But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail'd
Before my perfect honour, swore to Cynıbeline,
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.

[Excunt 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 l' 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 sii, and tell The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out Into my story : say,

“ Thus mine enemy fell; And thus I set iny 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 llorn sounds. Hark! the game is roused ! Oh, Cymbeline! Heaven, and my conscience, knows, 'Thou didst unjustly banish me : shereon,


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 mo-

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

[The Horn sounds again. The game is up.



The Palace of CYMBELINE.

Flourish of Trumpets.


DAN, 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.
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 wislies in it.

Queen. 'Tis nor sleepy business ;
But must be look'd to specdily, 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
Betore the Roman, nor to us hath tender'd
The duty of the day : She looks us like
A thing more nude of malice than of duty;
We have noted it.--Call her before


for We have been too slight in sufferance.

Exit MADAI: Queen. Royal sir, Since the exile of Posthumnus, most retired Hath her life been; the cure whereof, my lord, 'Tis time must do. 'Beseech your pajesty, 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 scen of late? Grant, Heavens, that, which I fear, Prøve false!


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.


A Wood near Milford Haven.


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. Speak, man; thy

May take off some extremity, which, to read,
Would be even mortal to me.
Pisanio. Please you, read;

shall find me, wretched man, a thing The most disdain'd of fortune.

And yoc

Imog. [Reads.] Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath played the strumpet in my bed; the testimonies rchereof lie bleeding in me. I speak not out of wcak surmises; ont 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. Lct thinc own hands take away her life : I shall give thee opportunities at Milford Häven : she hath my letter for the p:ırpose : where, ifthou 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


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 Nilc; whose breath Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie All corners of the world.What cheer, madamn?

Imog. False to his bed! What is it, to be faise : 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,

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