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

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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 val

leys.

[Exeunt Guiderius and Arviragus.

How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature!

These boys know little they are sons to the king; 80
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, who
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 90
Into my story: say 'Thus mine enemy fell,
And thus I set my foot on 's 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. Hark, the game is roused!
O Cymbeline! heaven and my conscience knows
Thou didst unjustly banish me: whereon,

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

Thou reft'st me of my lands. Euriphile,

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

And every day do honour to her grave:

Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call'd,

They take for natural father. The game is up.

Scene IV.

Country near Milford-Haven.

Enter Pisanio and Imogen.

[Exit.

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

Was near at hand: ne'er long'd my mother so
To see me first, as I have now. Pisanio! man!
Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind,
That makes thee stare thus?

sigh

Wherefore breaks that

From the inward of thee? One but painted thus
Would be interpreted a thing perplex'd

Beyond self-explication: put thyself

Into a haviour of less fear, ere wildness

Vanquish my staider senses. What's the matter? 10
Why tender'st thou that paper to me, with

A look untender? If 't be summer news,

Pis.

Smile to 't before; if wintry, 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

tongue

May take of some extremity, which to read
Would be even mortal to me.

20

Please you, read; And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing The most disdain'd of fortune. Imo. [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 opportunity at Milford-Haven: she hath my letter for the purpose: where, if thou fear to 30 strike, and to make me certain it is done, thou art the pandar to her dishonour, and equally to me disloyal.'

Pis. 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: kings, queens, and states,
Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave
This viperous slander enters. What cheer, madam?

Imo. False to his bed! What is it to be false?

To lie in watch there, and to think on him?

40

To weep 'twixt clock and clock? if sleep charge na

ture,

To break it with a fearful dream of him,

And cry myself awake? that 's false to bed, is it? Pis. Alas, good lady!

Imo. I false! Thy conscience witness: Iachimo,
Thou didst accuse him of incontinency;

Pis.

Thou then look'dst like a villain; now, methinks, 50
Thy favour 's good enough. Some jay of Italy,
Whose mother was her painting, hath betray'd him:
Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion;
And, for I am richer than to hang by the walls,
I must be ripp'd:-to pieces with me!-O,
Men's vows are women's traitors!

All good seeming

By thy revolt, O husband, shall be thought
Put on for villany; not born where 't grows,
But worn a bait for ladies.

Good madam, hear me.

Imo. True honest men being heard, like false Æneas, 60

Were in his time thought false; and Sinon's weeping
Did scandal many a holy tear, took pity

From most true wretchedness: so thou Posthumus,
Wilt lay the leaven on all proper men;

Goodly and gallant shall be false and perjured

From thy great fail. Come, fellow, be thou honest:
Do thou thy master's bidding. When thou see'st
him,

A little witness my obedience. Look!
I draw the sword myself: take it, and hit
The innocent mansion of my love, my heart:
Fear not; 'tis empty of all things but grief:
Thy master is not there, who was indeed
The riches of it. Do his bidding; strike.
Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause,

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Fis.

Imo.

Pis.

But now thou seem'st a coward.

Hence, vile instrument!

Why, I must die;

Thou shalt not damn my hand.

And if I do not by thy hand, thou art

No servant of thy master's. Against self-slaughter
There is a prohibition so divine

That cravens my weak hand. Come, here's my

The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus,

All turn'd to heresy? Away, away,

Corrupters of my faith! you shall no more.

Be stomachers to my heart. Thus may poor fools
Believe false teachers: though those that are be-
tray'd

Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor
Stands in worse case of woe.

And thou, Posthumus, thou that didst set up
My disobedience 'gainst the king my father,
And made me put into contempt the suits
Of princely fellows, shalt hereafter find
It is no act of common passage, but

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A strain of rareness: and I grieve myself
To think, when thou shalt be disedged by her
That now thou tirest on, how thy memory,
Will then be pang'd by me. Prithee, dispatch:
The lamb entreats the butcher: where's thy knife?
Thou art too slow to do thy master's bidding,
When I desire it too.

O gracious lady,

Since I received command to do this business

100