Document:  All > Shakespeare > Comedies > Cymbeline > Act V, scene V

	PISANIO, Lords, Officers, and Attendants]

CYMBELINE: Stand by my side, you whom the gods have made
	Preservers of my throne. Woe is my heart
	That the poor soldier that so richly fought,
	Whose rags shamed gilded arms, whose naked breast
	Stepp'd before larges of proof, cannot be found:
	He shall be happy that can find him, if
	Our grace can make him so.

BELARIUS: I never saw
	Such noble fury in so poor a thing;
	Such precious deeds in one that promises nought
	But beggary and poor looks.

CYMBELINE: No tidings of him?

PISANIO: He hath been search'd among the dead and living,
	But no trace of him.

CYMBELINE: To my grief, I am
	The heir of his reward;


		    which I will add
	To you, the liver, heart and brain of Britain,
	By whom I grant she lives. 'Tis now the time
	To ask of whence you are. Report it.

	In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen:
	Further to boast were neither true nor modest,
	Unless I add, we are honest.

CYMBELINE: Bow your knees.
	Arise my knights o' the battle: I create you
	Companions to our person and will fit you
	With dignities becoming your estates.

	[Enter CORNELIUS and Ladies]

	There's business in these faces. Why so sadly
	Greet you our victory? you look like Romans,
	And not o' the court of Britain.

CORNELIUS: Hail, great king!
	To sour your happiness, I must report
	The queen is dead.

CYMBELINE: Who worse than a physician
	Would this report become? But I consider,
	By medicine life may be prolong'd, yet death
	Will seize the doctor too. How ended she?

CORNELIUS: With horror, madly dying, like her life,
	Which, being cruel to the world, concluded
	Most cruel to herself. What she confess'd
	I will report, so please you: these her women
	Can trip me, if I err; who with wet cheeks
	Were present when she finish'd.

CYMBELINE: Prithee, say.

CORNELIUS: First, she confess'd she never loved you, only
	Affected greatness got by you, not you:
	Married your royalty, was wife to your place;
	Abhorr'd your person.

CYMBELINE: She alone knew this;
	And, but she spoke it dying, I would not
	Believe her lips in opening it. Proceed.

CORNELIUS: Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to love
	With such integrity, she did confess
	Was as a scorpion to her sight; whose life,
	But that her flight prevented it, she had
	Ta'en off by poison.

CYMBELINE: O most delicate fiend!
	Who is 't can read a woman? Is there more?

CORNELIUS: 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 lingering
	By inches waste you: in which time she purposed,
	By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to
	O'ercome you with her show, 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.

CYMBELINE:                   Heard you all this, her women?

First Lady: We did, so please your highness.

CYMBELINE: Mine 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 mayst say,
	And prove it in thy feeling. Heaven mend all!

	[Enter LUCIUS, IACHIMO, the Soothsayer, and other
	Roman Prisoners, guarded; POSTHUMUS LEONATUS
	behind, and IMOGEN]

	Thou comest not, Caius, now for tribute that
	The Britons have razed out, though with the loss
	Of many a bold one; whose kinsmen have made suit
	That their good souls may be appeased with slaughter
	Of you their captives, which ourself have granted:
	So think of your estate.

CAIUS LUCIUS: 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 ransom, 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 nurse-like: let his virtue join
	With my request, which I make bold your highness
	Cannot deny; he hath done no Briton harm,
	Though he have served a Roman: save him, sir,
	And spare no blood beside.

CYMBELINE: I have surely seen him:
	His favour is familiar to me. Boy,
	Thou hast look'd thyself into my grace,
	And art mine own. I know not why, wherefore,
	To say 'live, boy:' ne'er thank thy master; live:
	And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt,
	Fitting my bounty and thy state, I'll give it;
	Yea, though thou do demand a prisoner,
	The noblest ta'en.

IMOGEN:                   I humbly thank your highness.

CAIUS LUCIUS: I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad;
	And yet I know thou wilt.

IMOGEN: 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.

CAIUS LUCIUS: 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?

CYMBELINE: What wouldst 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?

IMOGEN: He is a Roman; no more kin to me
	Than I to your highness; who, being born your vassal,
	Am something nearer.

CYMBELINE: Wherefore eyest him so?

IMOGEN: I'll tell you, sir, in private, if you please
	To give me hearing.

CYMBELINE: Ay, with all my heart,
	And lend my best attention. What's thy name?

IMOGEN: Fidele, sir.

CYMBELINE:                   Thou'rt my good youth, my page;
	I'll be thy master: walk with me; speak freely.

	[CYMBELINE and IMOGEN converse apart]

BELARIUS: Is not this boy revived from death?

ARVIRAGUS: One sand another
	Not more resembles that sweet rosy lad
	Who died, and was Fidele. What think you?

GUIDERIUS: The same dead thing alive.

BELARIUS: Peace, peace! see further; he eyes us not; forbear;
	Creatures may be alike: were 't he, I am sure
	He would have spoke to us.

GUIDERIUS: But we saw him dead.

BELARIUS: Be silent; let's see further.

PISANIO: [Aside]
	Since she is living, let the time run on
	To good or bad.

	[CYMBELINE and IMOGEN come forward]

CYMBELINE:                   Come, stand thou by our side;
	Make thy demand aloud.

		  Sir, step you forth;
	Give answer to this boy, and do it freely;
	Or, by our greatness and the grace of it,
	Which is our honour, bitter torture shall
	Winnow the truth from falsehood. On, speak to him.

IMOGEN: My boon is, that this gentleman may render
	Of whom he had this ring.

POSTHUMUS LEONATUS: [Aside]                 What's that to him?

CYMBELINE: That diamond upon your finger, say
	How came it yours?

IACHIMO: Thou'lt torture me to leave unspoken that
	Which, to be spoke, would torture thee.


IACHIMO: 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 lived
	'Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou hear more, my lord?

CYMBELINE: All that belongs to this.

IACHIMO: That paragon, thy daughter,--
	For whom my heart drops blood, and my false spirits
	Quail to remember--Give me leave; I faint.

CYMBELINE: My daughter! what of her? Renew thy strength:
	I had rather thou shouldst live while nature will
	Than die ere I hear more: strive, man, and speak.

IACHIMO: Upon a time,--unhappy was the clock
	That struck the hour!--it was in Rome,--accursed
	The mansion where!--'twas at a feast,--O, would
	Our viands had been poison'd, or at least
	Those which I heaved to head!--the good Posthumus--
	What should I say? he was too good to be
	Where ill men were; and was the best of all
	Amongst the rarest of good ones,--sitting sadly,
	Hearing us praise our loves of Italy
	For beauty that made barren the swell'd boast
	Of him that best could speak, for feature, laming
	The shrine of Venus, or straight-pight Minerva.
	Postures beyond brief nature, for condition,
	A shop of all the qualities that man
	Loves woman for, besides that hook of wiving,
	Fairness which strikes the eye--

CYMBELINE: I stand on fire:
	Come to the matter.

IACHIMO: All too soon I shall,
	Unless thou wouldst grieve quickly. This Posthumus,
	Most like a noble lord in love and one
	That had a royal lover, took his hint;
	And, not dispraising whom we praised,--therein
	He was as calm as virtue--he began
	His mistress' picture; which by his tongue
	being made,
	And then a mind put in't, either our brags
	Were crack'd of kitchen-trolls, or his description
	Proved us unspeaking sots.

CYMBELINE: Nay, nay, to the purpose.

IACHIMO: Your daughter's chastity--there it begins.
	He spake of her, as Dian had hot dreams,
	And she alone were cold: whereat I, wretch,
	Made scruple of his praise; and wager'd with him
	Pieces of gold 'gainst this which then he wore
	Upon his honour'd finger, to attain
	In suit the place of's bed and win this ring
	By hers and mine adultery. He, true knight,
	No lesser of her honour confident
	Than I did truly find her, stakes this ring;
	And would so, had it been a carbuncle
	Of Phoebus' wheel, and might so safely, had it
	Been all the worth of's car. Away to Britain
	Post I in this design: well may you, sir,
	Remember me at court; where I was taught
	Of your chaste daughter the wide difference
	'Twixt amorous and villanous. Being thus quench'd
	Of hope, not longing, mine Italian brain
	'Gan in your duller Britain operate
	Most vilely; for my vantage, excellent:
	And, to be brief, my practise so prevail'd,
	That I return'd with simular proof enough
	To make the noble Leonatus mad,
	By wounding his belief in her renown
	With tokens thus, and thus; averting notes
	Of chamber-hanging, pictures, this her bracelet,--
	O cunning, how I got it!--nay, some marks
	Of secret on her person, that he could not
	But think her bond of chastity quite crack'd,
	I having ta'en the forfeit. Whereupon--
	Methinks, I see him now--

POSTHUMUS LEONATUS: [Advancing]             Ay, so thou dost,
	Italian fiend! Ay me, most credulous fool,
	Egregious murderer, thief, any thing
	That's due to all the villains past, in being,
	To come! O, give me cord, or knife, or poison,
	Some upright justicer! Thou, king, send out
	For torturers ingenious: it is I
	That all the abhorred things o' the earth amend
	By being worse than they. I am Posthumus,
	That kill'd thy daughter:--villain-like, I lie--
	That caused a lesser villain than myself,
	A sacrilegious thief, to do't: the temple
	Of virtue was she; yea, and she herself.
	Spit, and throw stones, cast mire upon me, set
	The dogs o' the street to bay me: every villain
	Be call'd Posthumus Leonitus; and
	Be villany less than 'twas! O Imogen!
	My queen, my life, my wife! O Imogen,
	Imogen, Imogen!

IMOGEN:                   Peace, my lord; hear, hear--

POSTHUMUS LEONATUS: Shall's have a play of this? Thou scornful page,
	There lie thy part.

	[Striking her: she falls]

PISANIO: O, gentlemen, help!
	Mine and your mistress! O, my lord Posthumus!
	You ne'er kill'd Imogen til now. Help, help!
	Mine honour'd lady!

CYMBELINE: Does the world go round?

POSTHUMUS LEONATUS: How come these staggers on me?

PISANIO: Wake, my mistress!

CYMBELINE: If this be so, the gods do mean to strike me
	To death with mortal joy.

PISANIO: How fares thy mistress?

IMOGEN: O, get thee from my sight;
	Thou gavest me poison: dangerous fellow, hence!
	Breathe not where princes are.

CYMBELINE: The tune of Imogen!

	The gods throw stones of sulphur on me, if
	That box I gave you was not thought by me
	A precious thing: I had it from the queen.

CYMBELINE: New matter still?

IMOGEN:                   It poison'd me.

	I left out one thing which the queen confess'd.
	Which must approve thee honest: 'If Pisanio
	Have,' said she, 'given his mistress that confection
	Which I gave him for cordial, she is served
	As I would serve a rat.'

CYMBELINE: What's this, Comelius?

CORNELIUS: The queen, sir, very oft importuned me
	To temper poisons for her, still pretending
	The satisfaction of her knowledge only
	In killing creatures vile, as cats and dogs,
	Of no esteem: I, dreading that her purpose
	Was of more danger, did compound for her
	A certain stuff, which, being ta'en, would cease
	The present power of life, but in short time
	All offices of nature should again
	Do their due functions. Have you ta'en of it?

IMOGEN: Most like I did, for I was dead.

BELARIUS: My boys,
	There was our error.

GUIDERIUS: This is, sure, Fidele.

IMOGEN: Why did you throw your wedded lady from you?
	Think that you are upon a rock; and now
	Throw me again.

	[Embracing him]

POSTHUMUS LEONATUS: Hang there like a fruit, my soul,
	Till the tree die!

CYMBELINE:                   How now, my flesh, my child!
	What, makest thou me a dullard in this act?
	Wilt thou not speak to me?

IMOGEN: [Kneeling]               Your blessing, sir.

BELARIUS: [To GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS]  Though you did love
	this youth, I blame ye not:
	You had a motive for't.

CYMBELINE: My tears that fall
	Prove holy water on thee! Imogen,
	Thy mother's dead.

IMOGEN: I am sorry for't, my lord.

CYMBELINE: O, she was nought; and long of her it was
	That we meet here so strangely: but her son
	Is gone, we know not how nor where.

PISANIO: My lord,
	Now fear is from me, I'll speak troth. Lord Cloten,
	Upon my lady's missing, came to me
	With his sword drawn; foam'd at the mouth, and swore,
	If I discover'd not which way she was gone,
	It was my instant death. By accident,
	had a feigned letter of my master's
	Then in my pocket; which directed him
	To seek her on the mountains near to Milford;
	Where, in a frenzy, in my master's garments,
	Which he enforced from me, away he posts
	With unchaste purpose and with oath to violate
	My lady's honour: what became of him
	I further know not.

GUIDERIUS: Let me end the story:
	I slew him there.

CYMBELINE: Marry, the gods forfend!
	I would not thy good deeds should from my lips
	Pluck a bard sentence: prithee, valiant youth,
	Deny't again.

GUIDERIUS:                   I have spoke it, and I did it.

CYMBELINE: He was a prince.

GUIDERIUS: A most incivil one: the wrongs he did me
	Were nothing prince-like; for he did provoke me
	With language that would make me spurn the sea,
	If it could so roar to me: I cut off's head;
	And am right glad he is not standing here
	To tell this tale of mine.

CYMBELINE: I am sorry for thee:
	By thine own tongue thou art condemn'd, and must
	Endure our law: thou'rt dead.

IMOGEN: That headless man
	I thought had been my lord.

CYMBELINE: Bind the offender,
	And take him from our presence.

BELARIUS: Stay, sir king:
	This man is better than the man he slew,
	As well descended as thyself; and hath
	More of thee merited than a band of Clotens
	Had ever scar for.

	[To the Guard]

	Let his arms alone;
	They were not born for bondage.

CYMBELINE: Why, old soldier,
	Wilt thou undo the worth thou art unpaid for,
	By tasting of our wrath? How of descent
	As good as we?

ARVIRAGUS:                   In that he spake too far.

CYMBELINE: And thou shalt die for't.

BELARIUS: We will die all three:
	But I will prove that two on's are as good
	As I have given out him. My sons, I must,
	For mine own part, unfold a dangerous speech,
	Though, haply, well for you.

ARVIRAGUS: Your danger's ours.

GUIDERIUS: And our good his.

BELARIUS:                   Have at it then, by leave.
	Thou hadst, great king, a subject who
	Was call'd Belarius.

CYMBELINE: What of him? he is
	A banish'd traitor.

BELARIUS: He it is that hath
	Assumed this age; indeed a banish'd man;
	I know not how a traitor.

CYMBELINE: Take him hence:
	The whole world shall not save him.

BELARIUS: Not too hot:
	First pay me for the nursing of thy sons;
	And let it be confiscate all, so soon
	As I have received it.

CYMBELINE: Nursing of my sons!

BELARIUS: I am too blunt and saucy: here's my knee:
	Ere I arise, I will prefer my sons;
	Then spare not the old father. Mighty sir,
	These two young gentlemen, that call me father
	And think they are my sons, are none of mine;
	They are the issue of your loins, my liege,
	And blood of your begetting.

CYMBELINE: How! my issue!

BELARIUS: So sure as you your father's. I, old Morgan,
	Am that Belarius whom you sometime banish'd:
	Your pleasure was my mere offence, my punishment
	Itself, and all my treason; that I suffer'd
	Was all the harm I did. These gentle princes--
	For such and so they are--these twenty years
	Have I train'd up: those arts they have as I
	Could put into them; my breeding was, sir, as
	Your highness knows. Their nurse, Euriphile,
	Whom for the theft I wedded, stole these children
	Upon my banishment: I moved her to't,
	Having received the punishment before,
	For that which I did then: beaten for loyalty
	Excited me to treason: their dear loss,
	The more of you 'twas felt, the more it shaped
	Unto my end of stealing them. But, gracious sir,
	Here are your sons again; and I must lose
	Two of the sweet'st companions in the world.
	The benediction of these covering heavens
	Fall on their heads like dew! for they are worthy
	To inlay heaven with stars.

CYMBELINE: Thou weep'st, and speak'st.
	The service that you three have done is more
	Unlike than this thou tell'st. I lost my children:
	If these be they, I know not how to wish
	A pair of worthier sons.

BELARIUS: Be pleased awhile.
	This gentleman, whom I call Polydore,
	Most worthy prince, as yours, is true Guiderius:
	This gentleman, my Cadwal, Arviragus,
	Your younger princely son; he, sir, was lapp'd
	In a most curious mantle, wrought by the hand
	Of his queen mother, which for more probation
	I can with ease produce.

CYMBELINE: Guiderius had
	Upon his neck a mole, a sanguine star;
	It was a mark of wonder.

BELARIUS: This is he;
	Who hath upon him still that natural stamp:
	It was wise nature's end in the donation,
	To be his evidence now.

CYMBELINE: O, what, am I
	A mother to the birth of three? Ne'er mother
	Rejoiced deliverance more. Blest pray you be,
	That, after this strange starting from your orbs,
	may reign in them now! O Imogen,
	Thou hast lost by this a kingdom.

IMOGEN: No, my lord;
	I have got two worlds by 't. O my gentle brothers,
	Have we thus met? O, never say hereafter
	But I am truest speaker you call'd me brother,
	When I was but your sister; I you brothers,
	When ye were so indeed.

CYMBELINE: Did you e'er meet?

ARVIRAGUS: Ay, my good lord.

GUIDERIUS:                   And at first meeting loved;
	Continued so, until we thought he died.

CORNELIUS: By the queen's dram she swallow'd.

CYMBELINE: O rare instinct!
	When shall I hear all through? This fierce
	Hath to it circumstantial branches, which
	Distinction should be rich in. Where? how lived You?
	And when came you to serve our Roman captive?
	How parted with your brothers? how first met them?
	Why fled you from the court? and whither? These,
	And your three motives to the battle, with
	I know not how much more, should be demanded;
	And all the other by-dependencies,
	From chance to chance: but nor the time nor place
	Will serve our long inter'gatories. See,
	Posthumus anchors upon Imogen,
	And she, like harmless lightning, throws her eye
	On him, her brother, me, her master, hitting
	Each object with a joy: the counterchange
	Is severally in all. Let's quit this ground,
	And smoke the temple with our sacrifices.


	Thou art my brother; so we'll hold thee ever.

IMOGEN: You are my father too, and did relieve me,
	To see this gracious season.

CYMBELINE: All o'erjoy'd,
	Save these in bonds: let them be joyful too,
	For they shall taste our comfort.

IMOGEN: My good master,
	I will yet do you service.

CAIUS LUCIUS: Happy be you!

CYMBELINE: The forlorn soldier, that so nobly fought,
	He would have well becomed this place, and graced
	The thankings of a king.

	The soldier that did company these three
	In poor beseeming; 'twas a fitment for
	The purpose I then follow'd. That I was he,
	Speak, Iachimo: I had you down and might
	Have made you finish.

IACHIMO: [Kneeling]          I am down again:
	But now my heavy conscience sinks my knee,
	As then your force did. Take that life, beseech you,
	Which I so often owe: but your ring first;
	And here the bracelet of the truest princess
	That ever swore her faith.

POSTHUMUS LEONATUS: Kneel not to me:
	The power that I have on you is, to spare you;
	The malice towards you to forgive you: live,
	And deal with others better.

CYMBELINE: Nobly doom'd!
	We'll learn our freeness of a son-in-law;
	Pardon's the word to all.

ARVIRAGUS: You holp us, sir,
	As you did mean indeed to be our brother;
	Joy'd are we that you are.

POSTHUMUS LEONATUS: Your servant, princes. Good my lord of Rome,
	Call forth your soothsayer: as I slept, methought
	Great Jupiter, upon his eagle back'd,
	Appear'd to me, with other spritely shows
	Of mine own kindred: when I waked, I found
	This label on my bosom; whose containing
	Is so from sense in hardness, that I can
	Make no collection of it: let him show
	His skill in the construction.

CAIUS LUCIUS: Philarmonus!

Soothsayer: Here, my good lord.

CAIUS LUCIUS: Read, and declare the meaning.

Soothsayer: [Reads]  'When as a lion's whelp shall, to himself
	unknown, without seeking find, and be embraced by a
	piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar
	shall be lopped branches, which, being dead many
	years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old
	stock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end
	his miseries, Britain be fortunate and flourish in
	peace and plenty.'
	Thou, Leonatus, art the lion's whelp;
	The fit and apt construction of thy name,
	Being Leonatus, doth import so much.


	The piece of tender air, thy virtuous daughter,
	Which we call 'mollis aer;' and 'mollis aer'
	We term it 'mulier:' which 'mulier' I divine
	Is this most constant wife; who, even now,
	Answering the letter of the oracle,
	Unknown to you, unsought, were clipp'd about
	With this most tender air.

CYMBELINE: This hath some seeming.

Soothsayer: The lofty cedar, royal Cymbeline,
	Personates thee: and thy lopp'd branches point
	Thy two sons forth; who, by Belarius stol'n,
	For many years thought dead, are now revived,
	To the majestic cedar join'd, whose issue
	Promises Britain peace and plenty.

	My peace we will begin. And, Caius Lucius,
	Although the victor, we submit to Caesar,
	And to the Roman empire; promising
	To pay our wonted tribute, from the which
	We were dissuaded by our wicked queen;
	Whom heavens, in justice, both on her and hers,
	Have laid most heavy hand.

Soothsayer: The fingers of the powers above do tune
	The harmony of this peace. The vision
	Which I made known to Lucius, ere the stroke
	Of this yet scarce-cold battle, at this instant
	Is full accomplish'd; for the Roman eagle,
	From south to west on wing soaring aloft,
	Lessen'd herself, and in the beams o' the sun
	So vanish'd: which foreshow'd our princely eagle,
	The imperial Caesar, should again unite
	His favour with the radiant Cymbeline,
	Which shines here in the west.

CYMBELINE: Laud we the gods;
	And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils
	From our blest altars. Publish we this peace
	To all our subjects. Set we forward: let
	A Roman and a British ensign wave
	Friendly together: so through Lud's-town march:
	And in the temple of great Jupiter
	Our peace we'll ratify; seal it with feasts.
	Set on there! Never was a war did cease,
	Ere bloody hands were wash'd, with such a peace.


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