University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

The Palace.
The Queen and Archimnestor.
Queen.
This way—apart—
Here, take this golden earnest of my favour.
I know that thou art skill'd, from cause to consequence,
Through nature's longest chain—Where are the drugs?

Arch.
They are of dread import—Think, royal mistress,
Death and the fates are theirs. They send of errands
That cannot be recall'd; to worlds remote,
Of which we know not. Whom they are to send—

Queen.
Befits not thee to ask—suppose a rat,
Or somewhat nobler—Heaven, without compunction,
Kills thousands by the hour—The best must fall;
The manner matters not.—These juleps, come,
Instruct me in their virtues.

Arch.
This falls on nature like a depth of snow,
Unfelt, though weighty—silent as a thief
By night, it steals the mental treasures forth,
And leaves the house asleep—This smiles; but holds,
In every drop, a death; in every death,
A thousand racks, impalements, all the pangs
That science yet hath learn'd, by fire or cord,
To wring from nature.

Queen.
It is enough—Retire.
[Exit Archimnestor.
Empire is now our own, while thus, like fate,
We deal out death to all, who would oppose
The greatness of our purpose.

SCENE II.

Cloten enters.
Clot.
O mother, she is gone—she's lost for ever!—

Queen.
What means my son?

Clot.
My love, my Imogen,
Britain's bright heir, my promised wife, is lost,
Is married to another—to the wretch I most detest,
That foundling, that accursed Leonatus!
O, she is gone, and with her too is gone
All prospect of the throne!

Queen.
Not so, my child—
A froward foolish girl, she's well away!
Whine for a wench?—my boy shall have a thousand.
Be secret and secure; for here I vow,
Ere yet our horned moon shall fill her orb,
To seat thee, scepter'd, on the throne of Britain.
They come—Be patient, and rely on me.

SCENE III.

Enter King, Imogen, Lords and Attendants.
Cymb.
Give me room, gods!—What, here—within my palace!—
Wived, wedded, coupled to a dog—our daughter!
Such a broad act!—'tis worse than to offend
Within the very aim of Heaven's hot bolt,
When launch'd to crush transgression.

Imog.
O, my father!

[Kneels.
Cymb.
Our daughter, art thou?—Britain's only hope,
Sole heir of our dominions?—Gods—O gods!—
So match'd, so pair'd!—the offspring of our throne
Cast on a dunghill—married to a wretch,
Whose hopes are less than air; whose whole possession
Shrinks from a grasp; who wants a name to tell
He sprung from human race!—
A foundling-villain; one composed of scraps,
A poverty of manhood!

Imog.
O, sir—my royal master!—

Cymb.
What, confess it?—
Out, thou vile stain, thou foulness of thy race!—
Thus let me scour the blot.

[Offers to kill her.
Queen.
Forbid it, Heaven!—
[Interposes.
Gentle, my lord! the princess, as you see,
Is all submission; mourns, and weeps, and prays,
And only waits to know your royal will,
Whereby to square the line of her obedience.

[Imogen rises.
Imog.
No, madam! let him strike—he is my king;
He is my father too. He would have yoked me
To that same son of yours!—My life is his,
But not my truth; my death he may command,
But not my prostitution.

Cymb.
Degenerate girl, who wouldst have fill'd our throne
With beggary and baseness!—

Imog.
No, my lord—
With goodness and with glory; with a man,
Who, that he is a man, is the best praise
And pride of human kind! I would have given,
Grace to your crown, protection to your age,
Truth to your trust, and conquest to your armies.

Cymb.
Poison and poniards, rather—Out upon thee!—
A specious, popular, and secret traitor!
Fond, foolish wench, he prizes not thy love,
But as thou art the step to his ambition.
Now, by the powers I hold from earth and Heaven,
As father and as king, I do divorce thee
From all affiance with that foundling slave,
That hated Leonatus!—Come, thy hand—
Here, Cloten, take her to thee—

Imog.
Hence, low wretch!—
Exchange an eagle for an owlet!—No.

Cymb.
Hear me, thou rebel!—I had once a sister,
Fair to all eyes, and dear to every heart:
Like thee, she proved incontinent; nor sought
Our will in wedlock—To the laws I gave her:
At the dread shrine of our avenging Goddess,
I saw her blood let forth—I saw the flames
Ascend her pyre, and in one blaze involve
Her and her unborn babe.

Imog.
O tale of woe!—
O barbarous brother!

Cymb.
Hear me—What withholds,
But that I yield thee, also, to the claims
Of steel and fire?

Imog.
Thrice welcome, fire and steel—
So that my sufferings might atone the sins
Of my dread sire.

Cymb.
Mark, lords; and you, my subjects—
This traitress, this young parricide, who would
Untimely push her father from his throne,
And, with her paramour, usurp dominion;
Henceforth, an alien to our blood and crown,
We cast her off—and, in her room, adopt
This son of our fair Queen, the princely Cloten.
With love and fealty, alone, we claim
All future kindred—such, alone, shall heir
Our heart and empire! I will hear no pleadings—
Follow me all, and leave her to her fortunes.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

To Imogen Leonatus.
They run and embrace.
Imog.
My lord, my every love, my Leonatus—
Thou world of Imogen, who dost comprize
Whatever nature, in her various round,
Can cull of good—thou fullness of my soul,
At once the source, and the satiety,
Of all my wishes!—
O, we must sever—we must part, my love,
As in the last vain gaspings after life,
When soul and body sunder!

Leon.
O bower of bliss, on whom eternal spring
Hath lavish'd all its fragrance, sayst thou, part?—
To part with thee, in life or death, were worse
Than all the gather'd heap of mortal ills,
That life or death can threaten.

Imog.
All is over—
All is discover'd, sweet, and we must part!
If Heaven has joy, within the seeds of time,
For truth, and faith, and infinite endearment,
Then we must meet again!—Away, away—
Even while I, thus, would cling to thee for ever,
My fears, that one look more may prove our last,
Turn me to frenzy!—While we talk, the storm
Comes on apace; and, ere one fond adieu,
May break upon thy head!

Leon.
Let us haste, then,
And, glutton-like, at one short meal, devour
Our hoard of promis'd bliss—Come to my arms!—
O thus, for ever thus, that I might hold thee—
Wrap thy existence inward to my soul,
Even as the clasping rind contains and folds
The fragrance of the cedar!

SCENE V.

Enter King, Queen, Cloten, Lords, Guards, Attendants.
Cymb.
Tear them asunder—quick—your office, guards!
Disarm, secure the traitor.

Imog.
At your peril—
Guards, touch him not—Sir—lords—Britons—he is,
He is my husband—my espous'd, my heart's beloved,
My Leonatus!—

Cymb.
Seize him, I say—

Imog.
Forbear, I charge ye!—What—
Your chief, the guardian of my father's throne,
Britain's first boast, the glory of your country!—

Cymb.
Guards, traitors, slaves—your lives shall answer this!
Seize, stab, dispatch him—

[Guards turn their weapons on Leonatus.
Imog.
Mark your princess, first—
Behold this poniard!—by the Power ye worship,
By your tremendous Goddess, great Andate—
On your first motion to attempt his life,
His precious life,—this passes through my bosom!

Cymb.
Villains! I see ye are confederate all,
Against your king. 'Tis well. Thus far I pardon—
I grant the traitor's life; but far removed
From Britain—By Andate too, I vow,
If his returning step shall ever dare
To press our shores, that moment is his last—
He dies, I swear—his blood shall pay the trespass,
Although the blood of this unduteous girl
Should mingle with the stream!—

Leon.
Yes, Cymbeline,
Deluded prince! your soldier will depart,
But take no traitor hence. Be well aware
Of those he leaves behind! and, O, ye gods!
Grant, that my honour'd father, and my king,
May not find speedy reason for repentance;
Look round for help in some distressful hour,
And call, but call in vain, on Leonatus.

Cymb.
Away with him—to sea, to banishment,
Distant as winds can waft!—And you, our Queen,
Take this young rebel into close restraint,
And see her chamber'd!

[Women lay hold on her.
Imog.
Sir, my king, my father!
Will you not grant your child one last adieu,
Perhaps—O Heavenly powers!—perhaps, for ever.

Cymb.
Keep them asunder—Bear them off, I say,
Far from each other!

Leon.
O, thou departing light of all my life!
Must I then lose thee, Imogen?—Night hangs
On every road from hence!—Beyond this spot,
The world alike is waste; a worthless blank,
A wild of desolation!—

Cymb.
Hence—away—
Away with them.—

Imog.
My lord!—

[Struggling with her women.
Leon.
My only life!—

Imog.
Adieu!

Leon.
Adieu!
O Imogen!—

Imog.
O Leonatus!—

[They are taken off severally.
[Exeunt Cymbeline, Lords, and Attendants.
Clot.
Now, mother, there is room for hope.

Queen.
No, Cloten!
This was beside my aim—I had him sure,
Just on the brink, from whence this foolish king
Unwillingly hath snatched him—Here is gold—
Haste—find that one-eyed ruffian, with his fellows,
Train'd and inured to blood!—If he scape thus,
'Tis still in fate to cross us.

Clot.
What if I go along?

Queen.
Disguised?

Clot.
And masqued?—

Queen.
'Tis well!—Dispatch, my son—

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE VI.

A Country on the Shore of the River Thames.
Enter Caius Lucius, Clodio, and other Roman Officers.
Lucius.
Neptune hath smooth'd our way; the gods of wind
And waters have conspired to make our passage
As speedy as propitious—Valiant Clodio,
While yet our legions disembark, appoint
Such train as may befit thy embassy
To Britain's neighbouring court—This pacquet bears
The will of Cæsar, and thy full instructions.

Clod.
A Briton, here, informs me, that the house
Of Cymbeline is all in wondrous ferment,
Raised by a son of fortune, who hath wived
The daughter of his King—one Leonatus.

Lucius.
How! Leonatus?

Clod.
Have you knowledge, then,
Of this adventurer?

Lucius.
Yes, a dear remembrance—
So hath the world's sole ruler, great Augustus,
With many of the noblest sons of Rome.
So fair an outside, and such worth within,
Endows no second man.

Clod.
You stretch him, sure,
Beyond his limits.

Lucius.
No—At Actium, Clodio—
But you, as I must think, were not at Actium—
There, this unbearded boy, unbearded then,
With wonders took the eye of Cæsar captive.
The battle done, he call'd, and question'd him
Touching his birth and country; when the youth,
Blushing, replied, that, as he knew no sire,
He was not worth a name—“Be henceforth, then,
“The son of Cæsar,” cried our emperor,
And named him Leonatus.

Clod.
Let him pass;
For, till this hour, to me he has been nameless.

Lucius.
The daughter of his king?—Now, on my soul,
If I did deem aright, he might have had
The daughter of our emperor, the first
In beauty, as in birth.

Clod.
O, Momus, hear!—
Julia prefer a savage, to the choice
Of Rome's unrival'd demigods?

Lucius.
Believe me,
I was not single in such thoughts. But then,
Drawn by some strong attachment back to Britain,
He quitted the warm shine of Cæsar's favour,
And left the emulators of his virtue
To wonder and to mourn—We since have learn'd,
The Scots, a wild and warlike race of men,
Sprung from an isle that constitutes the brink
Of our expanded world, beyond whose verge
Nature herself has nothing to behold,
Save air and ocean—those fierce men, I say,
Broke in on Britain. All, from end to end,
Was flight and panic; till this Leonatus
Alone made head, and drove those boisterous kerns
Back to their wattled hives. And well, I deem,
Well he may match the daughter of the man,
Whose crown he has redeem'd.

Soldier enters.
Sold.
A noble prisoner waits.

Lucius.
Conduct him to us.

SCENE VII.

Leonatus enters.
Lucius.
Immortal powers! the very man we dream'd of.—
My friend, my best beloved, my Leonatus!
[Embrace.
By the gods, welcome—welcomest of aught
The gods themselves could send!—Whence, from what chance,
What happy chance?

Leon.
O Lucius, son of Rome,
Best loved, and best respected—you behold
A wretched outcast, thrown, as with a sling,
From all his heart holds dear.

Lucius.
Banish'd?

Leon.
Even so.

Lucius.
O, Capitolian Jove, thou dost infatuate
Those thou wouldst ruin!—Cast their shield away!—
What now shall guardian their abandon'd side,
Against the sword of Rome?—My Leonatus,
The valiant Clodio.
[They salute.
Say, my soul's elect,
Where may your purpose bend?

Leon.
In sooth, I know not—
To Gaul—or possibly, to Rome and Cæsar.

Lucius.
If you are not upon the spur from hence,
We would entreat your sojourn with our love,
Till we may burden you with some dispatches
To Cæsar and our friends.

Leon.
Alas, for me,
The world affords no wish, no way from hence,
Save what may serve a friend.

Lucius.
Within the minute,
My thanks and I attend you.

[Exit Lucius.
Clod.
Noble stranger!
Your aspect bears a seal of such mishap,
As saddens all who see. May any cause
Be worth this sum of woe?

Leon.
If, to have lost
Whatever earth can yield of estimation,
Or fancy frame in Heaven, be worth a sigh—
Then mine are honest tribute.

Clod.
Sir, you are young;
Just at the tide of spring, that overbears
The flats of common sense—Oft have I known
Untutor'd passion, desperate from the loss
Of the most slight and worthless thing on earth,
A woman—

Leon.
A woman!—Does your sentence, judging sir,
Extend beyond the stews?

Clod.
Throughout the world's
Wide orbit. Nature form'd their flippant sex
Upon the model of the sea-born dame,
Whose knowledge takes in all of gods and men,
From Mars to soft Adonis.

Leon.
Fie, fie!—this foul opinion
Strumpets thy mother in her urn.

Clod.
My mother
Stood on a line with her, the chastest she,
Whose fond inamorato, in his brain,
Now figures for a phænix. I sap not
The credit of a single fair; but mourn,
That any gallant man, should tie his faith,
His peace, and valued honours, to a thing
That none alive can keep—Place me a cloud
'Twixt Dian and Endymion, my estate,
My manhood for the pledge, that I transfer
The horns from her to him.

Leon.
O, I do know,
I do know one—but such another, till,
By the same pattern, nature shall renew
The beauty of her works—like to that one,
Another can't be known!—By great Andate,
The sight would throw a rein of dumb restraint
On that licentious tongue—One chastening look,
One aweful glance of her reproving eye,
Would freeze the hottest libertine of Rome
To still and downcast reverence!

Clod.
Is she native
Of any world yet known?

Leon.
Your Italy,
A stranger to her virtues, as you say,
Records her name—'Tis Imogen!

Clod.
The peerless heir of Britain!—O ye gods,
A plumb, a province, for the wish'd encounter!

Leon.
Away, slight, empty braggard!—what couldst thou,
Where even Hyperion, or the Roman Jove,
Born, as to Læda once, on downy pinions;
Or, in his still more tempting form of gold,
Though dropt into her lap, in all his glory,
Should find her truth more strong than his seduction?

Clod.
She is a woman still—I go, this hour,
To Cymbeline from Cæsar—Had I means
Of fair address, I, here, would freely gage
My villa, rated at the rich return
Of fifty annual talents, that I bring
Sure proof she renders up her chastest hoard
To my free arbitration.

Leon.
Insolent!—
Thou darest not gage.

Clod.
By Jupiter, I think
You will not dare the trial.

Leon.
To convince thee
Of thine own arrogance, and my contempt,
Thou shalt have letters to her—Mark me, yet;
On thy return, the convict of thy folly,
'Tis not thy villa only—no, thy blood
Shall pay the penalty of this presumption!—
Prepare to answer with thy sword.

Clod.
Agreed.

Leon.
Till then I hold no converse with a ruffian,
Though dignified by Rome.—I'll send the letters.

[Exeunt severally.