCENE IV. &c. 3 looks...old edit. Warb. emend. [Exit. Cym Cym. No tidings of him? Pif. He hath been fearch'd among the dead and living, But no trace of him. Cym. To my grief, I am The heir of his reward, which I will add To you, the liver, heart, and brain of Britain, [To Bellarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus. By whom, I grant, fhe lives. 'Tis now the time Bel. Sir, In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen: Cym. Bow your knees, Arife my knights o'th' battel; I create you Enter Cornelius and Ladies. Cor. Hail, great King! To four your happiness, I must report Cym. Whom worse than a physician Cym. Pr'ythee say. Cor. First, fhe confefs'd fhe never lov'd you, only Affected greatness got by you, not you: Married your royalty, wife to your place VOL. VI. O Abhorr'd Abhorr'd your perfon. Cym. She alone knew this: And but she spoke it dying, I would not Cor. Your daughter, whom the bore in hand to love With fuch integrity, fhe did confefs Was as a fcorpion to her fight, whofe life, Cym. O moit delicate fiend! Who is't can read a woman? is there more? Cor. More, Sir, and worfe. She did confefs fhe had Cym. Heard you all this, her women? 4 Were not in fault, for fhe was beautiful: Mine ears, that heard her flattery, nor. my heart, That it was folly in me thou may'ft fay, 4 Mine eyes SCENE Enter Lucius, Iachimo, and other Roman Prifoners, Thou com'ft not, Caius, now for tribute; that Luc. Confider, Sir, the chance of war; the day We fhould not, when the blood was cool, have threatned So feat, fo nurfe-like; let his virtue join With my request, which I'll make bold your Highne Cym. I've furely seen him; His favour is familiar to me. Boy, thou haft look'd thy felf into my grace, And art mine own. I know not why, nor wherefore O 2 Imo. Imo. I humbly thank your Highness. Luc. I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad, And yet I know thou wilt. Imo. No, no, alack, There's other work in hand; I fee a thing Luc. The boy difdains me, He leaves me, fcorns me: briefly die their joys, Cym. What wouldst thou, boy? I love thee more and more: think more and more, What's best to ask. Know'ft him thou look'st on? fpeak, 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 vaffal Am fomething nearer. Cym. Wherefore eye'ft him fo? Imo. I'll tell you, Sir, in private, if you please To give me hearing. Cym. Ay, with all my heart, And lend my best attention. What's thy name? Cym. Thou'rt my good youth, my page, [Cymbeline and Imogen go afide. Bel. Is not this boy reviv'd from death? Arv. One fand Another 'doth not more resemble,` 'than He the sweet rofie lad who died, and was 7'Fidele. 8 Guid. 'Ev'n the fame dead thing alive. Bel. Peace, peace, fee more; he eyes us not, forbear, Creatures may be alike: were't he, I'm fure He would have spoke t' us. 5 not more resembles 6 that fweet rofie youth... old edit. Theob. emend. 7 Fidele. What think you? 8 The fame Guid. |