This is not hunter's 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 GUI. and ARV.

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 train'd 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 call'd 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 posture
That acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal,
(Once Arvirágus,) in as like a figure,

Strikes life into my speech, and shows much more
His own conceiving. Hark! the game is rous'd!—
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

4

I stole these babes ;] Shakspeare seems to intend Belarius for a good character, yet he makes him forget the injury which he has done to the young princes, whom he has robbed of a kingdom only to rob their father of heirs.-The latter part of this soliloquy is very inartificial, there being no particular reason why Belarius should now tell to himself what he could not know better by telling it. JOHNSON.

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 call'd,
They take for natural father. The

The game is up.

[Exit.

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 long'd 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 perplex'd
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-damn'd' Italy hath outcraftied him,

And he's at some hard point.-Speak, man; thy

tongue

May take off some extremity, which to read

Would be even mortal to me.

5

Pis.

Please you, read ;

haviour -] This word, as often as it occurs in Shakspeare, should not be printed as an abbreviation of behaviour. Haviour was a word commonly used in his time.

6 drug-damn'd -] This is another allusion to Italian poisons.

And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing
The most disdain'd of fortune.

Imo. [reads.] 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 opportunities 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.

Pis. What shall I need to draw my sword? the

paper

Hath cut her throat already.-No, 'tis 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, madam?
Imo. False to his bed! What is it, to be false?

To lie in watch there, and to think on him?

To weep 'twixt clock and clock? if sleep charge nature,
To break it with a fearful dream of him,

And cry myself awake? that's false to his bed?
Is it?

Pis. Alas, good lady!

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 betray'd him:

In this sense

3 Whose mother was her painting,] Some jay of Italy, made by art; the creature, not of nature, but of painting. painting may not be improperly termed her mother.

Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion;

And, for I am richer than to hang by the walls,

I must be ripp'd':-to pieces with me!—0,

Men's vows are women's traitors! All good seeming,
By thy revolt, O husband, shall be thought

Put on for villainy; not born, where't grows;
But worn, a bait for ladies.

Pis.

Good madam, hear me.

Imo. True honest men being heard, like false Eneas, Were, in his time, thought false: and Sinon's weeping Did scandal many a holy tear; took pity

From most true wretchedness: So, thou, Posthumus,
Wilt lay the leaven on all proper men';

Goodly, and gallant, shall be false, and perjur'd,
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; 'tis empty of all things, but grief:
Thy master is not there; who was, indeed,
The riches of it: Do his bidding; strike.
Thou may'st be valiant in a better cause;
But now thou seem'st a coward.

Pis.

Thou shalt not damn my hand.

Imo.

Hence, vile instrument!

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,

9 And, for I am richer than to hang by the walls,

I must be ripp'd:] To hang by the walls, does not mean, to be converted into hangings for a room, but to be hung up, as useless among the neglected contents of a wardrobe.

1 Wilt lay the leaven on all proper men; &c.] i. e. says Mr. Upton, “wilt infect and corrupt their good name, (like sour dough that leaveneth the whole mass,) and wilt render them suspected."

That cravens my weak hand'. Come, here's my heart;
Something's afore't:-Soft, soft; we'll no defence;
Obedient as the scabbard.-What is here?

The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus,
All turn'd 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 betray'd
Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor
Stands in worse case of woe.

And thou, Posthumus, thou that did'st 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 disedg'd by her
That now thou tir'st on, how thy memory
Will then be pang'd by me.-Pr'ythee, 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.

Pis.

O gracious lady,

Since I receiv'd command to do this business,
I have not slept one wink.

Imo.

Do't, and to bed then.
Pis. I'll wake mine eye-balls blind first.
Imo.

Wherefore then

Didst undertake it? Why hast thou abus'd
So many miles, with a pretence? this place?
Mine action, and thine own? our horses' labour?
The time inviting thee? the perturb'd court,
For my being absent; whereunto I never
Purpose return? Why hast thou gone so far,

? That cravens my weak hand.] i. e. makes me a coward.

That now thou tir'st on,] A hawk is said to tire upon that which she pecks; from tirer, French.