The Complete Works of William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare (moboreader .TXT) 📕

These boys know little they are sons to th’ King, Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive.

They think they are mine; and though train’d up thus meanly I’ th’ cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit The roofs of palaces, and nature prompts them In simple and low things to prince it much Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore, The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, who The King his father call’d Guiderius-Jove!

When on my three-foot stool I sit and tell The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out Into my story; say ‘Thus mine enemy fell, And thus I set my foot on’s neck’; even then The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats, Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture That acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal, Once Arviragus, in as like a figure

Strikes life into my speech, and shows much more His own conceiving. Hark, the game is rous’d!

O Cymbeline, heaven and my conscience knows Thou didst unjustly banish me! Whereon, At three and two years old, I stole these babes, Thinking to bar thee of succession as Thou refts me of my lands. Euriphile, Thou wast their nurse; they took thee for their mother, And every day do honour to her grave.

Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call’d, They take for natural father. The game is up. Exit

SCENE IV.

Wales, near Milford Haven

Enter PISANIO and IMOGEN

IMOGEN. Thou told’st me, when we came from horse, the place Was near at hand. Ne’er long’d my mother so To see me first as I have now. Pisanio! Man!

Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that sigh From th’ inward of thee? One but painted thus Would be interpreted a thing perplex’d Beyond self-explication. Put thyself

Into a haviour of less fear, ere wildness Vanquish my staider senses. What’s the matter?

Why tender’st thou that paper to me with A look untender! If’t be summer news, Smile to’t before; if winterly, thou need’st But keep that count’nance still. My husband’s hand?

That drug-damn’d Italy hath out-craftied him, And he’s at some hard point. Speak, man; thy tongue May take off some extremity, which to read Would be even mortal to me.

PISANIO. Please you read,

And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing The most disdain’d of fortune.

IMOGEN. [Reads] ‘Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath play’d the strumpet in my bed, the testimonies whereof lie bleeding in me. I speak not out of weak surmises, but from proof as strong as my grief and as certain as I expect my revenge. That part thou, Pisanio, must act for me, if thy faith be not tainted with the breach of hers. Let thine own hands take away her life; I shall give thee opportunity at Milford Haven; she hath my letter for the purpose; where, if thou fear to strike, and to make me certain it is done, thou art the pander to her dishonour, and equally to me disloyal.’

PISANIO. What shall I need to draw my sword? The paper Hath cut her throat already. No, ‘tis slander, Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue Outvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath Rides on the posting winds and doth belie All corners of the world. Kings, queens, and states, Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave, This viperous slander enters. What cheer, madam?

IMOGEN. False to his bed? What is it to be false?

To lie in watch there, and to think on him?

To weep twixt clock and clock? If sleep charge nature, To break it with a fearful dream of him, And cry myself awake? That’s false to’s bed, Is it?

PISANIO. Alas, good lady!

IMOGEN. I false! Thy conscience witness! Iachimo, Thou didst accuse him of incontinency; Thou then look’dst like a villain; now, methinks, Thy favour’s good enough. Some jay of Italy, Whose mother was her painting, hath betray’d him.

Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion, And for I am richer than to hang by th’ walls I must be ripp’d. To pieces with me! O, Men’s vows are women’s traitors! All good seeming, By thy revolt, O husband, shall be thought Put on for villainy; not born where’t grows, But worn a bait for ladies.

PISANIO. Good madam, hear me.

IMOGEN. True honest men being heard, like false Aeneas, Were, in his time, thought false; and Sinon’s weeping Did scandal many a holy tear, took pity From most true wretchedness. So thou, Posthumus, Wilt lay the leaven on all proper men: Goodly and gallant shall be false and perjur’d From thy great fail. Come, fellow, be thou honest; Do thou thy master’s bidding; when thou seest him, A little witness my obedience. Look!

I draw the sword myself; take it, and hit The innocent mansion of my love, my heart.

Fear not; ‘tis empty of all things but grief; Thy master is not there, who was indeed The riches of it. Do his bidding; strike.

Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause, But now thou seem’st a coward.

PISANIO. Hence, vile instrument!

Thou shalt not damn my hand.

IMOGEN. Why, I must die;

And if I do not by thy hand, thou art No servant of thy master’s. Against self-slaughter There is a prohibition so divine

That cravens my weak hand. Come, here’s my heart-Something’s afore’t. Soft, soft! we’ll no defence!-

Obedient as the scabbard. What is here?

The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus

All turn’d to heresy? Away, away,

Corrupters of my faith! you shall no more Be stomachers to my heart. Thus may poor fools Believe false teachers; though those that are betray’d Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor Stands in worse case of woe. And thou, Posthumus, That didst set up my disobedience ‘gainst the King My father, and make me put into contempt the suits Of princely fellows, shalt hereafter find It is no act of common passage but

A strain of rareness; and I grieve myself To think, when thou shalt be disedg’d by her That now thou tirest on, how thy memory Will then be pang’d by me. Prithee dispatch.

The lamp entreats the butcher. Where’s thy knife?

Thou art too slow to do thy master’s bidding, When I desire it too.

PISANIO. O gracious lady,

Since I receiv’d command to do this busines I have not slept one wink.

IMOGEN. Do’t, and to bed then.

PISANIO. I’ll wake mine eyeballs first.

IMOGEN. Wherefore then

Didst undertake it? Why hast thou abus’d So many miles with a pretence? This place?

Mine action and thine own? our horses’ labour?

The time inviting thee? the perturb’d court, For my being absent?- whereunto I never Purpose return. Why hast thou gone so far To be unbent when thou hast ta’en thy stand, Th’ elected deer before thee?

PISANIO. But to win time

To lose so bad employment, in the which I have consider’d of a course. Good lady, Hear me with patience.

IMOGEN. Talk thy tongue weary-speak.

I have heard I am a strumpet, and mine ear, Therein false struck, can take no greater wound, Nor tent to bottom that. But speak.

PISANIO. Then, madam,

I thought you would not back again.

IMOGEN. Most like—

Bringing me here to kill me.

PISANIO. Not so, neither;

But if I were as wise as honest, then My purpose would prove well. It cannot be But that my master is abus’d. Some villain, Ay, and singular in his art, hath done you both This cursed injury.

IMOGEN. Some Roman courtezan!

PISANIO. No, on my life!

I’ll give but notice you are dead, and send him Some bloody sign of it, for ‘tis commanded I should do so. You shall be miss’d at court, And that will well confirm it.

IMOGEN. Why, good fellow,

What shall I do the while? where bide? how live?

Or in my life what comfort, when I am Dead to my husband?

PISANIO. If you’ll back to th’ court—

IMOGEN. No court, no father, nor no more ado With that harsh, noble, simple nothing-That Cloten, whose love-suit hath been to me As fearful as a siege.

PISANIO. If not at court,

Then not in Britain must you bide.

IMOGEN. Where then?

Hath Britain all the sun that shines? Day, night, Are they not but in Britain? I’ th’ world’s volume Our Britain seems as of it, but not in’t; In a great pool a swan’s nest. Prithee think There’s livers out of Britain.

PISANIO. I am most glad

You think of other place. Th’ ambassador, LUCIUS the Roman, comes to Milford Haven Tomorrow. Now, if you could wear a mind Dark as your fortune is, and but disguise That which t’ appear itself must not yet be But by self-danger, you should tread a course Pretty and full of view; yea, happily, near The residence of Posthumus; so nigh, at least, That though his actions were not visible, yet Report should render him hourly to your ear As truly as he moves.

IMOGEN. O! for such means,

Though peril to my modesty, not death on’t, I would adventure.

PISANIO. Well then, here’s the point:

You must forget to be a woman; change Command into obedience; fear and niceness-The handmaids of all women, or, more truly, Woman it pretty self-into a waggish courage; Ready in gibes, quick-answer’d, saucy, and As quarrelous as the weasel. Nay, you must Forget that rarest treasure of your cheek, Exposing it-but, O, the harder heart!

Alack, no remedy!- to the greedy touch Of common-kissing Titan, and forget

Your laboursome and dainty trims wherein You made great Juno angry.

IMOGEN. Nay, be brief;

I see into thy end, and am almost

A man already.

PISANIO. First, make yourself but like one.

Forethinking this, I have already fit-

‘Tis in my cloakbag- doublet, hat, hose, all That answer to them. Would you, in their serving, And with what imitation you can borrow From youth of such a season, fore noble Lucius Present yourself, desire his service, tell him Wherein you’re happy-which will make him know If that his head have ear in music; doubtless With joy he will embrace you; for he’s honourable, And, doubling that, most holy. Your means abroad-You have me, rich; and I will never fail Beginning nor supplyment.

IMOGEN. Thou art all the comfort

The gods will diet me with. Prithee away!

There’s more to be consider’d; but we’ll even All that good time will give us. This attempt I am soldier to, and will abide it with A prince’s courage. Away, I prithee.

PISANIO. Well, madam, we must take a short farewell, Lest, being miss’d, I be suspected of Your carriage from the court. My noble mistress, Here is a box; I had it from the Queen.

What’s in’t is precious. If you are sick at sea Or stomach-qualm’d at land, a dram of this Will drive away distemper. To some shade, And fit you to your manhood. May the gods Direct you to the best!

IMOGEN. Amen. I thank thee. Exeunt severally

SCENE V.

Britain. CYMBELINE’S palace

Enter CYMBELINE, QUEEN, CLOTEN, LUCIUS, and LORDS

CYMBELINE. Thus far; and so farewell.

LUCIUS. Thanks, royal sir.

My emperor hath wrote; I must from hence, And am right sorry that I must report ye My master’s enemy.

CYMBELINE. Our subjects, sir,

Will not endure his yoke; and for ourself To show less sovereignty than they, must needs Appear unkinglike.

LUCIUS. So, sir. I desire of you

A conduct overland to Milford Haven.

Madam, all joy befall your Grace, and you!

CYMBELINE. My lords, you are appointed for that office; The due of honour in no point omit.

So farewell, noble Lucius.

LUCIUS. Your hand, my lord.

CLOTEN. Receive it friendly; but from this time forth I wear it as your enemy.