University of Virginia Library

SCENE V.

A Forest with a Cave.
Enter Bellarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus.
Bel.
A goodly Day, not to keep House with such,
Whose Roof's as low as ours: See, Boys! this Gate
Instructs you how t'adore the Heav'ns; and bows you
To Morning's holy Office. Gates of Monarchs
Are arch'd so high, that Giants may get through
And keep their impious Turbands on, without
Good-morrow to the Sun. Hail, thou fair Heav'n,
We house i'th' Rock, yet use thee not so hardly,
As prouder Livers do.

Guid.
Hail, Heav'n!

Arv.
Hail, Heav'n!

Bel.
Now for our Mountain Sport, up to yond Hill,
Your Legs are young: I'll tread these Flats. Consider,
When you above perceive me like a Crow,
That it is Place which lessens and sets off,
And you may then revolve what Tales I told you,
Of Courts of Princes, of the Tricks in War,
That Service is not Service, so being done,
But being so allow'd. To apprehend thus,
Draws us a Profit from all Things we see:
And often to our Comfort shall we find
The sharded Beetle, in a safer hold
Than is the full-wing'd Eagle. Oh this Life,
Is nobler than attending for a Check;
Richer, than doing nothing for a Bauble;
Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for Silk:
Such gain the Cap of him, that makes them fine,
Yet keeps his Book uncross'd; no Life to ours.

Guid.
Out of your Proof you speak; we poor unfledg'd
Have never wing'd from view o'th' Nest; nor know not
What Air's from Home. Hap'ly this Life is best,
If quiet Life is best; sweeter to you
That have a sharper known: well-corresponding
With your stiff Age; but unto us it is
A Cell of Ignorance; travelling a-Bed,
A Prison for a Debtor, that not dares
To stride a Limit.

Arv.
What should we speak of
When we are old as you? when we shall hear
The Rain and Wind beat dark December? How,
In this our pinching Cave, shall we discourse
The freezing Hours away? we have seen nothing,

Bel.
How you speak?
Did you but know the City's Usuries,
And felt them knowingly; the Art o'th' Court,
As hard to leave, as keep, whose top to climb
Is certain falling, or so slipp'ry, that
The Fear's as bad as falling. The Toil o'th' War,
A Pain, that only seems to seek out Danger
I'th' name of Fame, and Honour; which dies i'th' search,
And hath as oft a sland'rous Epitaph,
As Record of fair Act; nay, many time
Doth ill deserve, by doing well: what's worse
Must curt'sie at the Censure. Oh Boys, this Story
The World may read in me: My Body's mark'd
With Roman Swords; and my Report was once
First with the best of Note. Cymbeline lov'd me,
And when a Soldier was the Theam, my Name
Was not far off: Then was I as a Tree
Whose Boughs did bend with Fruit. But in one Night,
A Storm or Robbery, call it what you will,
Shook down my mellow Hangings, nay my Leaves,
And left me bare to Weather.

Guid.
Uncertain Favour!

Bel.
My Fault being nothing, as I have told you oft,
But that two Villains, whose false Oaths-prevail'd
Before my perfect Honour, swore to Cymbeline,
I was Confederate with the Romans: So
Follow'd my Banishment, and this twenty Years,
This Rock, and these Demesnes, have been my World,
Where I have liv'd at honest Freedom, pay'd
More pious Debts to Heav'n, than in all
The fore-end of my time—But, up to th'Mountains,
This is not Hunters Language; he that strikes
The Venison first, shall be Lord o'th' 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.
How hard it is to hide the Sparks of Nature?
These Boys know little they are Sons to th'King,
And Cymbeline dreams not they are alive.
They think they are mine, and tho' train'd up thus meanly
I'th' Cave there on the brow, 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 Polidore,
(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've done, his Spirits fly out
Into my Story, say thus mine Enemy fell,
And thus I set my foot on's 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 Arviragus) in as like a figure
Strikes Life into my Speech, and shews much more
His own conceiving. Hark, the Game is rouz'd—
O Cymbeline! Heav'n, and my Conscience know
Thou did'st unjustly banish me, whereon
At three and two years old, I stole these Babes,
Thinking to bar thee of Succession, as
Thou reft'st me of my Lands. Euriphile
Thou wast their Nurse, they take 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 Game is up.

[Exit.