 | Cymbeline |  |
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!
174
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
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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
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Follow me all, and leave her to her fortunes.
[Exeunt.
| Cymbeline | |