Complete Plays, The (457 page)

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.

Caius 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 eyest 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 revived 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 come forward

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 Leonatus

[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 villany
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 lived
’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!— it was in Rome,— accursed
The mansion where!—’twas at a feast,— O, would
Our viands had been poison’d, or at least
Those which I heaved 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 rarest 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 praised,— 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-trolls, or his description
Proved us unspeaking sots.

Cymbeline

Nay, nay, to the 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 villanous. 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 practise 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; averting 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 Leonatus

[Advancing]
 
Ay, so thou dost,
Italian fiend! Ay me, most credulous fool,
Egregious murderer, thief, any thing
That’s due to all the villains past, in being,
To come! O, give me cord, or knife, or poison,
Some upright justicer! Thou, king, send out
For torturers ingenious: it is I
That all the abhorred things o’ the earth amend
By being worse than they. I am Posthumus,
That kill’d thy daughter:— villain-like, I lie —
That caused a lesser villain than myself,
A sacrilegious thief, to do’t: the temple
Of virtue was she; yea, and she herself.
Spit, and throw stone s, cast mire upon me, set
The dogs o’ the street to bay me: every villain
Be call’d Posthumus Leonitus; and
Be villany less than ’twas! O Imogen!
My queen, my life, my wife! O Imogen,
Imogen, Imogen!

Imogen

 
Peace, my lord; hear, hear —

Posthumus Leonatus

Shall’s have a play of this? Thou scornful page,
There lie thy part.

Striking her: she falls

Pisanio

O, gentlemen, help!
Mine and your mistress! O, my lord Posthumus!
You ne’er kill’d Imogen til now. Help, help!
Mine honour’d lady!

Cymbeline

Does the world go round?

Posthumus Leonatus

How come these staggers on me?

Pisanio

Wake, my mistress!

Cymbeline

If this be so, the gods do mean to strike me
To death with mortal joy.

Pisanio

How fares thy mistress?

Imogen

O, get thee from my sight;
Thou gavest me poison: dangerous fellow, hence!
Breathe not where princes are.

Cymbeline

The tune of Imogen!

Pisanio

Lady,
The gods throw stones of sulphur on me, if
That box I gave you was not thought by me
A precious thing: I had it from the queen.

Cymbeline

New matter still?

Imogen

 
It poison’d me.

Cornelius

O gods!
I left out one thing which the queen confess’d.
Which must approve thee honest: ‘If Pisanio
Have,’ said she, ‘given his mistress that confection
Which I gave him for cordial, she is served
As I would serve a rat.’

Cymbeline

What’s this, Comelius?

Cornelius

The queen, sir, very oft importuned me
To temper poisons for her, still pretending
The satisfaction of her knowledge only
In killing creatures vile, as cats and dogs,
Of no esteem: I, dreading that her purpose
Was of more danger, did compound for her
A certain stuff, which, being ta’en, would cease
The present power of life, but in short time
All offices of nature should again
Do their due functions. Have you ta’en of it?

Imogen

Most like I did, for I was dead.

Belarius

My boys,
There was our error.

Guiderius

This is, sure, Fidele.

Imogen

Why did you throw your wedded lady from you?
Think that you are upon a rock; and now
Throw me again.

Embracing him

Posthumus Leonatus

Hang there like a fruit, my soul,
Till the tree die!

Cymbeline

 
How now, my flesh, my child!
What, makest thou me a dullard in this act?
Wilt thou not speak to me?

Imogen

[Kneeling]
 
Your blessing, sir.

Belarius

[To Guiderius and Arviragus]
 
Though you did love this youth, I blame ye not:
You had a motive for’t.

Cymbeline

My tears that fall
Prove holy water on thee! Imogen,
Thy mother’s dead.

Imogen

I am sorry for’t, my lord.

Cymbeline

O, she was nought; and long of her it was
That we meet here so strangely: but her son
Is gone, we know not how nor where.

Pisanio

My lord,
Now fear is from me, I’ll speak troth. Lord Cloten,
Upon my lady’s missing, came to me
With his sword drawn; foam’d at the mouth, and swore,
If I discover’d not which way she was gone,
It was my instant death. By accident,
Had a feigned letter of my master’s
Then in my pocket; which directed him
To seek her on the mountains near to Milford;
Where, in a frenzy, in my master’s garments,
Which he enforced from me, away he posts
With unchaste purpose and with oath to violate
My lady’s honour: what became of him
I further know not.

Guiderius

Let me end the story:
I slew him there.

Cymbeline

Marry, the gods forfend!
I would not thy good deeds should from my lips
Pluck a bard sentence: prithee, valiant youth,
Deny’t again.

Guiderius

 
I have spoke it, and I did it.

Cymbeline

He was a prince.

Guiderius

A most incivil one: the wrongs he did me
Were nothing prince-like; for he did provoke me
With language that would make me spurn the sea,
If it could so roar to me: I cut off’s head;
And am right glad he is not standing here
To tell this tale of mine.

Cymbeline

I am sorry for thee:
By thine own tongue thou art condemn’d, and must
Endure our law: thou’rt dead.

Imogen

That headless man
I thought had been my lord.

Cymbeline

Bind the offender,
And take him from our presence.

Belarius

Stay, sir king:
This man is better than the man he slew,
As well descended as thyself; and hath
More of thee merited than a band of Clotens
Had ever scar for.

To the Guard

Let his arms alone;
They were not born for bondage.

Cymbeline

Why, old soldier,
Wilt thou undo the worth thou art unpaid for,
By tasting of our wrath? How of descent
As good as we?

Arviragus

 
In that he spake too far.

Cymbeline

And thou shalt die for’t.

Belarius

We will die all three:
But I will prove that two on’s are as good
As I have given out him. My sons, I must,
For mine own part, unfold a dangerous speech,
Though, haply, well for you.

Arviragus

Your danger’s ours.

Guiderius

And our good his.

Belarius

 
Have at it then, by leave.
Thou hadst, great king, a subject who
Was call’d Belarius.

Cymbeline

What of him? he is
A banish’d traitor.

Belarius

He it is that hath
Assumed this age; indeed a banish’d man;
I know not how a traitor.

Cymbeline

Take him hence:
The whole world shall not save him.

Belarius

Not too hot:
First pay me for the nursing of thy sons;
And let it be confiscate all, so soon
As I have received it.

Cymbeline

Nursing of my sons!

Belarius

I am too blunt and saucy: here’s my knee:
Ere I arise, I will prefer my sons;
Then spare not the old father. Mighty sir,
These two young gentlemen, that call me father
And think they are my sons, are none of mine;
They are the issue of your loins, my liege,
And blood of your begetting.

Cymbeline

How! my issue!

Belarius

So sure as you your father’s. I, old Morgan,
Am that Belarius whom you sometime banish’d:
Your pleasure was my mere offence, my punishment
Itself, and all my treason; that I suffer’d
Was all the harm I did. These gentle princes —
For such and so they are — these twenty years
Have I train’d up: those arts they have as I
Could put into them; my breeding was, sir, as
Your highness knows. Their nurse, Euriphile,
Whom for the theft I wedded, stole these children
Upon my banishment: I moved her to’t,
Having received the punishment before,
For that which I did then: beaten for loyalty
Excited me to treason: their dear loss,
The more of you ’twas felt, the more it shaped
Unto my end of stealing them. But, gracious sir,
Here are your sons again; and I must lose
Two of the sweet’st companions in the world.
The benediction of these covering heavens
Fall on their heads like dew! for they are worthy
To inlay heaven with stars.