Cymbeline, William Shakespeare [classic reads TXT] 📗

example - O, a sin in war,
Damn'd in the first beginners! - gan to look
The way that they did, and to grin like lions
Upon the pikes o' the hunters. Then began
A stop i' the chaser, a retire, anon
A rout, confusion thick. Forthwith they fly
Chickens, the way which they stoop'd eagles; slaves,
The strides they victors made: and now our cowards,
Like fragments in hard voyages, became
The life o' the need. Having found the back-door open
Of the unguarded hearts, heavens, how they wound!
Some slain before; some dying; some their friends
O'erborne i' the former wave; ten, chas'd by one,
Are now each one the slaughter-man of twenty.
Those that would die or ere resist are grown
The mortal bugs o' the field.

LORD.
This was strange chance.
A narrow lane, an old man, and two boys!

POSTHUMUS.
Nay, do not wonder at it; you are made
Rather to wonder at the things you hear
Than to work any. Will you rhyme upon't,
And vent it for a mockery? Here is one:
"Two boys, an old man twice a boy, a lane,
Preserv'd the Britons, was the Romans' bane."

LORD.
Nay, be not angry, sir.

POSTHUMUS.
'Lack, to what end?
Who dares not stand his foe, I'll be his friend;
For if he'll do as he is made to do,
I know he'll quickly fly my friendship too.
You have put me into rhyme.

LORD.
Farewell; you're angry.

[Exit.]

POSTHUMUS.
Still going? This is a lord! O noble misery,
To be i' the field and ask "what news?" of me!
To-day how many would have given their honours
To have sav'd their carcasses! took heel to do't,
And yet died too! I, in mine own woe charm'd,
Could not find Death where I did hear him groan,
Nor feel him where he struck. Being an ugly monster,
'Tis strange he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds,
Sweet words; or hath moe ministers than we
That draw his knives i' the war. Well, I will find him;
For being now a favourer to the Briton,
No more a Briton, I have resum'd again
The part I came in. Fight I will no more,
But yield me to the veriest hind that shall
Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is
Here made by the Roman; great the answer be
Britons must take. For me, my ransom's death.
On either side I come to spend my breath;
Which neither here I'll keep nor bear again,
But end it by some means for Imogen.

[Enter two [BRITISH] CAPTAINS and soldiers.]

FIRST CAPTAIN.
Great Jupiter be prais'd! Lucius is taken.
'Tis thought the old man and his sons were angels.

SECOND CAPTAIN.
There was a fourth man, in a silly habit,
That gave the affront with them.

FIRST CAPTAIN.
So 'tis reported;
But none of 'em can be found. Stand! who's there?

POSTHUMUS.
A Roman,
Who had not now been drooping here, if seconds
Had answer'd him.

SECOND CAPTAIN.
Lay hands on him; a dog!
A leg of Rome shall not return to tell
What crows have peck'd them here. He brags his service,
As if he were of note. Bring him to the King.

[Enter CYMBELINE, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS,
PISANIO, [SOLDIERS, ATTENDANTS] and Roman captives.
The CAPTAINS present POSTHUMUS to CYMBELINE, who
delivers him over to a Gaoler. [Then exeunt omnes.]


SCENE IV.

A British prison.

[Enter POSTHUMUS and two GAOLERS.]

FIRST GAOLER.
You shall not now be stolen, you have locks upon you;
So graze as you find pasture.

SECOND GAOLER.
Ay, or a stomach.

[Exeunt GAOLERS.]

POSTHUMUS.
Most welcome bondage! for thou art a way,
I think, to liberty; yet am I better
Than one that's sick o' the gout; since he had rather
Groan so in perpetuity than be cur'd
By the sure physician, Death, who is the key
To unbar these locks. My conscience, thou art fetter'd
More than my shanks and wrists. You good gods, give me
The penitent instrument to pick that bolt,
Then, free for ever! Is't enough I am sorry?
So children temporal fathers do appease;
Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent,
I cannot do it better than in gyves,
Desir'd more than constrain'd: to satisfy,
If of my freedom 'tis the main part, take
No stricter render of me than my all.
I know you are more clement than vile men,
Who of their broken debtors take a third,
A sixth, a tenth, letting them thrive again
On their abatement. That's not my desire.
For Imogen's dear life take mine; and though
'Tis not so dear, yet 'tis a life; you coin'd it.
'Tween man and man they weigh not every stamp;
Though light, take pieces for the figure's sake;
You rather mine, being yours; and so, great powers,
If you will take this audit, take this life,
And cancel these cold bonds. O Imogen!
I'll speak to thee in silence.

[Sleeps.]

[Solemn music. Enter, as in an apparition, SICILIUS
LEONATUS, father to POSTHUMUS, an old man, attired
like a warrior; leading in his hand an ancient matron, his wife,
and mother to POSTHUMUS, with music before them. Then,
after other music, follow the two young LEONATI, brothers
to POSTHUMUS, with wounds as they died in the wars. They
circle POSTHUMUS round, as he lies sleeping.]

SICILIUS.
No more, thou thunder-master, show
Thy spite on mortal flies:
With Mars fall out, with Juno chide,
That thy adulteries
Rates and revenges.
Hath my poor boy done aught but well,
Whose face I never saw?
I died whilst in the womb he stay'd
Attending Nature's law;
Whose father then, as men report
Thou orphans' father art,
Thou shouldst have been, and shielded him
From this earth-vexing smart.

MOTHER.
Lucina lent not me her aid,
But took me in my throes,
That from me was Posthumus ript,
Came crying 'mongst his foes,
A thing of pity!

SICILIUS.
Great Nature, like his ancestry,
Moulded the stuff so fair,
That he deserv'd the praise o' the world,
As great Sicilius' heir.

FIRST BROTHER.
When once he was mature for man,
In Britain where was he
That could stand up his parallel,
Or fruitful object be
In eye of Imogen, that best
Could deem his dignity?

MOTHER.
With marriage wherefore was he mock'd,
To be exil'd, and thrown
From Leonati seat, and cast
From her his dearest one,
Sweet Imogen?

SICILIUS.
Why did you suffer Iachimo,
Slight thing of Italy,
To taint his nobler heart and brain
With needless jealousy;
And to become the geck and scorn
O' the other's villainy?

SECOND BROTHER.
For this from stiller seats we came,
Our parents and us twain,
That striking in our country's cause
Fell bravely and were slain,
Our fealty and Tenantius' right
With honour to maintain.

FIRST BROTHER.
Like hardiment Posthumus hath
To Cymbeline perform'd.
Then, Jupiter, thou king of gods,
Why hast thou thus adjourn'd
The graces for his merits due,
Being all to dolours turn'd?

SICILIUS.
Thy crystal window ope; look out;
No longer exercise
Upon a valiant race thy harsh
And potent injuries.

MOTHER.
Since, Jupiter, our son is good,
Take off his miseries.

SICILIUS.
Peep through thy marble mansion; help;
Or we poor ghosts will cry
To the shining synod of the rest
Against thy deity.

BOTH BROTHERS.
Help, Jupiter; or we appeal,
And from thy justice fly.

[JUPITER descends in thunder and lightning, sitting
upon an eagle; he throws a thunderbolt. The GHOSTS
fall on their knees.]

JUPITER.
No more, you petty spirits of region low,
Offend our hearing; hush! How dare you ghosts
Accuse the thunderer, whose bolt, you know,
Sky-planted batters all rebelling coasts?
Poor shadows of Elysium, hence, and rest
Upon your never-withering banks of flowers.
Be not with mortal accidents opprest:
No care of yours it is; you know 'tis ours.
Whom best I love I cross; to make my gift,
The more delay'd, delighted. Be content;
Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift.
His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent.
Our jovial star reign'd at his birth, and in
Our temple was he married. Rise, and fade.
He shall be lord of Lady Imogen,
And happier much by his affliction made.
This tablet lay upon his breast, wherein
Our pleasure his full fortune doth confine.
And so, away! No farther with your din
Express impatience, lest you stir up mine.
Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline.

[Ascends.]

SICILIUS.
He came in thunder; his celestial breath
Was sulphurous to smell. The holy eagle
Stoop'd, as to foot us. His ascension is
More sweet than our blest fields. His royal bird
Prunes the immortal wing and cloys his beak,
As when his god is pleas'd.

ALL.
Thanks, Jupiter!

SICILIUS.
The marble pavement closes, he is enter'd
His radiant roof. Away! and, to be blest,
Let us with care perform his great behest.

[The GHOSTS] vanish.]

POSTHUMUS.

[Waking.]

Sleep, thou hast been a grandsire, and begot
A father to me, and thou hast created
A mother and two brothers; but, O scorn!
Gone! they went hence so soon as they were born.
And so I am awake. Poor wretches that depend
On greatness' favour dream as I have done,
Wake and find nothing. But, alas, I swerve.
Many dream not to find, neither deserve,
And yet are steep'd in favours; so am I,
That have this golden chance and know not why.
What fairies haunt this ground? A book? O rare one!
Be not, as is our fangled world, a garment
Nobler than that it covers! Let thy effects
So follow, to be most unlike our courtiers,
As good as promise!

[Reads.]

"Whenas a lion's whelp shall, to himself unknown, without
seeking find, and be embraced by a piece of tender air; and
when from a stately cedar shall be lopp'd branches, which,
being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old
stock and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries,
Britain be fortunate and flourish in peace and plenty."

'Tis still a dream, or else such stuff as madmen
Tongue and brain not; either both or nothing,
Or senseless speaking or a speaking such
As sense cannot untie. Be what it is,
The action of my life is like it, which
I'll keep, if but for sympathy.

[Re-enter GAOLER.]

GAOLER.
Come, sir, are you ready for death?

POSTHUMUS.
Over-roasted rather; ready long ago.

GAOLER.
Hanging is the word, sir If you be ready for that, you are
well cook'd.

POSTHUMUS.
So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators, the dish
pays the shot.

GAOLER.
A heavy reckoning for you, sir. But the comfort is, you shall
be called to no more payments, fear no more tavern-bills,
which are often the sadness of parting, as the procuring of
mirth. You come in faint for want of meat, depart reeling with
too much drink; sorry that you have paid too much, and sorry that
you are paid too much; purse and brain both empty; the brain the
heavier for being too light, the purse too light, being drawn of
heaviness. O, of this contradiction you shall now be quit. O, the
charity of a penny cord! It sums up thousands in a trice. You
have no true debitor and creditor but it; of what's past, is, and
to come, the discharge. Your neck, sir, is pen, book, and counters;
so the acquittance follows.

POSTHUMUS.
I am merrier to die than thou art to live.

GAOLER.
Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the