The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, William Shakespeare [book recommendations based on other books txt] 📗

the way I am going, but such as wink and will not use them.

GAOLER. What an infinite mock is this, that a man should have the best use of eyes to see the way of blindness! I am sure hanging’s the way of winking.

 

Enter a MESSENGER

 

MESSENGER. Knock off his manacles; bring your prisoner to the King.

POSTHUMUS. Thou bring’st good news: I am call’d to be made free.

GAOLER. I’ll be hang’d then.

POSTHUMUS. Thou shalt be then freer than a gaoler; no bolts for the dead. Exeunt POSTHUMUS and MESSENGER

GAOLER. Unless a man would marry a gallows and beget young gibbets, I never saw one so prone. Yet, on my conscience, there are verier knaves desire to live, for all he be a Roman; and there be some of them too that die against their wills; so should I, if I were one. I would we were all of one mind, and one mind good. O, there were desolation of gaolers and gallowses! I speak against my present profit, but my wish hath a preferment in’t. Exit

SCENE V.

Britain. CYMBELINE’S tent

 

Enter CYMBELINE, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS, PISANIO, LORDS, OFFICERS, and attendants

 

CYMBELINE. Stand by my side, you whom the gods have made Preservers of my throne. Woe is my heart That the poor soldier that so richly fought, Whose rags sham’d gilded arms, whose naked breast Stepp’d before targes of proof, cannot be found.

He shall be happy that can find him, if Our grace can make him so.

BELARIUS. I never saw

Such noble fury in so poor a thing;

Such precious deeds in one that promis’d nought But beggary and poor looks.

CYMBELINE. No tidings of him?

PISANIO. He hath been search’d among the dead and living, But no trace of him.

CYMBELINE. To my grief, I am

The heir of his reward; [To BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS]

which I will add

To you, the liver, heart, and brain, of Britain, By whom I grant she lives. ‘Tis now the time To ask of whence you are. Report it.

BELARIUS. Sir,

In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen; Further to boast were neither true nor modest, Unless I add we are honest.

CYMBELINE. Bow your knees.

Arise my knights o’ th’ battle; I create you Companions to our person, and will fit you With dignities becoming your estates.

 

Enter CORNELIUS and LADIES

 

There’s business in these faces. Why so sadly Greet you our victory? You look like Romans, And not o’ th’ court of Britain.

CORNELIUS. Hail, great King!

To sour your happiness I must report

The Queen is dead.

CYMBELINE. Who worse than a physician

Would this report become? But I consider By med’cine’life may be prolong’d, yet death Will seize the doctor too. How ended she?

CORNELIUS. With horror, madly dying, like her life; Which, being cruel to the world, concluded Most cruel to herself. What she confess’d I will report, so please you; these her women Can trip me if I err, who with wet cheeks Were present when she finish’d.

CYMBELINE. Prithee say.

CORNELIUS. First, she confess’d she never lov’d you; only Affected greatness got by you, not you; Married your royalty, was wife to your place; Abhorr’d your person.

CYMBELINE. She alone knew this;

And but she spoke it dying, I would not Believe her lips in opening it. Proceed.

CORNELIUS. Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to love With such integrity, she did confess

Was as a scorpion to her sight; whose life, But that her flight prevented it, she had Ta’en off by poison.

CYMBELINE. O most delicate fiend!

Who is’t can read a woman? Is there more?

CORNELIUS. More, sir, and worse. She did confess she had For you a mortal mineral, which, being took, Should by the minute feed on life, and ling’ring, By inches waste you. In which time she purpos’d, By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to O’ercome you with her show; and in time, When she had fitted you with her craft, to work Her son into th’ adoption of the crown; But failing of her end by his strange absence, Grew shameless-desperate, open’d, in despite Of heaven and men, her purposes, repented The evils she hatch’d were not effected; so, Despairing, died.

CYMBELINE. Heard you all this, her women?

LADY. We did, so please your Highness.

CYMBELINE. Mine eyes

Were not in fault, for she was beautiful; Mine ears, that heard her flattery; nor my heart That thought her like her seeming. It had been vicious To have mistrusted her; yet, O my daughter!

That it was folly in me thou mayst say, And prove it in thy feeling. Heaven mend all!

 

Enter LUCIUS, IACHIMO, the SOOTHSAYER, and other Roman prisoners, guarded; POSTHUMUS behind, and IMOGEN

 

Thou com’st not, Caius, now for tribute; that The Britons have raz’d out, though with the loss Of many a bold one, whose kinsmen have made suit That their good souls may be appeas’d with slaughter Of you their captives, which ourself have granted; So think of your estate.

LUCIUS. Consider, sir, the chance of war. The day Was yours by accident; had it gone with us, We should not, when the blood was cool, have threaten’d Our prisoners with the sword. But since the gods Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives May be call’d ransom, let it come. Sufficeth A Roman with a Roman’s heart can suffer.

Augustus lives to think on’t; and so much For my peculiar care. This one thing only I will entreat: my boy, a Briton born, Let him be ransom’d. Never master had A page so kind, so duteous, diligent, So tender over his occasions, true,

So feat, so nurse-like; let his virtue join With my request, which I’ll make bold your Highness Cannot deny; he hath done no Briton harm Though he have serv’d a Roman. Save him, sir, And spare no blood beside.

CYMBELINE. I have surely seen him;

His favour is familiar to me. Boy,

Thou hast look’d thyself into my grace, And art mine own. I know not why, wherefore To say ‘Live, boy.’ Ne’er thank thy master. Live; And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt, Fitting my bounty and thy state, I’ll give it; Yea, though thou do demand a prisoner, The noblest ta’en.

IMOGEN. I humbly thank your Highness.

LUCIUS. I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad, And yet I know thou wilt.

IMOGEN. No, no! Alack,

There’s other work in hand. I see a thing Bitter to me as death; your life, good master, Must shuffle for itself.

LUCIUS. The boy disdains me,

He leaves me, scorns me. Briefly die their joys That place them on the truth of girls and boys.

Why stands he so perplex’d?

CYMBELINE. What wouldst thou, boy?

I love thee more and more; think more and more What’s best to ask. Know’st him thou look’st on? Speak, Wilt have him live? Is he thy kin? thy friend?

IMOGEN. He is a Roman, no more kin to me Than I to your Highness; who, being born your vassal, Am something nearer.

CYMBELINE. Wherefore ey’st him so?

IMOGEN. I’ll tell you, sir, in private, if you please To give me hearing.

CYMBELINE. Ay, with all my heart,

And lend my best attention. What’s thy name?

IMOGEN. Fidele, sir.

CYMBELINE. Thou’rt my good youth, my page; I’ll be thy master. Walk with me; speak freely.

[CYMBELINE and IMOGEN converse apart]

BELARIUS. Is not this boy reviv’d from death?

ARVIRAGUS. One sand another

Not more resembles-that sweet rosy lad Who died and was Fidele. What think you?

GUIDERIUS. The same dead thing alive.

BELARIUS. Peace, peace! see further. He eyes us not; forbear.

Creatures may be alike; were’t he, I am sure He would have spoke to us.

GUIDERIUS. But we saw him dead.

BELARIUS. Be silent; let’s see further.

PISANIO. [Aside] It is my mistress.

Since she is living, let the time run on To good or bad. [CYMBELINE and IMOGEN advance]

CYMBELINE. Come, stand thou by our side; Make thy demand aloud. [To IACHIMO] Sir, step you forth; Give answer to this boy, and do it freely, Or, by our greatness and the grace of it, Which is our honour, bitter torture shall Winnow the truth from falsehood. On, speak to him.

IMOGEN. My boon is that this gentleman may render Of whom he had this ring.

POSTHUMUS. [Aside] What’s that to him?

CYMBELINE. That diamond upon your finger, say How came it yours?

IACHIMO. Thou’lt torture me to leave unspoken that Which to be spoke would torture thee.

CYMBELINE. How? me?

IACHIMO. I am glad to be constrain’d to utter that Which torments me to conceal. By villainy I got this ring; ‘twas Leonatus’ jewel, Whom thou didst banish; and-which more may grieve thee, As it doth me-a nobler sir ne’er liv’d ‘Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou hear more, my lord?

CYMBELINE. All that belongs to this.

IACHIMO. That paragon, thy daughter,

For whom my heart drops blood and my false spirits Quail to remember-Give me leave, I faint.

CYMBELINE. My daughter? What of her? Renew thy strength; I had rather thou shouldst live while nature will Than die ere I hear more. Strive, man, and speak.

IACHIMO. Upon a time-unhappy was the clock That struck the hour!- was in Rome-accurs’d The mansion where!- ‘twas at a feast-O, would Our viands had been poison’d, or at least Those which I heav’d to head!- the good Posthumus-What should I say? he was too good to be Where ill men were, and was the best of all Amongst the rar’st of good ones-sitting sadly Hearing us praise our loves of Italy

For beauty that made barren the swell’d boast Of him that best could speak; for feature, laming The shrine of Venus or straight-pight Minerva, Postures beyond brief nature; for condition, A shop of all the qualities that man

Loves woman for; besides that hook of wiving, Fairness which strikes the eye-CYMBELINE. I stand on fire.

Come to the matter.

IACHIMO. All too soon I shall,

Unless thou wouldst grieve quickly. This Posthumus, Most like a noble lord in love and one That had a royal lover, took his hint; And not dispraising whom we prais’d-therein He was as calm as virtue-he began

His mistress’ picture; which by his tongue being made, And then a mind put in’t, either our brags Were crack’d of kitchen trulls, or his description Prov’d us unspeaking sots.

CYMBELINE. Nay, nay, to th’ purpose.

IACHIMO. Your daughter’s chastity-there it begins.

He spake of her as Dian had hot dreams And she alone were cold; whereat I, wretch, Made scruple of his praise, and wager’d with him Pieces of gold ‘gainst this which then he wore Upon his honour’d finger, to attain

In suit the place of’s bed, and win this ring By hers and mine adultery. He, true knight, No lesser of her honour confident

Than I did truly find her, stakes this ring; And would so, had it been a carbuncle Of Phoebus’ wheel; and might so safely, had it Been all the worth of’s car. Away to Britain Post I in this design. Well may you, sir, Remember me at court, where I was taught Of your chaste daughter the wide difference ‘Twixt amorous and villainous. Being thus quench’d Of hope, not longing, mine Italian brain Gan in your duller Britain operate

Most vilely; for my vantage, excellent; And, to be brief, my practice so prevail’d That I return’d with simular proof enough To make the noble Leonatus mad,

By wounding his belief in her renown

With tokens thus and thus; averring notes Of chamber-hanging, pictures, this her bracelet-O cunning, how I got it!- nay, some marks Of secret on her person, that he could not But think her bond of chastity quite crack’d, I having ta’en the forfeit. Whereupon-Methinks I see him now—

POSTHUMUS.