University of Virginia Library

CYMBELINE. A TRAGEDY.

ACT I.

SCENE A Royal Palace.
Enter two Lords.
1st LORD.
I pray you feast mine ears with more of this;
For 'tis so long since first I turn'd my back
Upon our isle, that I am new in Britain.

2d LORD.
I think your wish to breathe in foreign air,
Took you away about the very time
The royal babes were stolen.

1st LORD.
It is true, sir—
Some twenty years ago—'twas a strange theft,
But the concealment stranger; for you tell me,
That to this hour there is no guess in knowlege
Which way they went.

2d LORD.
No, sir—albeit search
Was hot in the enquiry—but much time
Has worn out all that miracle—fresh matter
Supplying wonder since.

1st LORD.
Of which my ignorance
Is not yet perfect learner.

2d LORD.
Well then, heed me.
Our late good queen (you knew her, sir) whose age
Was thought t'advance beyond more hope of children,
Yet brought the joyful Cymbeline a daughter,
And to his kingdoms a most hopeful heir,
In lieu of those he lost: for Imogen
(Such is her name) took all the graces in,
Which the best wisdom of the times put to her,
As we do air, fast as 'tis minister'd.
If beauty, innocence, and gentleness
Are woman's rarest jewels, she is rich
In most full measure of possession.

1st LORD.
You speak her fair.

2d LORD.
But not to flatter, sir,
Tho' I should talk the sun down. You have heard
The bright side of the story, for the other
It has a sable hue—I'll be brief with it—

1st LORD.
Do, but be plain.

2d LORD.
The queen quits mortal being;
And Cymbeline, tho' now in wane of life,
Takes to his lonely bed a second dame,
A widow, bold, ambitious, cunning, cruel,
That rul'd his heart by acting what she was not:
She mov'd the cred'lous king to wed his daughter
With Cloten, her own son, a wretch in whom
All qualities that dub a worthy man
Are low as worst report.—The princess cast
Disdain upon his suit—and in mean time
My plotting stepdame dies.

1st LORD.
A lucky death!

2d LORD.
'Twas thought so.—But the king, in whom this weakness
Is his first point of fault, pursues the aim
Of his now dead belov'd, and wills the maid
To take the crown with this encumbrance Cloten,
Or hold her birth-right void.

1st LORD.
Alas! poor lady.

2d LORD.
Nay there's more woe behind.—Sweet Imogen
Had long been list'ning to the earnest suit
Of Leonatus, a young lord o'th' court,
A valiant, frank, and honest gentleman,
That has no vice, if poverty be none;
And to say all, as much unlike to Cloten
As man can be to man.—Him in pure love,
And to undo all aims, she weds, and makes
The deed soon known her boast: th'enraged king
Sends Leonatus into banishment,
And her within the circle of this castle
Enforceth to abide, till she consent
To break her bond to her new-wedded lord
By strong propos'd divorce.—This is the sum
Of what you wish'd to hear.

1st LORD.
What say the Britons
To these proceedings?

2d LORD.
As their humours vary;
Some blame the king, all pity Imogen,
And much lament the loss of Leonatus,
Now the black Romans swarm upon our coasts,
And virtue's call'd to proof.

1st LORD.
They're landed then!

2d LORD.
Report says loudly so.—But hist!—the king—
We must forbear, we shall hear more of this.

Enter Cymbeline, Cloten, and Lords.
CYMBELINE,
Well, sirs, the news abroad?

1st LORD.
So please your majesty,
The Roman legions, all from Gallia drawn,
Are landed on your coast, with large supply
Of Roman gentry, by the senate sent.

CYMBELINE.
Where hold they rendezvous?

2d LORD.
My liege, at Milford.

CYMBELINE.
Now by the soul of great Cassibelan,
They're fairly welcome!—Our right valiant Britons
Will greet them soldier-like.—Cæsar's ambition,
Which swell'd so much that it did almost stretch
The sides o'th' globe, against all colour here
Did put the yoke upon's—which to shake off
Becomes a warlike people, such as we
Will prove ourselves to be.

CLOTEN.
My royal father,
The dreaded foe we have to cope withal
(That in his empire's paw would gripe the world)
Oft have we measur'd swords with—ere't be long
We'll make the mighty name of Cymbeline
To sound as roughly in a Roman ear,
As did Cassibelan's.—

3d LORD.
My gracious liege,
Old Caius Lucius, and th'Italian spark
Pisanio, that was tendant at his side
In his late mission from the Roman camp,
Are come, with errand of especial weight
Upon their brow.

CYMBELINE.
Let them approach our presence.
Enter C. Lucius, Pisanio, &c.
Lucius, we love thy person, tho' thou com'st
On deputation from our angry foe.
Pisanio, welcome too. Now, sirs, the message.

LUCIUS.
First for myself, I thank you, royal sir,
For courtesies receiv'd—not since forgot—
My present bus'ness is, in Cæsar's name,
(Cæsar, that hath more kings his servants than
Thyself domestic officers) to know
If in repentant yielding thou wilt pay
The yearly tribute of three thousand crowns,
Granted by fam'd Cassibelan thine uncle,
For him and his succession, to great Julius,
(Which by thee lately is untendered left)
Now fell confusion sets his standard up,
And fearful wars point at you?

CYMBELINE.
Noble Lucius,
Words have no terrors—there be many Cæsars
Ere such another Julius—You well know,
Till the injurious Roman did extort
This tribute, we were free.—Our Britain is
A world itself, and we will nothing pay
For wearing our own faces—Sir, our subjects
Will not endure this yoke—and for ourself,
To shew less sov'reignty than they, must needs
Appear unking-like.

LUCIUS.
Sir, when late to Britain
I came in peaceful embassy to claim
This yet contested tribute, I remember
The boast that fill'd your mouth—you vaunted then
The nat'ral brav'ry of your isle, which stands
As Neptune's park ribbed and paled in
With rocks unscaleable, and roaring waters,
With sands that would not bear your enemies boats,
But suck them up to th' topmast.—We have leaped
This all-forbidding fence,—and, sir, be sure,
Where'er the Roman banner waves in wrath,
Conquest limps not behind.—

[During this speech, Cloten whispers Pisanio.]
CYMBELINE.
Had Julius found
In ev'ry land he mangled with his sword,
No stabler footing than he gain'd him here,
I could have bought his empire for a tithe
Of Britain's leanest soil.—No more of this.
To-morrow we will meet you in the field,
And this fair land is yours, if you can win it;
If not, our crows shall fare the better for you.
Caius, thou'rt welcome: give him tendance, lords,
And feast him as befits his quality;
The due of honour in no point omit.
Once more my hand in friendship; from this time
I wear it as your enemy.

LUCIUS.
Th' event
Is yet to name the winner. Fare you well.

[Exeunt Lucius, Pisanio, and some Lords.
CYMBELINE.
Our expectation that it should be thus
Hath made us forward. Cloten, our now heir,
(For the base Imogen our sometime daughter
Has lost all right in us) if so it hap
That I must leave my life in battle, thine
Is this imperial crown.—Great Jupiter
Sprinkle his blessings on't as thou obey'st
Our sov'reign charge.—Hear us most heedily.

CLOTEN.
I do; and will the royal mandate keep
'Mongst my religious bonds.

CYMBELINE.
Let not our daughter
Breathe more the chearful air of liberty;
This castle be her home, house, region, world,
Till she shall sue thee for the love she scorn'd:
And Leonatus, exil'd, worthless beggar,
That vilely did seduce her young affections,
If with his foot he mark our land again,
Pursue to bitt'rest death.—So did we promise
Thy mother, our late queen, whose memory yet
Sits fresh upon my heart. Wilt thou do this?

CLOTEN.
My liege, most willingly.

CYMBELINE.
Then I've laid out
So much of caution well.—Lords, we must bustle—
It is the common cause that wakes our arms—
We grapple for our own;—the puny wren
Will chase him in his thief-assailed nest:
We fight for Britain's franchises, the laws
Of old Mulmutius, our great ancestor,
The first of Britain, which did put his brows
Within a golden crown.

CLOTEN.
Those laws, great sir,
We will not change for Cæsar's proud behests
That rules by bidding.

CYMBELINE.
Deal we then our swords
With dextrous resolution; or hereafter
Let them hang up, like utensils discharg'd,
In rusty sloth, and vile disuse for ever.
The gore-besmeared Mars infuse his fury
Into our soldiers breasts; for our own self
We go to battle with a blither heart,
Than ere did jovial bridegroom long repuls'd,
Into his mistress' bed. Sound there aloft
Our instruments of war, that British bloods
May boil to martial music. Forward, pass.
[Flourish. Exeunt all but Cloten.]
Thanks to my mother for this joyless crown—
It fills not half my wish: while Leonatus
Reigns in the bosom of fair Imogen,
'Tis I am banish'd, and a sov'reign he:
Wou'd I cou'd pluck their loves up by the roots!
And I am strong in hope—if young Pisanio
(Whom I made mine by making myself Cæsar's
When he was last in Britain) hath been true
To the employ I gave him, long ere now
The jealous exile pines him in belief
His lady's truth is tainted.—Come, Pisanio—
He said, he'd quit the train, and here return
T'unlade his secrets to me.—Oh! sir, welcome!
Enter Pisanio.
What shall I ask thee first?—How fares Augustus?
Is Leonatus mad? Thou might'st have told
A history ere this.

PISANIO.
I pray you patience—
First, sir, my lord commends him to your highness;
Next, the diseased Leonatus hath
Italian fits of jealousy too strong
For hellebore to cure.

CLOTEN.
That's well—his grief
Is medicine to mine; but when, and how?
Give me particulars at large—my ear
Shall catch thy narrative as greedily,
As doth the sick man the kind drops that fall
Upon his fever's flame.

PISANIO.
My lord, as soon
As I had foot in Italy, I challeng'd
Th' abused Leonatus with some friends
To the appointment of a merry meeting;
Where, as the wine danc'd brainward, I began
To praise the freedom of the British ladies,
Their lib'ral hearts, and am'rous 'complishments;
When Leonatus vow'd I did them wrong,
And was too bold in my persuasion.

CLOTEN.
So.

PISANIO.
I fast held me to my sentiment,
And, for his doubt provok'd me, swore myself
Had tasted half the court, and his own princess,
(Whose virtue he had deem'd unparagon'd)
At her own suit in bed.

CLOTEN.
Most brave, brave Roman!

PISANIO.
On this the Briton vaults me from his seat,
And bids my ready sword avow th' affront
Done his pure lady's honour—I with looks
Of calm assurance, and arms folded thus,
Wish'd him attend my proofs. This fair proposal
Had sanction from all sides, and liquor'd noddles
Jostled to hear my tale.

CLOTEN.
Why so—Proceed.

PISANIO.
First, roundly I describ'd her bed-chamber,
The arras, cieling, pictures; (for of these
I took most faithful inventory, when
I lay concealed there); then I produc'd
The bracelet that I ravish'd from her arm,
As sleep, the ape of death, lay dull upon her;
And last I quoted the cinque-spotted mole
That richly stains her breast, like crimson drops
I'th'bottom of a cowslip.

CLOTEN.
There was voucher
Stronger than ever law made.—Well, sir, what
To this the Briton?

PISANIO.
He was quite besides
The government of patience—He roll'd round
His bloodshot eyes, stamp'd with his foot, and writh'd
His form into all postures; strove to speak,
And chatter'd monkey-like;—at length, his choler
Burst into utt'rance rash—'tis well, he cried,
The fiends of hell divide themselves between you—
And so without more ceremony, left
Our board, to cast conjectures, as they might,
Whereto his fury tended.

CLOTEN.
Thanks, Pisanio;
Saw you him since?

PISANIO.
No; but the rumour was,
Ere I left Rome, that he had turn'd his thought
To bloody purpose of revenge.

CLOTEN.
'Tis good—
Pisanio, I did love this lady—lie
I should not, if I said I love her still—
O she is sweeter than the breath of spring
Wooing the maiden violet—'tis past—
And I have lost her.

PISANIO.
She hath wrong'd you.

CLOTEN.
True—
She hath disdain'd me—spurn'd me—once she vow'd,
The meanest garment that e'er clip'd the body
Of Leonatus, was in her respect
Dearer than all the hairs upon my head,
Were they all made such men.—The south-fog rot
Him, her, and Cæsar's foes.

PISANIO.
Thou wishest well.—
This Leonatus is a thorn, my lord,
That pricks your side of greatness. If he 'scape
The snare that traps him now, and haply live
To recognize his country and his queen,
Your crown will totter—for the lady keeps
High seat in ev'ry heart; and for her husband,
(I speak in envy this) thro' Italy
Tongues quarrel in his praise; the current voice is,
So fair an outward, and such inward stuff,
Endows no man but him.

CLOTEN.
I prythee stop—
Was he not yok'd with Imogen, myself
Could make my tongue a bankrupt in his praise;
But being what he is, I must abhor him:
I have no other hate than what I bear
Him, and his fortunes; for his kinder stars
Have still eclipsed mine: but I will shroud me
Beneath the Roman wing—Britain, thou hast
Loud service of my tongue; my heart is Cæsar's,
Of whom I'll hold my crown; these restif Britons
We must have curb upon; left gall'd subjection
Feeling the heavy lash of government,
Fly off from his obedience.

PISANIO.
Cæsar bad me
Insure his count'nance, and puissant arm,
Who will attack your right—

CLOTEN.
We're bound to him.
Sir, I will post me in th'approaching battle,
Where least our British archers may annoy
The Roman legions.

PISANIO.
It is well—but hist—
Who is't comes yonder?

CLOTEN.
'Tis Philario, friend
And council-man to Leonatus; best
Abruptly part we here, as chance alone
Had brought us thus together.

[Exeunt severally.
Enter Philario.
The four-brow'd Cloten!—It is wide suspicion
Thou wear'st cold British heart, and this rencounter
With young Pisanio colours it more strong.
But I have other care.—He writes me here,
(Pulling out letters.)
In spleenful terms of most confirm'd belief,
That he hath cognizance of her incontinence;
And wills me, by the love and truth I owe him,
To murther her.—Perhaps some false Italian
Hath the infection of foul slander pour'd
In his too ready ear.—Perhaps she's fall'n.—
She's fair,—that's much;—she's young,—that's more,—I hold
The virtue of the best attemptable.—
I must proceed with wary steps herein.—
Here's that will 'tice her from her prison-house,
Or for true love, or seeming.—I will steal
This way to her apartment.

[Exit.
SCENE opens, and discovers Imogen in her apartment, sitting by a table; a book on the table.
(Reads.)

Enter Philario.
There she sits—
Sweet student! with a look as chaste as Dian's.—
If she's disloyal, falshood never yet
Hung out so fair a sign—yet seems, we know,
Is often read for is—I must disturb her—
Imogen—lady—

IMOGEN.
Hah! what now, Philario?

PHILARIO.
Dear lady, here are letters from your lord—

IMOGEN.
From whom? from Leonatus?—Let me see—
Oh! learn'd indeed were that astronomer,
That knew the stars as I his characters—
He'd lay the future open—You good Gods,
Let what is here contain'd relish of love;
Of my lord's health; of his content; yet not
That we two are apart—of his content
In all but that—good wax, thy leave—blest bees
That make these locks of counsel—Good news, Gods.

PHILARIO.
Now let me con her visage as she reads—

IMOGEN.
(Reading)

Justice and your father's wrath, should
he take me in his dominions, could not be so cruel to
me, but you, oh! the dearest of creatures, would
even renew me with your eyes. Take notice that I am
at Milford Haven; what your own love will out of
this advise you, follow. So he wishes you all happiness,
that remains loyal to his vow, and yours increasing in love,

Leonatus.

Oh! for a horse with wings—hear'st thou, Philario,
He is at Milford Haven—prithee tell me
How far 'tis thither. If one of mean affairs
May plod it in a day, why may not I
Glide thither in an hour? Then, good Philario,
Who long'st like me to see thy friend; who long'st
(O let me bate) but not like me, yet long'st,
But in a fainter kind—Oh! not like me—
For mine's beyond, beyond—tell me how far
To this same blessed Milford; and by the way
Tell me how Wales was made so happy as
T'inherit such a haven. But first of all,
How may we steal from hence? I prithee speak
How far to Milford?

PHILARIO.
Madam, we may reach it,
With horses swift and sure of foot, before
The sun has ended his day's journey.

IMOGEN.
Well—
But how to get from hence—

PHILARIO.
I have a thought—
Lady, a thousand eyes keep centinel
To watch your motions here—yet haply these
Unquestion'd we may pass—suppose you did
Assume another mien, and but disguise
That, which t'appear itself must not now be
But by self-danger—cannot you awhile
Forget to be a woman?

IMOGEN.
I'm almost
A man already.

PHILARIO.
Make yourself but like one,
And ev'ry gate shall kindly open to us,
Tho' Argus' self were porter.

IMOGEN.
In my closet
I have a suit of boy's apparel ready,
That was my page's—under which disguise,
And with what imitation I can borrow
From youth of such a season, I will quit
This castle's loathsome hold.

PHILARIO.
You are resolv'd then
To tie yourself to Leonatus' fortune,
And leave your father and the court behind you?

IMOGEN.
No court, no father now—(for what's a father
Whose mind my crafty stepdame poison'd, that
Bore all down with her brain) no, nor no more
Of that harsh, sullen, haughty, princeling Cloten,
That Cloten, whose love-suit has been to me
As fearful as a siege.

PHILARIO.
Hie to your chamber,
And fit you to your manhood—dull delay
Is sin 'gainst resolution.

IMOGEN.
I am arm'd
Ev'n for events of peril infinite,
And woman's love is courage.

PHILARIO.
I will hence,
And able horse and furniture prepare
For this adventure: I'll be with you, lady,
Before you're well equipp'd.

IMOGEN.
Do, good Philario:
The gracious Gods direct us!

[Exeunt severally.