# The Complete Works of William Shakespeare ## Part 38 Book page: https://www.cyberlibrary.org/en/books/the-complete-works-of-william-shakespeare-100/index.md A fever with the absence of her son; A madness, of which her life’s in danger. Heavens, How deeply you at once do touch me! Imogen, The great part of my comfort, gone; my queen Upon a desperate bed, and in a time When fearful wars point at me; her son gone, So needful for this present. It strikes me past The hope of comfort. But for thee, fellow, Who needs must know of her departure and Dost seem so ignorant, we’ll enforce it from thee By a sharp torture. PISANIO. Sir, my life is yours; I humbly set it at your will; but for my mistress, I nothing know where she remains, why gone, Nor when she purposes return. Beseech your Highness, Hold me your loyal servant. LORD. Good my liege, The day that she was missing he was here. I dare be bound he’s true and shall perform All parts of his subjection loyally. For Cloten, There wants no diligence in seeking him, And will no doubt be found. CYMBELINE. The time is troublesome. [_To Pisanio._] We’ll slip you for a season; but our jealousy Does yet depend. LORD. So please your Majesty, The Roman legions, all from Gallia drawn, Are landed on your coast, with a supply Of Roman gentlemen by the Senate sent. CYMBELINE. Now for the counsel of my son and queen! I am amaz’d with matter. LORD. Good my liege, Your preparation can affront no less Than what you hear of. Come more, for more you’re ready. The want is but to put those pow’rs in motion That long to move. CYMBELINE. I thank you. Let’s withdraw, And meet the time as it seeks us. We fear not What can from Italy annoy us; but We grieve at chances here. Away! [_Exeunt all but Pisanio._] PISANIO. I heard no letter from my master since I wrote him Imogen was slain. ’Tis strange. Nor hear I from my mistress, who did promise To yield me often tidings. Neither know I What is betid to Cloten, but remain Perplex’d in all. The heavens still must work. Wherein I am false I am honest; not true, to be true. These present wars shall find I love my country, Even to the note o’ th’ King, or I’ll fall in them. All other doubts, by time let them be clear’d: Fortune brings in some boats that are not steer’d. [_Exit._] SCENE IV. Wales. Before the cave of Belarius. Enter Belarius, Guiderius and Arviragus. GUIDERIUS. The noise is round about us. BELARIUS. Let us from it. ARVIRAGUS. What pleasure, sir, find we in life, to lock it From action and adventure? GUIDERIUS. Nay, what hope Have we in hiding us? This way the Romans Must or for Britons slay us, or receive us For barbarous and unnatural revolts During their use, and slay us after. BELARIUS. Sons, We’ll higher to the mountains; there secure us. To the King’s party there’s no going. Newness Of Cloten’s death (we being not known, not muster’d Among the bands) may drive us to a render Where we have liv’d, and so extort from’s that Which we have done, whose answer would be death, Drawn on with torture. GUIDERIUS. This is, sir, a doubt In such a time nothing becoming you Nor satisfying us. ARVIRAGUS. It is not likely That when they hear the Roman horses neigh, Behold their quarter’d fires, have both their eyes And ears so cloy’d importantly as now, That they will waste their time upon our note, To know from whence we are. BELARIUS. O, I am known Of many in the army. Many years, Though Cloten then but young, you see, not wore him From my remembrance. And, besides, the King Hath not deserv’d my service nor your loves, Who find in my exile the want of breeding, The certainty of this hard life; aye hopeless To have the courtesy your cradle promis’d, But to be still hot summer’s tanlings and The shrinking slaves of winter. GUIDERIUS. Than be so, Better to cease to be. Pray, sir, to th’ army. I and my brother are not known; yourself So out of thought, and thereto so o’ergrown, Cannot be questioned. ARVIRAGUS. By this sun that shines, I’ll thither. What thing is’t that I never Did see man die! scarce ever look’d on blood But that of coward hares, hot goats, and venison! Never bestrid a horse, save one that had A rider like myself, who ne’er wore rowel Nor iron on his heel! I am asham’d To look upon the holy sun, to have The benefit of his blest beams, remaining So long a poor unknown. GUIDERIUS. By heavens, I’ll go! If you will bless me, sir, and give me leave, I’ll take the better care; but if you will not, The hazard therefore due fall on me by The hands of Romans! ARVIRAGUS. So say I. Amen. BELARIUS. No reason I, since of your lives you set So slight a valuation, should reserve My crack’d one to more care. Have with you, boys! If in your country wars you chance to die, That is my bed too, lads, and there I’ll lie. Lead, lead. [_Aside._] The time seems long; their blood thinks scorn Till it fly out and show them princes born. [_Exeunt._] ACT V SCENE I. Britain. The Roman camp. Enter Posthumus alone, with a bloody handkerchief. POSTHUMUS. Yea, bloody cloth, I’ll keep thee; for I wish’d Thou shouldst be colour’d thus. You married ones, If each of you should take this course, how many Must murder wives much better than themselves For wrying but a little! O Pisanio! Every good servant does not all commands; No bond but to do just ones. Gods! if you Should have ta’en vengeance on my faults, I never Had liv’d to put on this; so had you saved The noble Imogen to repent, and struck Me, wretch more worth your vengeance. But alack, You snatch some hence for little faults; that’s love, To have them fall no more. You some permit To second ills with ills, each elder worse, And make them dread it, to the doers’ thrift. But Imogen is your own. Do your best wills, And make me blest to obey. I am brought hither Among th’ Italian gentry, and to fight Against my lady’s kingdom. ’Tis enough That, Britain, I have kill’d thy mistress; peace! I’ll give no wound to thee. Therefore, good heavens, Hear patiently my purpose. I’ll disrobe me Of these Italian weeds, and suit myself As does a Britain peasant. So I’ll fight Against the part I come with; so I’ll die For thee, O Imogen, even for whom my life Is every breath a death. And thus unknown, Pitied nor hated, to the face of peril Myself I’ll dedicate. Let me make men know More valour in me than my habits show. Gods, put the strength o’ th’ Leonati in me! To shame the guise o’ th’ world, I will begin The fashion less without and more within. [_Exit._] SCENE II. Britain. A field of battle between the British and Roman camps. Enter Lucius, Iachimo and the Roman army at one door, and the British army at another, Leonatus Posthumus following like a poor soldier. They march over and go out. Alarums. Then enter again, in skirmish, Iachimo and Posthumus. He vanquisheth and disarmeth Iachimo and then leaves him. IACHIMO. The heaviness and guilt within my bosom Takes off my manhood. I have belied a lady, The Princess of this country, and the air on’t Revengingly enfeebles me; or could this carl, A very drudge of nature’s, have subdu’d me In my profession? Knighthoods and honours borne As I wear mine are titles but of scorn. If that thy gentry, Britain, go before This lout as he exceeds our lords, the odds Is that we scarce are men, and you are gods. [_Exit._] The battle continues; the Britons fly; Cymbeline is taken. Then enter to his rescue Belarius, Guiderius and Arviragus. BELARIUS. Stand, stand! We have th’ advantage of the ground; The lane is guarded; nothing routs us but The villainy of our fears. GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS. Stand, stand, and fight! Enter Posthumus and seconds the Britons; they rescue Cymbeline and exeunt. Then re-enter Lucius and Iachimo with Imogen. LUCIUS. Away, boy, from the troops, and save thyself; For friends kill friends, and the disorder’s such As war were hoodwink’d. IACHIMO. ’Tis their fresh supplies. LUCIUS. It is a day turn’d strangely. Or betimes Let’s reinforce or fly. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Another part of the field. Enter Posthumus and a Briton Lord. LORD. Cam’st thou from where they made the stand? POSTHUMUS. I did: Though you, it seems, come from the fliers. LORD. I did. POSTHUMUS. No blame be to you, sir, for all was lost, But that the heavens fought. The King himself Of his wings destitute, the army broken, And but the backs of Britons seen, all flying, Through a strait lane; the enemy, full-hearted, Lolling the tongue with slaught’ring, having work More plentiful than tools to do’t, struck down Some mortally, some slightly touch’d, some falling Merely through fear, that the strait pass was damm’d With dead men hurt behind, and cowards living To die with length’ned shame. LORD. Where was this lane? POSTHUMUS. Close by the battle, ditch’d, and wall’d with turf, Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier, An honest one, I warrant, who deserv’d So long a breeding as his white beard came to, In doing this for’s country. Athwart the lane He, with two striplings (lads more like to run The country base than to commit such slaughter; With faces fit for masks, or rather fairer Than those for preservation cas’d or shame) Made good the passage, cried to those that fled ‘Our Britain’s harts die flying, not our men. To darkness fleet souls that fly backwards! Stand; Or we are Romans and will give you that, Like beasts, which you shun beastly, and may save But to look back in frown. Stand, stand!’ These three, Three thousand confident, in act as many— For three performers are the file when all The rest do nothing—with this word ‘Stand, stand!’ Accommodated by the place, more charming With their own nobleness, which could have turn’d A distaff to a lance, gilded pale looks, Part shame, part spirit renew’d; that some turn’d coward But by example (O, a sin in war Damn’d in the first beginners) ’gan to look The way that they did and to grin like lions Upon the pikes o’ th’ hunters. Then began A stop i’ th’ chaser, a retire; anon A rout, confusion thick. Forthwith they fly, Chickens, the way which they stoop’d eagles; slaves, The strides they victors made; and now our cowards, Like fragments in hard voyages, became The life o’ th’ need. Having found the back-door open Of the unguarded hearts, heavens, how they wound! Some slain before, some dying, some their friends O’erborne i’ th’ former wave. Ten chas’d by one Are now each one the slaughterman of twenty. Those that would die or ere resist are grown The mortal bugs o’ th’ field. LORD. This was strange chance: A narrow lane, an old man, and two boys. POSTHUMUS. Nay, do not wonder at it; you are made Rather to wonder at the things you hear Than to work any. Will you rhyme upon’t, And vent it for a mock’ry? Here is one: ‘Two boys, an old man (twice a boy), a lane, Preserv’d the Britons, was the Romans’ bane.’ LORD. Nay, be not angry, sir. POSTHUMUS. ’Lack, to what end? Who dares not stand his foe I’ll be his friend; For if he’ll do as he is made to do, I know he’ll quickly fly my friendship too. You have put me into rhyme. LORD. Farewell; you’re angry. [_Exit._] POSTHUMUS. Still going? This is a lord! O noble misery, To be i’ th’ field and ask ‘What news?’ of me! Today how many would have given their honours To have sav’d their carcasses! took heel to do’t, And yet died too! I, in mine own woe charm’d, Could not find death where I did hear him groan, Nor feel him where he struck. Being an ugly monster, ’Tis strange he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds, Sweet words; or hath moe ministers than we That draw his knives i’ th’ war. Well, I will find him; For being now a favourer to the Briton, No more a Briton, I have resum’d again The part I came in. Fight I will no more, But yield me to the veriest hind that shall Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is Here made by th’ Roman; great the answer be Britons must take. For me, my ransom’s death; On either side I come to spend my breath, Which neither here I’ll keep nor bear again, But end it by some means for Imogen. Enter two British Captains and soldiers. FIRST CAPTAIN. Great Jupiter be prais’d! Lucius is taken. ’Tis thought the old man and his sons were angels. SECOND CAPTAIN. There was a fourth man, in a silly habit, That gave th’ affront with them. FIRST CAPTAIN. So ’tis reported; But none of ’em can be found. Stand! who’s there? POSTHUMUS. A Roman, Who had not now been drooping here if seconds Had answer’d him. SECOND CAPTAIN. Lay hands on him; a dog! A leg of Rome shall not return to tell What crows have peck’d them here. He brags his service, As if he were of note. Bring him to th’ King. Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanio and Roman captives. The Captains present Posthumus to Cymbeline, who delivers him over to a gaoler. [_Exeunt omnes._] SCENE IV. Britain. A prison. Enter Posthumus and two Gaolers. FIRST GAOLER. You shall not now be stol’n, you have locks upon you; So graze as you find pasture. SECOND GAOLER. Ay, or a stomach. [_Exeunt Gaolers._] POSTHUMUS. Most welcome, bondage! for thou art a way, I think, to liberty. Yet am I better Than one that’s sick o’ th’ gout, since he had rather Groan so in perpetuity than be cur’d By th’ sure physician death, who is the key T’ unbar these locks. My conscience, thou art fetter’d More than my shanks and wrists; you good gods, give me The penitent instrument to pick that bolt, Then, free for ever! Is’t enough I am sorry? So children temporal fathers do appease; Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent, I cannot do it better than in gyves, Desir’d more than constrain’d. To satisfy, If of my freedom ’tis the main part, take No stricter render of me than my all. I know you are more clement than vile men, Who of their broken debtors take a third, A sixth, a tenth, letting them thrive again On their abatement; that’s not my desire. For Imogen’s dear life take mine; and though ’Tis not so dear, yet ’tis a life; you coin’d it. ’Tween man and man they weigh not every stamp; Though light, take pieces for the figure’s sake; You rather mine, being yours. And so, great pow’rs, If you will take this audit, take this life, And cancel these cold bonds. O Imogen! I’ll speak to thee in silence. [_Sleeps._] Solemn music. Enter, as in an apparition, Sicilius Leonatus, father to Posthumus, an old man attired like a warrior; leading in his hand an ancient matron, his wife and Mother to Posthumus, with music before them. Then, after other music, follows the two young Leonati, brothers to Posthumus, with wounds, as they died in the wars. They circle Posthumus round as he lies sleeping. SICILIUS. No more, thou thunder-master, show Thy spite on mortal flies. With Mars fall out, with Juno chide, That thy adulteries Rates and revenges. Hath my poor boy done aught but well, Whose face I never saw? I died whilst in the womb he stay’d Attending nature’s law; Whose father then, as men report Thou orphans’ father art, Thou shouldst have been, and shielded him From this earth-vexing smart. MOTHER. Lucina lent not me her aid, But took me in my throes, That from me was Posthumus ripp’d, Came crying ’mongst his foes, A thing of pity. SICILIUS. Great Nature like his ancestry Moulded the stuff so fair That he deserv’d the praise o’ th’ world As great Sicilius’ heir. FIRST BROTHER. When once he was mature for man, In Britain where was he That could stand up his parallel, Or fruitful object be In eye of Imogen, that best Could deem his dignity? MOTHER. With marriage wherefore was he mock’d, To be exil’d and thrown From Leonati seat and cast From her his dearest one, Sweet Imogen? SICILIUS. Why did you suffer Iachimo, Slight thing of Italy, To taint his nobler heart and brain With needless jealousy, And to become the geck and scorn O’ th’ other’s villainy? SECOND BROTHER. For this from stiller seats we came, Our parents and us twain, That, striking in our country’s cause, Fell bravely and were slain, Our fealty and Tenantius’ right With honour to maintain. FIRST BROTHER. Like hardiment Posthumus hath To Cymbeline perform’d. Then, Jupiter, thou king of gods, Why hast thou thus adjourn’d The graces for his merits due, Being all to dolours turn’d? SICILIUS. Thy crystal window ope; look out; No longer exercise Upon a valiant race thy harsh And potent injuries. MOTHER. Since, Jupiter, our son is good, Take off his miseries. SICILIUS. Peep through thy marble mansion. Help! Or we poor ghosts will cry To th’ shining synod of the rest Against thy deity. BROTHERS. Help, Jupiter! or we appeal, And from thy justice fly. Jupiter descends in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an eagle. He throws a thunderbolt. The Ghosts fall on their knees. JUPITER. No more, you petty spirits of region low, Offend our hearing; hush! How dare you ghosts Accuse the Thunderer whose bolt, you know, Sky-planted, batters all rebelling coasts? Poor shadows of Elysium, hence and rest Upon your never-withering banks of flow’rs. Be not with mortal accidents opprest: No care of yours it is; you know ’tis ours. Whom best I love I cross; to make my gift, The more delay’d, delighted. Be content; Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift; His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent. Our Jovial star reign’d at his birth, and in Our temple was he married. Rise and fade! He shall be lord of Lady Imogen, And happier much by his affliction made. This tablet lay upon his breast, wherein Our pleasure his full fortune doth confine; And so, away; no farther with your din Express impatience, lest you stir up mine. Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline. [_Ascends._] SICILIUS. He came in thunder; his celestial breath Was sulphurous to smell; the holy eagle Stoop’d as to foot us. His ascension is More sweet than our blest fields. His royal bird Prunes the immortal wing, and cloys his beak, As when his god is pleas’d. ALL. Thanks, Jupiter! SICILIUS. The marble pavement closes, he is enter’d His radiant roof. Away! and, to be blest, Let us with care perform his great behest. [_Ghosts vanish._] POSTHUMUS. [_Waking._] Sleep, thou has been a grandsire and begot A father to me; and thou hast created A mother and two brothers. But, O scorn, Gone! They went hence so soon as they were born. And so I am awake. Poor wretches, that depend On greatness’ favour, dream as I have done; Wake and find nothing. But, alas, I swerve; Many dream not to find, neither deserve, And yet are steep’d in favours; so am I, That have this golden chance, and know not why. What fairies haunt this ground? A book? O rare one! Be not, as is our fangled world, a garment Nobler than that it covers. Let thy effects So follow to be most unlike our courtiers, As good as promise. [_Reads._] _When as a lion’s whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embrac’d by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopp’d 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._ ’Tis still a dream, or else such stuff as madmen Tongue, and brain not; either both or nothing, Or senseless speaking, or a speaking such As sense cannot untie. Be what it is, The action of my life is like it, which I’ll keep, if but for sympathy. Enter Gaoler. GAOLER. Come, sir, are you ready for death? POSTHUMUS. Over-roasted rather; ready long ago. GAOLER. Hanging is the word, sir; if you be ready for that, you are well cook’d. POSTHUMUS. So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators, the dish pays the shot. GAOLER. A heavy reckoning for you, sir. But the comfort is, you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more tavern bills, which are often the sadness of parting, as the procuring of mirth. You come in faint for want of meat, depart reeling with too much drink; sorry that you have paid too much, and sorry that you are paid too much; purse and brain both empty; the brain the heavier for being too light, the purse too light, being drawn of heaviness. O, of this contradiction you shall now be quit. O, the charity of a penny cord! It sums up thousands in a trice. You have no true debitor and creditor but it; of what’s past, is, and to come, the discharge. Your neck, sir, is pen, book, and counters; so the acquittance follows. POSTHUMUS. I am merrier to die than thou art to live. GAOLER. Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the toothache. But a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would change places with his officer; for look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go. POSTHUMUS. Yes indeed do I, fellow. GAOLER. Your death has eyes in’s head, then; I have not seen him so pictur’d. You must either be directed by some that take upon them to know, or to take upon yourself that which I am sure you do not know, or jump the after-inquiry on your own peril. And how you shall speed in your journey’s end, I think you’ll never return to tell one. POSTHUMUS. I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes to direct them the way I am going, but such as wink and will not use them. GAOLER. What an infinite mock is this, that a man should have the best use of eyes to see the way of blindness! I am sure hanging’s the way of winking. Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. Knock off his manacles; bring your prisoner to the King. POSTHUMUS. Thou bring’st good news: I am call’d to be made free. GAOLER. I’ll be hang’d then. POSTHUMUS. Thou shalt be then freer than a gaoler; no bolts for the dead. [_Exeunt Posthumus and Messenger._] GAOLER. Unless a man would marry a gallows and beget young gibbets, I never saw one so prone. Yet, on my conscience, there are verier knaves desire to live, for all he be a Roman; and there be some of them too that die against their wills; so should I, if I were one. I would we were all of one mind, and one mind good. O, there were desolation of gaolers and gallowses! I speak against my present profit, but my wish hath a preferment in’t. [_Exit._] SCENE V. Britain. Cymbeline’s tent. Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, 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 sham’d gilded arms, whose naked breast Stepp’d before targes 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 promis’d 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, [_To Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus_] 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. BELARIUS. Sir, 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’ th’ 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’ th’ 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 med’cine 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 lov’d you; only Affected greatness got by you, not you; Married your royalty, was wife to your place; Abhorr’d your person.