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Greet you our victory? you look like Romans,
Hail, great king!
is dead. Cym.
Whom worse than a physician
Cor. With horror, madly dying, like her life;
Prythee, say. Cor. First, she confess'd she never lov’d you; only, Affected greatness got by you,
She alone knew this:
O most delicate fiend!
4 Tbis observation has already occurred in the Funeral Song, p. 106 :
The sceptre, learning, physick, must
All follow this, and come to dust.' Ś • To bear in hand' is 'to delude by false appearances. See vol. v. p. 264, pote 9.
Cor. More, sir, and worse.
She did confess, she had For you a mortal mineral; which, being took, Should by the minute feed on life, and, ling'ring, By inches waste you: In which time she purpos’d, By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to O’ercome
you with her show: yes, and in time (When she had fitted you with her craft), to work Her son into the adoption of the crown. But failing of her end by his strange absence, Grew shameless desperate; open'd, in despite Of heaven and men, her purposes; repented The evils she hatch'd were not effected; so, Despairing, died. Сут.
all this, her women ? Lady. We did, so please your highness. Cym.
eyes Were not in fault, for she was beautiful; Mine ears, that heard her flattery; nor my heart, That thought her like her seeming; it had been
vicious, To have mistrusted her: yet, O my daughter! That it was folly in me, thou may'st say, And prove it in thy feeling. Heaven mend all! Enter Lucius, IACHIMO, the Soothsayer, and
other Roman Prisoners, guarded; POSTHUMUS
behind, and IMOGEN. Thou com’st not, Caius, now for tribute; that The Britons have raz'd out, though with the loss Of many a bold one; whose kinsmen have made suit, That their good souls may be appeas'd with slaughter Of you their captives, which ourself have granted; So, think of your estate.
Luc. Consider, sir, the chance of war: the day Was yours by accident; had it gone with us,
We should not, when the blood was cool, have
threaten'd Our prisoners with the sword. But since the gods Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives May be call’d ransome, let it come: sufficeth, A Roman with a Roman's heart can suffer: Augustus lives to think on't: And so much For my peculiar care. This one thing only I will entreat; My boy, a Briton born, Let him be ransom’d: never master had A page so kind, so duteous, diligent, So tender over his occasions, true, So feat“, so nurselike: let his virtue join With my request, which, I'll make bold, your high
Cannot deny; he hath done no Briton harm,
I have surely seen him:
I humbly thank your highness. Luc. I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad; And yet, I know, thou wilt. Imo.
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.
6 Feat is ready, dexterous. 7 Countenance.
8 •I know not what should induce me to say, live, boy. The word nor was inserted by Rowe.
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 ? Cym.
What would'st 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?
Imo. He is a Roman; no more kin to me, Than I to your highness; who, being born your
vassal, Am something nearer. Cym.
Wherefore ey’st him so ? Imo. I'll tell you, sir, in private, if you please To give me hearing. Cym.
Ay, with all my heart, And lend my best attention. What's thy name?
Imo. Fidele, sir.
Cym. Thou art my good youth, my page; I'll be thy master: Walk with me; speak freely.
[CYMBELINE and IMOGEN converse apart. Bel. Is not this boy reviv'd from death? Arv.
One sand another
Gui. The same dead thing alive.
But we saw him dead.
It is my mistress : [Aside.
[CYMBELINE and IMOGEN come forward.
Сут. . Come, stand thou by our side; Make thy demand aloud.--Sir, [To IACH.] step
Give answer to this boy, and do it freely;
Imo. My boon is, that this gentleman may render
What's that to him ?
[Aside. Cym. That diamond upon your finger, say, How came it yours?
Iach. Thou'lt torture me to leave unspoken that
grieve thee, As it doth me), a nobler sir ne'er liv’d "Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou hear more, my
lord ? Cym. All that belongs to this. Iach.
That paragon, thy daughter,For whom my heart drops blood, and my false spirits Quail to remember,-Give me leave; I faint. Cym. My daughter! what of her? Renew thy
strength: I had rather thou should'st live while nature will, Than die ere I hear more: strive man, and speak
lach. Upon a time (unhappy was the clock That struck the hour!) it was in Rome (accurs d
9 To quail is to faint, or sink into dejection. See vol. vi p. 307, note 5.