 | Cymbeline |  |
SCENE XI.
Leonatus enters.Leon.
In vain I seek for death, among the thickest,
Where the field burns—the spectre flies me still,
As tho' he held me for his foe—
Clodio re-enters.
How, Clodio!
By the gods, welcome—Nay, no shrinking, Clodio—
The time of reckoning's come!—
Clod.
I sought thee not.
But since thou crossest me—altho' thou wert
The genuine son of Mars and dread Bellona,
I front thee—thus.
Leon.
And, with my weapon's wind,
Thus do I win thee.
[Clodio falls.
Clod.
Curses blast thine arm,
Triumphant savage! for it has awaked me
From a long dream of greatness—Tell me, Briton,
How hast thou dealt with Imogen?
Leon.
Dispatch'd her.
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Then I'm reveng'd!—and I will wring thy soul,
With tortures worse than death—Thy Imogen
Was guiltless.
Leon.
How?—
Clod.
The heavenly light, less chaste!
I got myself convey'd into her chamber
In a gay coffer, sent, as I pretended,
With precious ware from Cæsar; and, at midnight,
Even, while the simple, sleeping innocent,
Dreamt of her Leonatus, I did mark
The chamber; and, in stealing that same bracelet,
Spied the rich mole that stung thee into madness.
Fool, ideot, dolt—
Who had the jewel of the universe,
Yet cast it from thee!—
Leon.
O fiend, without a fellow!—damn'd, damn'd Clodio;
A depth, below all bottom, damn'd!—Hope not
That death shall snatch thee from my vengeance—No—
Even, in mid plunge, I'll seize thy shrinking soul,
And it shall be my endless Heaven, to tear,
And torture thee for ever.—Thou hell-tyger,
Thy pangs are not half strong enough!—Thus, thus,
And thus—
[Stabbing him.
Clod.
Hold, hold—Oh—Curses—curses catch
Thee, and the fiends that gave thee force—Oh—
[Dies.
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And now, to follow!—
[Turns the sword to his breast.
Soft—If death should be
To cease from thought, and, therein, from the rack
On which my soul is stretch'd; how then is Imogen
Avenged?—or how may my own wrath be wreak'd
Against myself, on whom I swear to wage
War without truce, for ever? Fool, fool, fool!
To credit even these eyes, where, against proof,
Her truth was demonstration.—O, my love,
Were my guilt greater than e'er call'd for justice,
The loss of thee were penal, beyond all
That justice could inflict!—and have I caus'd
That loss?—Avenge her, Heaven and hell!—rend, rack me!
Multiply pains on pains!—O, rose of beauty,
How art thou cropt—how faded from amidst
The garden of the world, now waste!
And shall I never, never, never more
Behold thee, Imogen!—nor hear the voice,
That spoke soft tunings to my soul—nor see
That aspect, which arose upon the morning
In a new day of comforts, shedding peace
And joy around?—
[Exit.
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