This tribute from us, we were free:

Say then to Cæsar,

Our ancestor was that Mulmutius, which

Ordain'd our laws; whose use the sword of Cæsar Hath too much mangled: whose repair, and franchise,

Shall, by the power we hold, be our good deed,
Though Rome be therefore angry.

Luc. I am sorry, Cymbeline,

That I am to pronounce Augustus Cæsar
Thine enemy:

Receive it from me then :-War, and confusion,
In Cæsar's name, pronounce I 'gainst thee: look
For fury not to be resisted :-Thus defied,
I thank thee for myself.

Cym. Thou art welcome, Caius.

Cloten. His majesty bids you welcome. Make pastime with us a day, or two, or longer: If you seek us afterwards in other terms, you shall find us in our salt-water girdle: if you beat us out of it, it is yours; if you fall in the adventure, our crows shall fare the better for you; and there's an end.

Luc. So, sir.

Cym. I know your master's pleasure, and he mine: All the remain is, welcome.

[Drums and Trumpets-Exeunt.

SCENE III.

An Apartment in CYMBELINE's Palace.

Enter PISANIO; a Letter in his Hand.

Pisanio. How! of adultery! Wherefore write you

not

What monster's her accuser?-Leonatus !

Oh, master! what a strange infection
Is fallen into thine ear? What false Italian,
As poisonous tongued, as handed, hath prevail'd
On thy too ready hearing?-Disloyal? No:
She's punish'd for her truth; and undergoes,
More goddess-like than wife-like, such assaults
As would take in some virtue.-Oh, my master!
Thy mind to her is now as low, as were

Thy fortunes. How! that I should murder her?
Upon the love, and truth, and vows, which I
Have made to thy command?-I, her?-her blood?
If it be so to do good service, never

Let me be counted serviceable. How look I,
That I should seem to lack humanity,

So much as this fact comes to? [Reading the Letter,
Do't: The letter,

That I have sent her, by her own command

Shall give thee opportunity:-Oh, damn'd paper!
Black as the ink that's on thee!

Lo, here she comes.

Enter IMOGen.

I am ignorant in what I am commanded,

Imog. How now, Pisanio?

Pisanio. Madam, here is a letter from my lord. Imog. Who? thy lord? that is my lord? Leona[IMOGEN takes the Letter,

tus?

Oh, learn'd indeed were that astronomer,
That knew the stars, as I his characters;
He'd lay the future open.-You good gods,
Let what is here contain❜d relish of love,
Of my lord's health, of his content!
Good wax, thy leave:-Bless'd be,

You bees, that make these locks of counsel!
Good news, gods!

[Reading.] Justice, and your father's wrath, should he take me in his dominions, could not be so cruel to me,

as you, Oh, the dearest of creatures, would not even renew me with your eyes. Take notice, that I am in Cambria, at Milford Haven: What your own love will, out of this, advise you, follow. So, he wishes you all happiness, that remains loyal to his vow, and your, increasing in love,

LEONATUS POSTHUMUS.

O, for a horse with wings!-Hear'st thou, Pisanio?
He is at Milford Haven: Read, and tell me
How far 'tis thither. If one of mean affairs
May plod it in a week, why may not I
Glide thither in a day?-Then, true Pisanio,
How far is it

To this same blessed Milford ?
How may we steal from hence?

I pr'ythee, speak,

How many score of miles may we well ride 'Twixt hour and hour?

Pisanio. One score, 'twixt sun and sun, Madam, is enough for you; and too much too. Imog: Why, one that rode to his execution, man, Could never go so slow :

But this is foolery

**

Go, bid my woman feign a sickness; say

She'll home to her father: and provide me, presently,
A riding suit; no costlier than would fit
A franklin's housewife.

Pisanio. Madam, you're best consider,

Imog. I see before me, man, nor here, nor here, Nor what ensues; but have a fog in them, That I cannot look through. Away, I pr'ythee; Do as I bid thee: there's no more to say ; Accessible is none but Milford way.

[Exeunt

SCENE IV.

A Forest in Wales, with a Cave.

Enter BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS, from the Cave.

Bel. A goodly day not to keep house, with such Whose roof's as low as ours: See, boys; this gate Instructs you how to adore the heavens; and bows

you

To morning's holy office: The gates of monarchs
Are arch'd so high, that giants may jet through,
And keep their impious turbans on, without
Good morrow to the sun.-Hail, thou fair heaven!
We house i' the rock, yet use thee not so hardly
As prouder livers do.

Guid. Hail, Heaven!
Arv. Hail, Heaven!

Bel. Now, for our mountain sport: up to yon hill,
Your legs are young; I'll tread these flats. Consider,
When you, above, perceive me like a crow,
That it is place, which lessens, and sets off,

And you may then revolve what tales I have told you,
Of courts, of princes, of the tricks in war:
This service is not service, so being done,
But being so allow'd: To apprehend thus,
Draws us a profit from all things we see:
And often, to our comfort, shall we find
The sharded beetle in a safer hold
Than is the full-wing'd eagle.

Guid. Out of your proof you speak: we, poor unfledged,

Have never wing'd from view o' the nest; nor know

not

What air's from home. Haply, this life is best,
If quiet life be best; sweeter to you,
That have a sharper known; well corresponding
With your stiff age: but, unto us, it is
A cell of ignorance; travelling a-bed ;
A prison for a debtor, that not dares
To stride a limit.

Arv. What should we speak of,

When we are old as you, when we shall hear
The rain and wind beat dark December, how,
In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse
The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing.
Bel. How you speak!

Did you but know the city's usuries,

And felt them knowingly; the art o' the court,
As hard to leave, as keep; whose top to climb
Is certain falling, or so slippery, that

The fear's as bad as falling; the toil of the war,
A pain that only seems to seek out danger

I' the name of fame, and honour; which dies i' the search;

And hath as oft a slanderous epitaph,

As record of fair act; nay, many times,

Doth ill deserve by doing well; what's worse,
Must court'sy at the censure:-Oh, boys, this story
The world may read in me my body's mark'd
With Roman swords; and my report was once
First with the best of note: Cymbeline loved me;
And, when a soldier was the theme, my name
Was not far off: then was I as a tree,

Whose boughs did bend with fruit: but, in one night,
A storm, or robbery, call it what you will,

Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, And left me bare to weather.

Guid. Uncertain favour!

Bel. My fault being nothing, (as I have told you oft)