But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail'd
Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline,
I was confederate with the Romans: so,
Follow'd my banishment; and, this twenty years,
This rock, and these demesnes, have been my world:
Where I have lived at honest freedom; paid
More pious debts to Heaven, than in all

The fore end of my time. But, up to the mountains;
This is not hunters' language :-He, that strikes
The venison first, shall be the lord o' the feast;
To him the other two shall minister;

And we will fear no poison, which attends

In place of greater state. I'll meet you in the vallies.
[Exeunt GUIDERIUS and ARviragus.
How hard it is, to hide the sparks of nature!
These boys know little, they are sons to the king;
Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive.

They think, they are mine; and, though train'd up thus meanly

I' the 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, whom
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 his 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.
[A Horn sounds.

Hark! the game is roused!

Oh, Cymbeline! Heaven, and my conscience, knows, Thou didst unjustly banish me: whereon,

E

At three, and two years old, I stole these babes:
Thinking to bar thee of succession, as

Thou 'reftst me of my land. Euriphile,

Thou wast their nurse; they took thee for their mother,

And every day do honour to thy grave:
Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call'd,
They take for natural father.

[The Horn sounds again.

[Exit.

SCENE V.

The Palace of CYMBELINE.

Flourish of Trumpets.

Enter CYMBELINE, QUEEN, CLOTEN, LOCRINE, MADAN, LUCIUS VARUS, and ATTENDANTS.

Cym. Thus far; and so farewell.

Luc. Thanks, royal sir.

I am right sorry, that I must report ye

My master's enemy.

I desire of you

A conduct over land, to Milford Haven.

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

So farewell, noble Lucius.

Luc. Your hand, my lord.

Cloten. Receive it friendly: but, from this time forth,

I wear it as your enemy.

Luc. Sir, the event

Is yet to name the winner : Fare you well.

[Exeunt LUCIUS, LOCRINE, and VARUS, &c.

Queen. He goes hence frowning; but it honours us, That we have given him cause.

Cloten. 'Tis all the better;

Your valiant Britons have their wishes in it.
Queen. 'Tis not sleepy business;

But must be look'd to speedily, and strongly.
Cym. Our expectation that it would be thus,
Hath made us forward. But, my gentle queen,
Where is our daughter? She hath not appear'd
Before the Roman, nor to us hath tender'd
The duty of the day: She looks us like
A thing more made of malice than of duty;
We have noted it.-Call her before us; for
We have been too slight in sufferance.

Queen. Royal sir,

[Exit MADAN,

Since the exile of Posthumus, most retired
Hath her life been; the cure whereof, my lord,
'Tis time must do. 'Beseech your majesty,
Forbear sharp speeches to her.

Enter MADAN.

Cym. Where is she, sir? How
Can her contempt be answer'd?
Mad. Please you, sir,

Her chambers are all lock'd; and there's no answer
That will be given to the loud'st of noise we make.
Queen. My lord, when last I went to visit her,
She pray'd me to excuse her keeping close;
Whereto constrain'd by her infirmity,

She should that duty leave unpaid to you,

Which daily she was bound to proffer: this

She wish'd me to make known; but our great court Made me to blame in memory.

Cym. Her doors lock'd?

Not seen of late? Grant, Heavens, that, which I fear, Prove false !

[Exeunt CYMBELINE and MADAN,

Queen, Son, I say, follow the king.

Cloten. That man of hers, Pisanio, her old servant,

I have not seen these two days.

Queen. Go, look after.

[Exit CLOTEN.
Pisanio, thou that stand'st so for Posthumus!
He hath a drug of mine: I pray, his absence
Proceed by swallowing that; for he believes
It is a thing most precious. But for her,
Where is she gone? Haply, despair hath seized her;
Or, wing'd with fervour of her love, she's flown
To her desired Posthumus: Gone she is
To death, or to dishonour; and my end

Can make good use of either: She being down,
I have the placing of the British crown,

[Exit.

SCENE VI.

A Wood near Milford Haven.

Enter PISANIO and IMOGEN,

Imog. Thou told'st me, when we came from horse, the place

Was near at hand.

Pisanio! Man!

Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind,

That makes thee stare thus ?

One, but painted thus,

Would be interpreted a thing perplex'd

Beyond self-explication.

What's the matter?

Why tender'st thou that paper to me?

If it be summer news,

Smile to't before: if winterly, thou need'st

But keep that countenance still.-My husband's

hand!

That drug-damn'd Italy hath out-craftied him,
And he's at some hard point.-

tongue

-Speak, man; thy

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.

Imog. [Reads.] Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath played 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 opportunities 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.-

What cheer, madam'?

Imog. 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 na❤

ture,

To break it with a fearful dream of him,