 | Cymbeline |  |
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.
192
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!
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