University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

Lucius and Leonatus.
Lucius.
O no, my Leonatus!
Indeed it was not well—had I been present
This wager had not past.

Leon.
Why, honour'd friend?
From brutal violence, or saucy insult,
She is well guarded in her father's court—
What is there then to fear?

Lucius.
Ill blood, at least—
And possibly the venture of a life,
That is most dear to Lucius!—This same Clodio,
For skill in weapons, and a bearlike boldness,
Is rank'd among the foremost.

Leon.
Never, yet,
Was I confronted with a son of Rome,
So rudely manner'd.

Lucius.
All, of Cæsar's court,
Are not of Cæsar's confidence, nor yet
Of his commissioning; howe'er, by means
Of second links, and golden interventions,
A brute of fortune mayn't be far from favour.
The first of Clodio's faults is, want of virtue;
The second, that he hates it in another.
Agrippa link'd him with me in commission;
Nature forbids all further tie between us.

Leon.
Let him be weigh'd, before you hold him worth
Another word—But say, my noble friend,
Is war determined against Britain, then,
In all the bloody process and extent
Of military licence?

Lucius.
War, or tribute—
Such is the will of Cæsar! Yet we bear
The Roman sword, but, with more surety,
To plant the Roman olive.

Leon.
Tribute, Lucius!
Do ye insist on tribute?

Lucius.
Some light matter—
But as a term that may express submission.

Leon.
O, 'tis in that, in that alone, my friend,
That tribute turns to lead!—A drachm of weight,
A straw, a feather, to a freeborn mind,
Becomes a mountain's burden, when imposed
The badge of vile dependence!

Lucius.
Noble creature!
Conceive me as the duteous minister
Of Cæsar's will, not mine. And yet my will
And power are now intent to place a friend
Even on the throne of that unthankful country,
From whose rejecting arms he late was cast,
A hopeless exile!

Leon.
How!—restored to Britain?—
Revenge?—my Imogen?—imperial power?—
And Cæsar's favour?

Lucius.
All, by holy friendship,
I swear it, all are thine.

Leon.
Alas! my Lucius,
I did but sum the bright temptation up,
Just to behold the value, for a moment,
Of what I must reject.—
Say Lucius, that same Roman, who derived
His name of glory from Corioli,
Was he not banish'd?

Lucius.
Yes.

Leon.
And turn'd his sword
Against his country?—

Lucius.
True; and, thereby, shew'd
To thankless Rome, the richness of the pearl
Their pride had cast away.

Leon.
And was enroll'd
Among her heroes?—

Lucius.
Trust me, with the foremost.

Leon.
O wayward man, deluded, by the glare
And wildfire of ambition, from the path
That Goodness brightens with unsetting glory!—
The Line of Duty is a Rubicon,
Whose bounds no power, in earth or Heaven, can take
Or give a right to pass!—True Honour, Lucius,
From the beginning to the end of things,
Goes hand in hand with Virtue!

Lucius.
O, the gods!
Let me behold him—Let my wonder mark
The greatness of your works!

Soldier enters.
Sold.
The legions are all landed, and attend
Their general's voice, for march, or for encampment.

Lucius.
I come.
[Exit Soldier.
My Leonatus, while I touch, and talk,
[Takes his hand.
And breathe within the region of thy virtues,
I too, methinks, grow greater than Augustus;
And feel, in these expandings of my soul,
That honour's more than empire.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The Palace of Cymbeline.
Queen and Cloten enter opposite.
Queen.
Well, Cloten—hast thou?—How is this—a face
Of damp and disappointment!—O, thou shouldst
Have come, with triumph, prologue, in thy looks;
And blood-besprinkled garments, to foreshew
The important deed was done!

Clot.
Perdition catch him!
And dangers, great as he has just escaped,
For ever close him round, that no curs'd chance,
No sudden arm may snatch him from the brink,
Till he is sunk, past sight.

Queen.
What, safe, unhurt?
The lion scaped the toils?—nay, then, our clue
Of fate again is ravelled.

Clot.
I had gotten
A pack of blood-hounds, staunch, as ever open'd
On the hot scent of near appointed slaughter.
We took us to the Thames, plied sail and oar—
Forward we shot, pursued—our eyes o'ertook him,
Held him in view, and gain'd upon our prey;
Till, just as when the frighted hare appears
Within the straining greyhound's jaws—damn'd hap!—
A Roman galley crost, and took him in;
And all our tugging rowers scarce avail'd
To warrant our own freedom.

Queen.
Soft, the King.

SCENE III.

Enter King, Imogen, Lords, Guards, &c.
Cymb.
So near, and landed, sayst thou?—This is magic.
No word of preparation, or approach!
Our watchers have conspired, with winds and seas,
To bring this storm upon us.—What's their power?

Mess.
About five legions, sheath'd in arms of proof,
And close-appointed.

Cymb.
Give us but note for double that amount,
And we will charge them to the beard.—Cingetorix,
Light up our beacons, give the alarm throughout.
And, Cadwal, call our train'd brigades together.
My Queen!—although thy Mars is not, as when,
A stripling, he aspired to win a plume
From the first Cæsar; they shall find him, yet,
Equal in closing arms to aught that's less
Than their almighty Julius. Gods! I thank ye
For this addition of a late renown,
Though at the stake and peril of our crown.

[Exeunt all but Imogen.
Imog.
All is in uproar!—here and there they run,
They know not whither; or, in fixt affright,
Freeze to the spot they press—Alack, for them!—
But, wherefore am not I in like alarm?—
O greater woe!—to me no gain can come;
And I am already sunk so low in loss,
As mocks at lower—Time and life, what are ye—
While fill'd with thought, yet emptied of the thing
That made your value? Time, and life, and thought,
You are my wretchedness.—O Leonatus!

SCENE IV.

A Servant enters followed by Clodio.
Serv.
Madam, a knight of Rome attends your pleasure,
With letters from my lord.

[Exit.
Clod.
Nay, change not, lady—
The noble Leonatus is in safety,
And honour'd me with these.

[Gives Letters.
Imog.
Thanks, courteous sir!—
O, learn'd, indeed, were that astronomer,
Who knew the stars as I his characters;
He'd lay the future open—Wax, thy leave.
Blest be the bees that made these locks of counsel!
Good news, good gods!

[Reads.
Clod.
All of her, that is out of door, most rich!—
If she be furnish'd with a mind as rare,
She is alone the Arabian Bird; and I,
In rashly seeking after my own shame,
Have lost myself—Audacity befriend me!

Imog.
Most welcome, worthy sir!—for my dear lord
Here sends thrice happy tidings, that he is near,
And well, and well protected in the love
Of the most noble Lucius—Generous sir,
You have chear'd a hopeless mourner—welcome, welcome!
Have you aught else, in kind commission, from
My Leonatus; or, if not from him,
From your kind self?—as, how he look'd, or talk'd
Or smiled, or moved; or, with what circumstance
He gave this blest remembrance—These are things,
In love's fond lore, of infinite import,
Though nothing to you wise ones.

Clod.
Royal lady,
I blush to find myself not duly versed
In this sweet erudition. I have nought,
Worthy of like memorial, to deliver,
Save, that our friend, our happy Leonatus,
Bade me renew the plightings of his faith,
Upon this peerless wax.

[Offers to kiss her hand—she withdraws it.
Imog.
How, sir!—I find you grow alike forgetful
Of me, and of your message—Here—who waits?

Clod.
Your pardon, fair!—wherein have I offended?

Imog.
Is it the custom, for your Roman dames
To be so ill respected?

Clod.
Gracious goddess!
What you misdeem for insolence, with us
Marks the submissive sign of adoration;
And the fair hand of our imperial Julia,
Is daily worship'd by the lips of thousands.

Imog.
Fashion may change with fancy—Gentle sir,
I trust your knowledge will excuse our wants,
And yet conform to what it finds—Still, welcome!
All's well, I hope—pray take my power for yours,
And to your full content.

Clod.
Surpassing creature!
Were I commission'd to call forth the winds,
From east and west, to winnow her throughout,
The gods, the gods, I find, have made her chaffless.
[Aside.
Consummate queen! scepter'd in every soul
That bends before perfection!—there is, yet,
One favour—

Imog.
Ask with confidence—believe it
Already granted.

Clod.
I am come, express,
From Rome to Cymbeline, and bring a coffer
That bears the seal of Cæsar, yet inviolate.
Within, 'tis freighted with some rich contents
Of rare device, and precious estimation;
Gifts from Augustus to your royal sire,
Your princely self, and his adopted son,
Your peerless Leonatus.—For this night,
I wish them safe; and safest I should deem them
In your protection, lady.

Imog.
Send them hither;
And, for the sake of that most valued part,
Respective to my lord, I'll see them stow'd
In my own chamber.—I will answer, truly,
To your best trust—and so, good sir, good night!

Clod.
My soul bows down to thank you. Peace, and slumbers
Sweet as your graces, wait you till the morning?

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE V.

Enter King, Queen, Cloten, Lords, Guards, and Roman Herald.
A Parchment, with a large Seal, in the Hand of Cymbeline.
Cymb.
It is the seal of Cæsar—Tell me, herald,
Who comes with these credentials?

Herald.
The valiant Clodio, second in command
To our most noble Lucius.

Cymb.
He is welcome—
We are prepared to hear him—let him enter.

SCENE VI.

Enter Clodio with a Train of Romans.
Cymb.
First, Clodio, for thyself and those brave Romans,
Our Britain greets ye well—Our further answer
Waits to be measured by your errand—Say,
With us, what would Augustus?

Clod.
Thus, saith Cæsar:
Nature, through Heaven and earth, hath form'd her works
In due subordination. One Supreme
Rules each appointed province.—Sol, who now
Drinks at the nether ocean, through the round
Of the wide Empyreum, where he walks
Among ten thousand thousand lesser lights,
Beholds no rival!—In like manner, reigns
Jove over gods; and, over mortals, Cæsar—
But, not with lawless sway.—Rome, Cymbeline,
Whose empire gathers in the scatter'd realms
Of our remotest world, spreads forth her wings,
Even as a parent-bird, to shield her young,
And fosters while she rules—nor would leave out
Your distant Britain from the wide protection.

Cymb.
Protection! have we sought it?—Say to Cæsar,
That Britain is a world within herself,
Imperial, independent; from the birth
Of nature, set apart, fair, full, and free,
And all-sufficient ever. Britain is
Another sea-born Venus, girt around
With her cerulean cestus, her chaste zone,
Which Rome shall not untie.—Protection! where,
Where was this proud display of Rome's protection,
When every petty state of petty Latium,
Gave her to tremble for herself?—No, Roman!
Britain is likelier, o'er a subject world,
To stretch her own domain, than from that world
To learn the lesson of a vile subjection.
When Rome shall ask our help, our will and power
May answer to her wants; we want not her's,
Nor will accept such Greek-like gifts—Protection!
Britain, we trust, shall well protect herself
From such protectors.

Clod.
Your uncle Cassibelan, Cymbeline,
Would not have answer'd our first Cæsar thus.

Cymb.
My uncle Cassibelan, Clodio,
Did answer your first Cæsar thus—that Julius,
Whose boast of conquest over mighty nations,
Was, that “he came and saw.”—Was that his boast
O'er Britain also?—No.—At first, he smiled
At our small skill; but soon was taught to frown
At our great courage. Twice repuls'd, and driven
To hide his shame in Gaul, at length he learn'd,
By force of faction, rather than of steel,
With our own arms to win us.—If the gods
Shall ever doom us to a foreign yoke,
'Tis not the arms of Rome, or of the world,
We have to fear—Britain can only fall
By Britain!

Clod.
Your uncle, Cassibelan, in behalf
Of his succeeders in the British throne,
Did gage to Julius, his acknowledg'd lord,
A yearly rent of seventy golden talents.

Cymb.
Let Julius claim!—He laid his country, too,
Under like contribution.—Tell me, Roman,
Did Brutus well, when, by one godlike stroke,
He gave her freedom?

Clod.
We have nought with this.—
We come to claim the tribute—What's your answer?

Cymb.
That ye have ta'en us somewhat unprovided—
Of money?—no, but marshal'd men—with such
We mean to pay you.—Tribute! wherefore tribute?
When Cæsar can obscure the golden sun,
Or hold the winds from breathing upon Britain,
He may demand a tax for light and air—
Till then, no tribute, Clodio.

Clod.
Yet, bethink you.
Loth am I to pronounce the world's wide lord
An enemy to Britain; to call forth
Rome's thunder yet restrain'd, confusion, wrath,
And ruin, not to be resisted.—Cæsar,
Who numbers more of monarchs in his train,
Than Cymbeline of menial servitors,
Yet tenders peace and amity.

Cymb.
On terms
Of equal amity, we would embrace him.
But, why, with present menace, do we deem
Of future issues, which the gods, alone,
Have in their keeping?—
Let us be brief, and sum our last resolves.

Clod.
War, or submission?

Cymb.
Liberty, or death!—
Lords, give our guests such tendence, as befits
Their high condition—A good night to all.

[Exeunt severally, Cymbeline and his Attendants— Clodio and his train.
Queen.
Cloten, I do bethink me, that the gods,
If there are gods, or dæmons, or whate'er,
That may obtrude their influence, unask'd,
On mortal counsels, or concerns—I think,
We have no cause to thank them—Leonatus
Is now beyond our reach; and Cymbeline
Must not be laid to sleep, until the known
Events of war shall tell us when to strike.
His daughter, too!—but for thy foolish lusts,
That bar had been away, by this.

Clot.
My mother,
I ask you not to give her to my love—
Yet, spare her to my vengeance, to the chastening
That's due to her contempts!—By all the gods,
Should she escape inviolate, your Cloten
Must pine upon the throne.

Queen.
Well then, be speedy.

Clot.
The King has put me into large commission.

Queen.
The King, my child?—no matter for the King;
He's ours already. 'Tis the Roman power
That's yet in doubt—Both sides must be secured,
That fate may find no further way to cross us.

Clot.
And how may that—

Queen.
No more—but be attentive.—
With the first dawn, take this dispatch to Clodio.
It is addrest to Lucius, Rome's elect
For this high expedition; and imports
A tender, on our part, to great Augustus,
Of double tribute, and our Pictish bands,
In aid of Rome's thin legions—thus condition'd,
That Britain's crown should be confirm'd to us.
Be close and dark as night—Away, my son,
To bed, and dream of honours!

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE VII.

A Bedchamber.
Imogen enters, with a Book and Taper.
A large Coffer in a Corner.
Imog.
The night's far gone—It is a sleepy tale,
[Lays by the Book.
And I'll to bed—Thou ever wakeful Fancy,
Who makest new worlds, and peoplest them with beings
At thine own will—O, take my Leonatus
Into thy kind creation; give him to me
In all his love and loveliness, a shade
Passing all waking substance!—so shall night
Atone my griefs by day; and, what is not,
Be prized o'er all that is—
[Lies down.
From every power of darkness, guard me, gods!
And ope your Heaven within!

[Sleeps.
Clodio rises cautiously out of the Coffer.
Clod.
Soft—All is still—except the cricket's chirp;
And the death-worm, that ticks its midnight watch
To silence—Tarquin, thus, with stealthy pace
Came o'er the sleeping Lucrece, ere he waked
The chastity he wounded—First, to mark
The tales impannell'd on the pictured boards,
And needled in the arras.
The fifteenth Danaide—Hero, from the tower,
And, from the beach, Alcione, just sprung
To join their loves below.—Panthea, arm'd
Against her life, hangs o'er her mangled lord!
Strike, woman,
Put the beholder out of pain!—By Proserpine,
All that is fabled, yet, of female worth,
Is call'd together here, to be affirm'd
By yonder sole perfection!—Now, for marks
Of nearer, dearer annotation—such
As may, with jealous frenzy, rend the soul
Of that loved, envied, curs'd, detested savage!—
Gently—as mousers tread by night—Kind sleep,
Image of death, lie thou upon her sense,
As monumental marble on a tomb
In some still chapel.—'Tis her breathing, sure,
That thus perfumes the chamber—Cytherea,
How thou dost sanctify thy shrine!—fair lilly,
Queen of the vale—more spotless, yet, within,
Than all external purity—Soft, soft,
Come off, thou precious bond, come off—'Tis mine—
[Takes off her bracelet.
A witness against truth, more strong, than all
Our Roman batteries!—O, the gods! what's here?—
On the left side, beneath the beauteous pap,
A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops
Ith'bottom of a cowslip—Here's a voucher,
Beyond what law can make!—She stirs!—enough—
I'll to my trunk again—
Ye dragons, who draw on the team of night,
Ply fast your leathern wings, that chearful morn
May rise to win my freedom!

[Goes into the coffer.—The scene closes.