University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

A Forest, a March at a Distance.
Enter Bellarius, Guiderius and Arviragus.
Arv.
The noise is round about us.

Bel.
Let us from it.
We'll higher to the Mountains, there secure us
To the King's Party there's no going; newness
Of Cloten's Death, we being not known, nor muster'd
Among the Bands, may drive us to a render
Where we have liv'd: And so extort from's that
Which we have done, whose Answer would be Death
Drawn on with Torture.

Guid.
This is, Sir, a doubt
(In such a Time) nothing becoming you,
Nor satisfying us.

Arv.
It is not likely,
That when they hear the Roman Horses neigh,
Behold their quarter'd Fires, have both their Eyes
And Ears so cloy'd importantly as now,
That they will waste their time upon our Note,
To know from whence we are.

Bel.
Oh, I am known
Of many in the Army; and besides the King
Hath not deserv'd my Service, nor your Loves.

Guid.
Pray, Sir, to the Army;
I, and my Brother are not known; yourself
So out of Thought, and thereto so o'er grown,
Cannot be question'd.

Arv.
By this Sun that shines
I'll thither; what thing is it, that I never
Did see Man die, scarce ever look'd on Blood,
But that of coward Hares, hot Goats and Venison?
I am ashamed to look upon the holy Sun, to have
The Benefit of his blest Beams, remaining
So long a poor unknown.—

Guid.
By Heav'ns I'll go;
If you will bless me, Sir, and give me leave,
I'll take the better care; but if you will not,
The hazard therefore due fall on me, by
The Hands of Romans.

Arv.
So say I.

Bel.
No Reason I, since of your Lives you set
So slight a Valuation, should reserve
My crack'd one to more care. Have with you, Boys.
If in your Country Wars you chance to die,
That is my Bed too, Lads, and there I'll lye.

[Exe.

SCENE II.

A Field between the British and Roman Camps.
Enter Posthumus with a bloody Handkerchief.
Post.
Yea bloody Cloth, I'll keep thee; for I wisht
Thou should'st be colour'd thus. You married ones
If each of you would take this Course, how many
Must murder Wives much better than yourselves,
For wrying but a little? Oh Pisanio;
Every good Servant does not all Commands—
No Bond, but to do just ones. Gods! if you
Should have ta'en Vengeance on my Faults, I never
Had liv'd to put on this; so had you saved
The noble Imogen to repent, and strook
Me, Wretch, more worth your Vengeance. But alack
You snatch some hence for little Faults; (that's love)
To have them fall no more; you some permit
To second Ills with Ills, each worse than other,
And make them dreaded to the Doers thrift;
But Imogen is your own, do your best Wills,
And make me blest to obey. I am brought hither
Amongst the Italian Gentry, and to fight
Against my Lady's Kingdom; 'tis enough
That Britain, I have kill'd thy Mistress: Peace,
I'll give no Wound to thee; therefore good Heav'ns,
Hear patiently my Purpose, I'll disrobe me
Of these Italian Weeds, and suit myself
As does a Britain Peasant; so I'll fight
Against the Part O come with: so I'll die
For thee, O Imogen, for whom my Life
Is every Breath, a Death; and thus unknown,
Pitied, nor hated, to the Face of Peril,
Myself I'll dedicate. Let me make Men know
More Valour in me, than my Habit's Show;
Gods, put the strength o'th' Leonati in me;
To shame the Guise o'th' World, I will begin,
The Fashion less without, and more within.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

A Field of Battle.
A Grand Fight between the Romans and Britons, the Romans are drove off.
Enter Posthumus and Iachimo Fighting. Iachimo drops his Sword.
Post.
Or yield thee, Roman, or thou dy'st.

Iach.
Peasant, behold my Breast.

Post.
No, take thy Life and mend it.
[Exit Post.

Iach.
The Heaviness and sin within my Bosom
Takes off my Manhood, I've bely'd a Lady,
The Princess of this Country, and the Air on't
Revengingly enfeebles me, or could this carle,
A very Drudge of Nature, have subdu'd me,
In my Profession; Knighthoods and Honours borne
As I wear mine, are Titles but of Scorn;
With Heav'n against me, what is Sword or Shield,
My Guilt, my Guilt, o'er powers me, and I yield.

[Exit.

SCENE IV.

A Wood.
Enter Pisanio and 1st Lord.
1 Lord.
This is a Day turn'd strangely.
Came'st thou from where they made the Stand?

Pis.
I did.
Though you it seems came from the Fliers.

1 Lord.
I did.

Pis.
No blame to you, Sir, for all was lost,
But that the Heav'ns sought: the King himself
Of his Wings destitute, the Army broken,
And but the Backs of Britains seen; all flying
Through a straight Lane, the Enemy full-hearted,
Lolling the Tongue with slaught'ring, struck down
Some mortally, some slightly touch'd, some falling
Merely through Fear, that the straight Pass was damm'd
With dead Men, hurt behind, and Cowards living
To die with lengthen'd shame.

1 Lord.
Where was this Lane?

Pis.
Close by the Battle, ditch'd, and wall'd with Turf,
Which gave Advantage to an ancient Soldier,
(An honest one I warrant.) Athwart the Lane,
He, with two stripling Lads, more like to run
The Country base, than to commit such Slaughter,
Made good the Passage, cry'd to the Fliers, stand,
Or we are Romans, and will give you that
Like Beasts, which you shun beastly, and may save
But to look back in Frown: Stand, stand.

1 Lord.
Were there but three?

Pis.
There was a fourth Man, in a poor rustic Habit,
That stood the Front with them. These matchless four,
Accomodated by the Place, gilded pale Looks,
Part Shame, part Spirit renew'd, that some turn'd Cowards,
But by Example, 'gan to look
The way that they did, and to grin like Lions
Upon the Pikes o'th' Hunter. Then began
A Stop i'th' Chaser, a Retire; anon
A Rout, Confusion thick, and the Event
A Victory for us.

1 Lord.
This was strange Chance,
An old Man, two Boys, and a poor Rustic.

Pis.
Nay, do not wonder—but go with me, and
See these Wonders, and join the general Joy.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.

A Wood.
Enter Posthumus.
Post.
To-day, how many would have given their Honours
To've sav'd their Carkasses? took Heel to do't,
And yet died too. I, in mine own Woe charm'd,
Could not find Death, where I did hear him groan,
Nor feel him where he strook. This ugly Monster,
'Tis strange he hides him in fresh Cups, soft Beds,
Sweet Words; or hath more Ministers than we
That draw his Knives i'th' War. Well, I will find him;
No more a Britain, I have resum'd again,
The Part I came in. Fight I will no more,
But yield me to the veriest Hind, that shall
Once touch my Shoulder. Great the Slaughter is
On either Side. For me, my Ransom's Death,
I come to spend my Breath;
Which neither here I'll keep, nor bear again,
But end it by some means for Imogen.

[Exit.

SCENE VI.

Cymbeline's Tent.
Enter Cymbeline, Bellarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanio, and Lords.
Cym.
Stand by my Side, you, whom the Gods have made
Preservers of my Throne: Woe is my Heart,
That the poor Soldier that so richly fought,
(Whose Rags sham'd gilded Arms, whose naked Breast
Step'd before Shields of Proof,) cannot be found:
He shall be happy that can find him, if
Our Grace can make him so.

Bel.
I never saw
Such noble Fury in so poor a Thing.

Cym.
No Tidings of him?

Pis.
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 Bell. Guid. and Arvirag.
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'th' Battle, I create you
Companions to our Person, and will fit you
With Dignities becoming your Estates.
Enter Cornelius and Ladies.
There's Business in these Faces: why so sadly
Greet you our Victory? you look like Romans,
And not o'th' Court of Britain.

Cor.
Hail, great King;
To sour your Happiness, I must report
The Queen is dead.

Cym.
Dead, say'st thou! How ended she?

Cor.
With Horror, madly dying, like herself,
Who, being cruel to the World, concluded
Most cruel to herself. What she confest,
I will report so please you. These her Women
Can trip me, if I err; who with wet Cheeks
Were present when she finish'd.

Cym.
Pr'ythee say.

Cor.
First, she confess'd she never lov'd you; only
Affected Greatness got by you.
Married your Royalty, was Wife to your Place,
Abhorr'd your Person.

Cym.
She alone knew this:
And but she spoke it dying, I would not
Believe her Lips in opening it. Proceed.

Cor.
Your Daughter, whom she bore in Hand to love
With such Integrity, she did confess,
Was as a Scorpion to her sight, whose Life,
But that her Flight prevented it, she had
Ta'en off by Poison.

Cym.
O most delicate Fiend!
Who is't can read a Woman? is there more?

Cor.
More, Sir, and worse. She did confess she had
For you a mortal Mineral, which being took,
Should by the minute feed on Life, and lingring,
By inches waste you. In which time, she purpos'd
By watching, weeping, tendance, to o'ercome
You with her shew: yes, and in time, to work,
Her Son into th'Adoption of the Crown:
But failing of her End by his strange Absence,
Grew shameless, desperate, open'd, in despight
Of Heav'n, and Men, her Purposes: repented
The Ills she hatch'd, were not effected: so
Despairing, dy'd.

Cym.
Heard you all this, her Women?

Lady.
We did, so please your Highness.

Cym.
Mine Eyes
Were not in fault, for she was beautiful:
Mine Ears that heard her Flattery, nor my Heart,
That thought her like her seeming. It had been vicious
To have mistrusted her: yet, O my Daughter!
That it was folly in me, thou may'st say,
And prove it in thy feeling. Heav'n mend all.
Enter Lucius, Iachimo, and other Roman Prisoners, Leonatus behind, and Imogen.
Thou com'st not, Caius, now for Tribute, that
The Britains have ras'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 threatned
Our Prisoners with the Sword. But since the Gods
Will have it thus, that nothing but our Lives
May be call'd Ransome, 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 intreat, my Boy, a Britain born,
Let him be ransom'd: never Master had
A Page so kind, so duteous, diligent,
So tender over his Occasions,
He hath done no Briton harm
Though he hath serv'd a Roman. Save him, Sir,
And spare no Blood beside.

Cym.
I've surely seen him;
His Favour is familiar to me: Boy,
Thou hast look'd thyself into my grace,
I know not why, nor wherefore,
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:
Know'st him thou look'st on? speak,
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 Vassal
Am something nearer.

Cym.
Wherefore eye'st him so?

Imo.
I 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?

Imo.
Fidele, Sir.

Cym.
Thou'rt my good Youth, my Page,
I'll be thy Master: walk with me, speak freely.

[Go aside.
Bel.
Is not this Boy reviv'd from Death?

Arv.
One Sand another
Not more resembles than he th'sweet rosy Lad,
Who dy'd, and was Fidele: what think you?

Guid.
The same dead thing alive.

Bel.
Peace, peace, see further;

Pis.
It is my Mistress:
[Aside.
Since she is living, let the time run on,
To good or bad.

Cym.
Come, stand thou by our side.
Make thy Demand aloud. Sir, step you forth,
[To Iach.
Give answer to this Boy, and do it freely,
Or by our Greatness, and the grace of it
Which is our Honour, bitter Torture shall
Winnow the Truth from Falshood. On, speak to him.

Imo.
My Boon is, that this Gentleman may tender
Of whom he had this Ring.

Post.
What's that to him?

[Aside wondring.
Cym.
That Diamond upon your Finger, say,
How came it yours?

Iach.
Thou'lt 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 what
Torments me to conceal. By Villany
I got this Ring; 'twas Leonatus' Jewel,
Whom thou did'st banish: and (which more may grieve thee
As it doth me) a nobler Sir ne'er liv'd
'Twixt Sky and Ground. Wilt thou 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—

[Swoons.
Cym.
My Daughter, what of her? Renew thy Strength,
I had rather thou should'st live, while Nature will,
Than die ere I hear more: strive Man, and speak.

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 worthy Posthumus—

Cym.
I stand on fire. 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 wag'd with him
Pieces of Gold, 'gainst this which then he wore
Upon his Honour'd Finger; to attain
In suit the place of's 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,
By your chaste Daughter, the wide difference
'Twixt Amorous, and Villainous.
Yet to be brief, my practice so prevail'd,
That I return'd with similar 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 do'st,
[Coming forward.
Italian Fiend! Ay 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, Knife or Poison,
Some upright Justicer. Thou King, send out
For Torturers ingenious; it is I
That all th'abhorred things o'th Earth amend,
By being worse than they. I am Posthumus,
That kill'd thy Daughter: Villain-like, I lye,
That caus'd a lesser Villain than myself,
A sacrilegious Thief to do't. The Temple
Of Virtue was she; yea, and she herself—
Spit, and throw Stones, cast Mire upon me, set
The Dogs o'th' Street to bait me: every Villain
Be call'd Posthumus Leonatus, and
Be Villainy less than 'twas. Oh Imogen!
My Queen, my Life, my Wife! oh Imogen,
Imogen, Imogen!

Imo.
Peace, my Lord, hear, hear—

Post.
Away—Thou scornful Page, there is no peace for me.

[Striking her, she falls.
Pis.
Oh Gentlemen, help,
Mine and your Mistress—Oh, my Lord Posthumus!
You ne'er kill'd Imogen 'till now—help, help,
Mine honour'd Lady—

Cym.
Does the World go round?

Post.
How come these Staggers on me?

Pis.
Wake, my Mistress.

Cym.
If this be so, the Gods do mean to strike me
To death with mortal joy.

Imo.
Why did you throw your wedded Lady from you?
Think that you are upon a Rock, and now
Throw me again.

Post.
Hang there like Fruit, my Soul,
'Till the Tree die.

Cym.
My Child! my Child!
My dearest Imogen.

Imo.
Your Blessing, Sir.

[Kneeling.
Bel.
Tho' you did love this Youth, I blame you not,
You had a Motive for't.

Cym.
My Tears that fall
Prove Holy-water on thee; Imogen,
Thy Mother's dead.

Imo.
I'm 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.

Guid.
Let me end the Story; 'Twas I that slew him.

Cym.
The Gods forefend.
I would not thy good Deeds should from my Lips
Pluck a hard sentence: Pr'ythee valiant Youth
Deny't again.

Guid.
I have spoke it, and I did it.

Cym.
He was a Prince.

Guid.
A most uncivil one. The Wrongs he did me
Were nothing Prince-like; for he did provoke me
With Language that would make me spurn the Sea,
If it could so roar to me. I cut off's Head,
And am right glad he is not standing here
To tell this Tale of mine.

Cym.
Bind the Offender,
And take him from our Presence.

Bel.
Stay, Sir King,
This Man is better than the Man he slew,
As well descended as thyself, and hath
More of thee merited, than a Band of Clotens
Had ever Scar for. Let his Arms alone,
They were not born for Bondage.

Cym.
Why, old Soldier,
Wilt thou undo the worth thou art unpaid for,
By tasting of our Wrath? how of Descent
As good as we?

Bel.
I am too blunt, and saucy; here's my Knee;
Mighty Sir,
These two young Gentlemen that call me Father,
And think they are my Sons, are none of mine,
They are the Issue of your Loins, my Liege,
And Blood of your begetting.

Cym.
How? my Issue?

Bel.
So sure as you, your Father's: I, old Morgan,
Am that Bellarius, whom you sometime banish'd;
Your Pleasure was at once my Offence, my Punishment
It self, and all my Treason. These gentle Princes,
For such, and so they are, these twenty Years
Have I train'd up; those Arts they have, that I
Could put into them. But, gracious Sir,
Here are your Sons again: and I must lose
Two of the sweet'st Companions in the World.
The Benediction of these covering Heav'ns,
Fall on their Heads like Dew, for they are worthy
To in-lay Heav'ns with Stars.

Cym.
Thou weep'st, and speak'st:
The Service that you three have done, is more
Unlike, than this thou tell'st. I lost my Children—
If these be they, I know not how to wish
A pair of worthier Sons.

Cym.
Guiderius had
Upon his Neck a Mole, a sanguine Star.
It was a Mark of Wonder.

Bel.
This is he!
Who hath upon him still that natural Stamp;
It was wise Nature's End, in the Donation,
To be his Evidence now.

Cym.
Oh, what am I
A Mother to the Birth of three? Ne'er Mother
Rejoic'd deliverance more; blest may you be,
That after this strange starting from your Orbs,
You may reign in them now: Oh Imogen,
Thou hast lost by this a Kingdom.

Imo.
No, my Lord:
I have got two Worlds by't. Oh my gentle Brothers,
Have we thus met? Oh never say hereafter
But I am truest Speaker. You call'd me Brother
When I was but your Sister: I you Brother,
When ye were so indeed.

Cym.
Did you e'er meet?

Arv.
Ay, my good Lord.

Gui.
And at first meeting lov'd.

Cym.
All o'er-joy'd
Save these in Bonds, let them be joyful too,
For they shall taste our Comfort.

Imo.
My good Master, I will yet do you service.

Luc.
Happy be you.

Cym.
The forlorn Soldier that so nobly fought,
He would have well becom'd this place, and grac'd
The Thankings of a King.

Post.
I am, Sir,
The Soldier that did company these three
In poor beseeming: 'Twas a fitment for
The purpose I then follow'd. That I was he,
Speak, Iachimo, I had you down, and might
Have made your finish.

Iach.
I am down again:
[Kneels.
But now my heavy Conscience sinks my Knee,
As then your Force did. But your Ring first,
And here the Bracelet of the truest Princess
That ever swore her Faith: now take that Life
Beseech you, which I so often owe.

Post.
Kneel not to me:
The Power that I have on you, is to spare you:
The Malice towards you, to forgive you. Live,
And deal with others better.

Cym.
Nobly doom'd:
We'll learn our Freeness of a Son-in-Law:
Pardon's the Word to all. Laud we the Gods:
And let our crooked Smoaks climb to their Nostrils
From our blest Altars. Publish we this Peace
To all our Subjects. Set we forward: let
A Roman, and a British Ensign wave
Friendly together; so through Lud's Town march,
And in the Temple of great Jupiter
Our Peace we'll ratify. Seal it with Feasts.
Set on there: Never was a War did cease
Ere bloody Hands were wash'd, with such a Peace.

[Exeunt omnes.