Greet you our victory? you look like Romans, And not o' the court of Britain. Cor. Hail, great king! To sour your happiness, I must report The queen is dead. Cym. Cor. With horror, madly dying, like her life; Cym. Pr'ythee, say. Cor. First, she confess'd she never lov'd you; only Affected greatness got by you, not you: Married your royalty, was wife to your place; Abhorr'd your person. Cym. She alone knew this: And, but she spoke it dying, I would not Believe her lips in opening it. Proceed. Cor. Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to love With such integrity, she did confess Was as a scorpion to her sight; whose life, Ta'en off by poison. Cym. O most delicate fiend! Who is't can read a woman?-Is there more? 4 This observation has already occurred in the Funeral Song, p. 106: 'The sceptre, learning, physick, must All follow this, and come to dust.' To bear in hand' is 'to delude by false appearances.' See vol. v. p. 264, note 9. Cor. More, sir, and worse. She did confess, she had For you a mortal mineral; which, being took, But failing of her end by his strange absence, Cym. 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! 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 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 So feat, so nurselike: let his virtue join With my request, which, I'll make bold, your high ness Cannot deny; he hath done no Briton harm, Though he have serv'd a Roman: save him, sir, And spare no blood beside. Cym. I have surely seen him: His favour is familiar to me. Boy, thou hast look'd thyself into my grace, The noblest ta'en. Imo. 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 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, Luc. 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. speak, Know'st him thou look'st on? Wilt have him live? Is he thy kin? thy friend? 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 Not more resembles: That sweet rosy lad, Bel. Peace, peace! see further; he eyes us not; Creatures may be alike: were't he, I am sure He would have spoke to us. Gui. But we saw him dead. It is my mistress: [Aside. Bel. Be silent; let's see further. Pis. Since she is living, let the time run on, To good, or bad. [CYMBELINE and IMOGEN come forward. Cym. Come, stand thou by our side; Make thy demand aloud.—Sir, [To IACH.] step you forth; Give answer to this boy, and do it freely; Post. 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 Which, to be spoke, would torture thee. Cym. How! me? Iach. I am glad to be constrain'd to utter that which Torments me to conceal. By villany I got this ring; 'twas Leonatus' jewel: Whom thou didst banish; and (which more may 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 Iach. 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. |