University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

The Palace.
Queen and Attendants.
Queen.
Are there no tidings of the princess, yet?

Wom.
No, madam, not the least.

Queen.
Nor of my son?

Wom.
Not any.

Queen.
That is strange!
Messenger in haste.
How now!—whence come you, with that deadly look
Of pale and breathless terror?

Mess.
From the battle.—
The King is captive to the arms of Rome,
With our two chiefs, Cingetorix and Cadwal.
All's done—all on the rout—and Britain flies,
Scatter'd, and driven along the field, like dust
Before the raging wind.

Queen.
That's somewhat worse
Than we did wish for.
[Dead march without.
Ha! what sound is that?
That, with an heart-alarming suddenness,
Brings death upon us?

Messenger enters.
2d Mess.
O, my royal mistress!—

Queen.
Speak, man—and yet—I dare not ask—

2d Mess.
Nor dare
Your wretched servant answer—O—your son—
Your Cloten is—

Queen.
Dead?—Oh—

[Faints.
Wom.
Help, here, support—
Her fit is strong upon her—

Queen.
What have ye waked me to!—O horror, horror!
This was not among all my dreams—And, had I,
Had I no friend, in Heaven, or hell, to snatch
From ruin that yet wants a name?—What's here?
[A Bier carried across the Stage, with Soldiers attending.
A bier!—Ah—tell me not my child is there—
Or I will give a curse shall blast the world,
And root existence up—Fates!—hostile powers!—
Slaves, cowards, who forsook him—thus I spread
Destruction, death, among ye all!—

[Draws a dagger.
Sold.
Shift—fly!
Fly from her fury, all!

[Exeunt, the Queen pursuing and striking at them.

SCENE II.

Drums and Trumpets. Cymbeline and Bellarius, &c. enter in Triumph.
Cymb.
Welcome, my brave deliverer, to your own—
To the possessions of a lavish friendship,
That will not know partition!—Seek we, now,
To purge our palace of domestic evils,
Officer enters.
And traitors, late most loved.—Where is your Queen?—

Offic.
O, my dread lord, the winds, in all their whirl,
Are not so wild—madder than twenty Maniacs.—
When she beheld her son, brought home, a corpse,
She swoon'd; but, waking into sudden frenzy,
She drew a poniard, flew on all she met;
And, though, with difficulty, now disarm'd,
None dare approach.

Cymb.
Is Cloten dead?

Offic.
He is.

Cymb.
Then, Heaven has saved a labour—Here she comes—
Mark her.

SCENE III.

Queen enters, with a cup of poison in one hand, and a dagger in the other.
Queen.
Psha, silly boy!—the crown is thine—but I
Must wield the scepter.—
Sayst thou?—asleep?—soft then—we'll grope our way.
Is it not midnight?—lie thou there awhile—
[Lays down the cup.
We'll find a speedier medicine—here—I have it—
Keen as a launcet.—Hush—where life is seated—
[Strikes.
He has it, at his heart—Lights, lights here—lights!
This is not Leonatus—Murder—murder!
These are the groans of Cloten! of my child!—
No—look—'tis Imogen—our old King's daughter.—
Soft—draw the curtain—not a word.—

Cymb.
Unhappy, guilty miscreant—how her dreams
Express her waking purposes of horror!

Queen.
Return'd, you say, from battle, faint, and thirsty?
'Tis well—here's that will quench him.
[Takes the cup.
Which is he?
Which of you is my royal, loving husband?—
No—this is not the cup—I have mistook—
This is Nepenthe. 'Tis the drink of gods,
The balm for cares, deep canker'd—for a soul
Parch'd like a blasted summer!

[Drinks.
Cymb.
Hold—stop—prevent her, quick!—Nay, then, I doubt,
She has, herself, imbibed the very bane
She meant for others.

Queen.
Who, who are ye all?—
My husband here!—save, save me, keep him from me!—
He was not wont to wear that head of snakes,
Nor point those scorpions at me—Oh, sick, sick!
If ye have charity—a little covering—
It is the top of Zembla—and the winds
Blow—the keen launcet atoms—thro' my vitals!—
More cloaths—heap, heap!—your fires around me—quick—
Plunge me in Phlegeton, the burning gulph!
Hell is not hot enough—Hold, hold me—where,
Where am I hurried round and round?—stop—fix—
Impale me—for I cannot bear this spin—
This whirlwind of the brain—

Cymb.
She faints—support,
And bear her in.—

[To her women.
Queen.
Oh—
Pull not so hard—the joints—the panting cords,
Rack'd to a fibre!—Nature cannot bear
This sundering from herself—this horrid rending!
There—take my limbs—my vitals—
To the four winds, dispers'd—Oh—

[Dies.
Cymb.
With what a suddenness, the flaming red
Is turn'd to livid!—Bear her to her chamber—
O, my sole friend, how poor a thing is kingship,
When shorn of every social name that gives
Domestic feeling or support!—thou art, now,
The only good that's left—I'll to the temple,
And ask the gods, for which of my mistreadings,
These ills are come upon me.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

The Inside of the Temple of Andate.
Priestess and Imogen enter.
Priest.
And sent his man to murder thee?—

Imog.
What could he less?—Had I an hundred lives,
They were too little for the bare suspicion
Of such a naughtiness!—I fear, I fear.—

Priest.
Fear not, my daughter, my sweet Imogen!
All shall be well—thy lord, thy Leonatus,
Shall be new plighted, in a double bond
Of fresh endearment, to thee.

Imog.
Never, madam!
He never can forgive—never expel
The rooted jealousy—What, in my chamber—
A ruffian, and at midnight!—then, to quote
Each circumstance of time and place—confirm'd
Even by my nuptial bracelet—and such marks,
As ought to have been lock'd from every eye,
With bolts of triple steel!

Priest.
But when he hears
The subtle means devised—

Imog.
Ah, sacred lady!
Against such proofs, what witness can avail?
Not the confession of the lurking fiend,
Who plotted my undoing. O, I am
Distracted too to think of what he suffers,
For such a falling off!—for, though he is brave
As the bay'd lion; yet he is gentle, too,
As is the turtle, lately fledg'd, and peeping
Into a new-found world. I feel—and to
Your ear I will confide it—had I but
The twentieth part the cause to think he had given
My rights in his loved person to another—
I feel, I could not bear it.

Priest.
Kindest, truest,
Loveliest, and best beloved, my child, my Imogen—
Mine by fond ties, that must not, yet, be told!
Peace to thy gentle heart—all shall be whole;
Trust me, it shall.

A Priest enters.
Priest.
Bright emblem of our goddess, sacred lady!
The rites are all prepared; a hundred victims,
With fillets and fresh garlands, duely bound,
Wait to be offer'd, in their holy trim,
To the great power of Victory.

[Exit Priest.
Priestess.
I come—
Ill would such scenes, as those, my daughter, suit
Thy gentleness of nature—I, who am
Bound, by my duty, to the horrid vision,
Still shudder at the sight of human blood.
Retire, my Imogen.

[Exit Imogen.

SCENE V.

Opens and discovers the inside of the Temple; the Altar of Incense, with the sacred fire, and the Altar of Sacrifice. The Choir and sacred Music at the upper end. The Priests ranged on either hand; a Roman Victim standing behind each Priest, with his hands bound, and adorned with ribbons and garlands.
Priestess.
Begin your dread solemnities.

Symphony of Music, and the Hymn sung by Priests and Priestesses.
HYMN.

Priestess.

[To the Priests—each of whom seizes his Captive, and draws a poniard, ready to strike.

SCENE VI

Leonatus enters.
Leon.
Hold—stop your horrid rites!—Refrain your hands,
Ye bloody servants of a barbarous godhead—
Behold, I give those valiant Romans freedom!
Come, bring your fire and steel, your racks, and engines—
On me, alone, be emptied all your stores,
All your artillery of death—I claim,
And scorn your utmost efforts.

Priest.
Ay, this, indeed,
This is a victim which the gods might take,
In lieu of twenty thousand, and be gainers!—
Art thou come, noble youth, to stay the shedding
Of human blood in Britain?—

Leon.
Therefore come.

Priest.
A voluntary victim?—

Leon.
Free as air,—
Not so invulnerable.

Priest.
Yet retire.
Fearful is death—

Leon.
To those who wish it not.

Priest.
Aye, but the pangs—

Leon.
I have, already, felt
More than you can inflict.

Priest.
And hast thou, then,
No nature in thee?—no compunction for
Thy friends, thy kin—perhaps, a raving father,
Or mother woe-begone?—less pity than
Thine executioner, whose eye, their loss
Compels to weep compassion.

Leon.
I claim the sentence of your Oracle—
I have no words to waste.

Priest.
Unfeeling boy!—
Thy will, then, be accomplish'd.—Bind him, virgins,
And dress him for his death!


While some of the Priestesses bind and adorn Leonatus, others join the Priests in the following verses, part in recitative, and part in song.

[Leonatus is laid on the Altar.
A Priest stands over Leonatus with a poniard, while another gives the bowl to Adelaide.
Priest.
My hand denies its office—Here, Bonduca,
Take thou the bowl of death—

Bond.
We are ready—When you like,
Give the solemn mandate—

Leon.
Strike!—

Thunder and Lightning. The Stage is darkened, and the sacred Fire extinguished.
Priest.
Hold your rash hand!—the powers are in displeasure—
The Heavens are moved—the holy fire extinguish'd!
Unbind your victim—this is not the one
Our goddess will accept.—He looks dissatisfied—
Withdraw, and leave him to my further question.
[Exeunt Priests, &c.
I do adjure thee, by the power thou worshipp'st,
Art thou of earth, or Heaven, or whence?—Inform me.

Leon.
I know not.

Priest.
No?

Leon.
Not whence—but, what I am,
I know—in nature's work, of no account,
And hateful to myself!

Priest.
Whoe'er thou art,
To have thee, thus, alive, and safe, I joy,
As though thou wer't new come into the world,
My only, and first born. Thy parents—say—

Leon.
I never knew them—

Priest.
O, my foreboding bosom!—No, that were
To be too blest!—With whom brought up?—O, answer—
Quick, I adjure thee—

Leon.
With King Cymbeline,
A beggar'd foundling!

Priest.
And thy name, thy name is—

Leon.
Leonatus.—

Priest.
Mighty goddess!—Yes—thou art—thou art
My son—my Leonatus—O, my child,
Child of the tears of twenty mourning years!
Till late, I knew not that I had a son—
The fairest, bravest theme of every tongue—
The hero of our age!—My Leonatus,
My son, my son, my son!

[Embraces.
Leon.
Great nature, powerful goddess—for a moment,
I yield me to thy feelings—thus, while, thus,
I bow beneath the feet of her, who gives me,
First, to pronounce the sacred name of mother!—
[Kneels.
O, mother fair!
Thou art the parent of the wretched'st offspring,
That ever stain'd mortality with guilt,
And made perdition sure!

Priest.
Fall blessings on thee,
Till Heaven can heap no more—
And blessed thou shalt be.

Leon.
No—never, never—
I have murder'd bliss, have quench'd the light of Britain!—
O, Imogen, my love, my life, my wife,
My Imogen—O Imogen!

Priest.
But was she not unchaste?

Leon.
Pure as the fleece of Heaven, ere yet it falls,
And neighbours to corruption.

Priest.
Peace—and thou shalt behold her—
[Waves her wand.
Beauty, brighter than the morn,
Queen of all that's Britain-born,
Daughter fair, and daughter dear,
Peerless Imogen, appear!

SCENE VII.

Imogen enters veiled.
She throws up her veil. Leonatus stands in silent amazement.
Leon.
If the grave teems to life—
If universal nature, through her works,
Could yield another form like that—
All might not be illusion!—
Vision of harmony and light, yet, ere
Thou fleetest—thus I fix thee—O, 'tis warm!—
It lives, to sense, to rapture!

Imog.
My love, my lord, my life, my Leonatus!
Do I, then, hold thee?—Dost thou think me true—
The seat of memory so fill'd with thee,
As leaves no room beside?

Leon.
If I dwell not
Within the regions of creative fancy,
It is too much of bliss!—Methinks, I stand
Upon a pinnacle, so high in happiness,
My eye can see no bottom, whereunto
A doubt of this would plunge me.

Priest.
Hence with doubts
And fears, for ever!—Yes, ye are the two,
In whom I triumph; my blest, happy pair
Of priceless pearls, so match'd!—so matchless, too,
Save by each other!—

Priest enters.
Priest.
Madam, the King approaches—

Priestess.
It is well.
Renew the sacred fire.—My precious children,
[Exit Priest.
You may withdraw, awhile—not far—the time
Will give a speedy summons.

[Imogen and Leonatus retire.

SCENE VIII.

Cymbeline and Bellarius enter attended.
The Priestess drops her Veil.
Priest.
What would our Cymbeline with great Andate?

Cymb.
O, sacred dame, by whom the Heavens pronounce
Their past and future purposes! you see
A man, amid the pride of royalty,
Most wretched—shorn of children, and of kin—
Of all the joys and amities that could
Endear existence—as a lonely oak,
Lopp'd of his branches!—Tell me, sacred dame,
For which of my mistreadings, have these ills
Fallen thick and heavy on me?

Priest.
For a sister!

Cymb.
The laws did warrant me.

Priest.
What law can warrant
Against the law of Heaven—great nature's law,
Writ in the bosom, stamp'd in characters
Of mercy on the human sense divine,
That binds the feeling brotherhood of man,
And 'fines him into godhead?

Cymb.
O pardon! I have greatly sinn'd—the pride
Of novel kingship, and the scorn of shame,
So near our throne, thro' her incontinence,
Enforced the inhuman act.

Priest.
Thus saith Andate:
Never shalt thou behold the chearing face
Of sympathizing friendship, never feel
The blest embracements of a daughter's fondness;
Till that the melting eye of Adelaide
Shall weep, in kind compassion, o'er thy griefs,
And wash thy stains away.

Cymb.
That were too much—
Too much to hope from her forgiving goodness,
If that the gods, by means miraculous,
Had yet preserv'd her to me—Never shall
These eyes, in mortal sockettings, be blest
With such a speculation!

Priest.
O, behold!

[Throws up her veil
Cymb.
My sister! my lost sister!—

Bell.
O, the gods!—

[Fainting.
Cymb.
Help here!—my friend is dying.—

[Supporting Bellarius.
Priest.
Bless'd powers!
Through all his guise—I think—'tis he—'tis he!—
My lord, my ever loved, my long lamented,
Lost Leontius!

[Embraces.
Bell.
O, Adelaide—thine arm—my Heaven
Has come too sudden on me!—

Cymb.
Now, indeed,
I see it is Leontius—'tis the man
Who, long since, sought the life he saved so lately.

Bell.
Not with a traiterous poniard, Cymbeline—
At noon, and hand to hand.

Cymb.
True, true, my brother!
I see the reason, now—it was resistless.
Had you but told me, ere you went to Rome—
Or had our Adelaide confest her spousals
With my heart's chosen—what a mass of guilt,
And grief, had then been spared?

Priest.
And would you, then,
Would you have pardon'd?

Cymb.
Yes, with that full bounty,
That now I claim from both.

Bell.
My King, my master!—

[Kneels.
Priest.
O, now, indeed, my fond, my new found brother!

[Kneels.
Cymb.
Rise to my arms, my heart!—there reign, united,
And make up all my treasure!—
[Embrace.
Say, my sister,
How came this strange event, this blest reversion
Of joys, the last to look for?—Saw I not
The flames ascend thy funeral pyre?

Priest.
You did;
But then, a little charitable art,
Conveyed me, inward, by clandestine stairs,
Just as the flames ascended.—Many a victim,
Our pious priestess, in like manner, saved,
For the dear meeting, and enraptured clasp,
Of fathers, sons, and brothers.

Bell.
But the pledge,
The pledge of our connubial loves, my Adelaide—
What hath befallen?

Priest.
Our late good priestess, Etheline,
Some few nights since, upon her dying couch
Confest, she had my new-born babe convey'd,
Wrapp'd in rich vestments, to my royal brother,
With a fair scroll, expressive of these words—
“Andate sends a son to Cymbeline.”

Cymb.
And was our Leonatus, then, the son
Of my sole sister?—Let mine eyes, but once
Behold my Imogen and him united,
Then, close them, gods, in peace!

Priest.
Approach, my children,
And take the blessing of your King and father.

SCENE IX.

Leonatus and Imogen enter and kneel to Cymbeline.
Cymb.
My child, my Imogen!—It is too much—
My son, my injured Leonatus too!—
Rise, rise—I cannot speak—this flood of blessings!—
Enter my bosom, both.—

[Embracing.
Priest.
See, my Leontius,
Behold your glorious son!

Bell.
Heavens!—I do think,
The very same—Soft, Adelaide—and note
If he takes knowledge of me.

Leon.
What, my host,
My holy father here! O, valiant sire,
We have had a change, to which Omnipotence
Was deem'd unequal—There you see the Heaven,
Whose loss I mourn'd!—had but your Adelaide,
Been added to the blessing!

Bell.
Art thou, then,
That god, to whom we have been paying vows
For victory? My son, my child, indeed—
My heart foreknew thee mine!—There stands our Adelaide,
Even thine exulting mother.

Leon.
O, my father!

[Both kneel.
Imog.
Here, too, my duty bids me bend.

Bell.
Great power!
Grant them, with equal transport, thus to bless
The children of their children!

An Officer enters.
Offic.
My liege, Rome's great proconsul, making head
To favour his retreating legions, was
Beset and taken prisoner.

Cymb.
Bring him to us—
We owe him many honours.

SCENE X.

Lucius brought in bound, attended by Roman and British Chiefs.
Leon.
What, my friend
In bondage?—O, indignity to honour,
To virtue!—Truest nobleness, thus let me
Unbind my country's shame!—Thou art free, my Lucius,
Free, as at Rome, and full as well affected.
Command in Britain, task us to thy will
In all things—save, such bonds as these!

[Casting away the shackles.
Lucius.
O, great
In goodness, as in glory!—I rejoice
In the high fortunes of my Leonatus,
Though at the cost of Rome.

Cymb.
Lucius, in estimation of thy virtues,
We give, to every Roman captive, freedom;
With truce and entertainment to thy legions,
While they remain in Britain.—Next, to Cæsar
We shall appoint a special embassy,
With twice the value of his late demand—
But, not as tribute, Lucius!

Leon.
No, my friend!—
Wherefore should Rome from others wrest that Liberty,
Which, for herself, she prizes more than life?
From us she must not—No—the gods have given
To Britain, independence on all lands
By her enfolding waters, her wide field
Of future empire!—O, my mother's spirit
Swells my prophetic breast—I see the sails
Of Britain spread, from east to west, their wings
Of wide protection!—How the nations flock
Beneath them!—This, indeed, is true dominion—
To humble pride, and to subdue oppression;
To lift the fallen, and to sustain the weak;
To bind a willing world with her beneficence;
And wide, as rolling waves, or wafting wind,
Reign, the requested mistress of mankind!