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Cym. No tidings of him?
Cym. To my grief, I am
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.
Cym. Bow your knees :
[Drums and Trumpets.
Enter Two Lords; Iachimo, Caius Lucius, IMO
gen, Roman Prisoners, in Chains ; and Posthu
Mus behind, guarded by British Soldiers. Thou com'st not, Caius, now for tribute ; that Britons have raz'd out, though with the loss Of many a bold one; whose kinsmen have made suit, That their good souls may be appeas'd with slaughter Of you their captives, which ourself have granted : So, think of your estate.
Luc. Consider, sir, the chance of war; the day Was yours by accident; had it gone with us, 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:
Cym. I have surely seen him;
fore, To say, live, boy: ne'er thank thy master; live: And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt, Fitting my bounty, and thy state, I'll give it; Yea, though thou do demand a prisoner, The noblest ta'en. [imogen looks at Iachimo. Know'st him thou look'st on? speak, Wilt have him live? Is he thy kini thy friend?
Imog. He is a Roman; no more kin to me, 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?
Arv. One sand another
Guid. The same dead thing alive.
Pisanio. [Aside.] It is my mistress:
Cymbeline and IMOGEN come forward.
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
Cym. How ! me?
grieve thee, As it doth me,) a nobler sir ne'er liv'd Twixt sky and ground. Will you hear more, my
Iach. That paragon, thy daughter,-
strength : I had rather thou shouldst live while nature will, Than die ere I hear more.
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 ! Made scruple of his praise; and wager'd with him Pieces of gold, 'gainst this which then he wore Upon his honour'd finger, to attain In suit the place of his bed, and win this ring By hers and mine adultery. 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 :To be brief, my practice so prevail'd, That I return'd, with simular proof enough To make the noble Leonatus mad, By wounding his belief in her renown With tokens thus, and thus; That he could not But think her bond of chastity quite crack'd, I having ta'en the forfeit. Whereupon,Methinks, I see him now,
Post. Ay, so thou dost, [Coming forward. 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, Some upright justicer! Thou, king, send out For torturers ingenious : I am Posthumus, That kill'd thy daughter :- the temple
Of virtue was she; yea, and she herself.
Imog. Peace, my lord; hear, hear-
[Striking her ; she falls.
Post. How come these staggers on me ?
Cym. If this be so, the gods do mean to strike me
you? 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!
[Kneeling. Bel. Though you did love this youth, I blame you
not; You had a motive fort.
[To Guiderius and Arviragus. Cym. Imogen, Thy mother'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 I MOGEN retire with Posthumus;
the Guards take off his chains.