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Cym. No tidings of him?
Pisanio. He hath been search'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 Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus. By whom, I grant, she lives : Tis now the time To ask of whence you are :—report it.

Bel. Sir,
In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen :
Further to boast, were neither true nor modest,
Unless I add, we are honest.

Cym. Bow your knees :
Arise my knights o’the battle; I create you
Companions to our person, and will fit you
With dignities becoming your estates.

[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:
Augustus lives to think on't: And so much
For my peculiar care. This one thing only
I will entreat; my boy, a Briton born,
Let him be ransom'd: never master had
A page so kind, so duteous, diligent :
He hath done no Briton harm,
Though he hath serv'd a Roman: Save him, sir,
And spare no blood beside.

Cym. I have surely seen him;
His favour is familiar to me.-
Boy, thou hast look'd thyself into my grace,
And art mine own. I know not why, nor where-

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
Not more resembles :—That sweet rosy lad,
Who died, and was Fidele :- What think you ?

Guid. The same dead thing alive.
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 ;

To Iachimo.
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,-
For 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, 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

mus

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.
Spit, and throw stones, cast mire upon me: set
The dogs o' the street to bay me: every villain
Be calld, Posthumus Leonatus; and
Be villany less than 'twas !-Oh, Imogen!
My queen, my life, my wife! Oh, Imogen,
Imogen, Imogen!

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

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!
Imog. Your blessing, sir.

[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.

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