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Moth. Lucina lent not me her aid,

But took me in my throes;
That from me was Posthumus ript,
Came crying 'mongst his foes,

A thing of pity!
Sici. Great nature, like his ancestry,

Moulded the stuff so fair,
That he deserv'd the praise o'the world,

As great Sicilius' heir.
i Bro. 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?
Moth. With marriage wherefore was he mock’d,

To be exild and thrown
From Leonati' seat, and cast
From her his dearest one,

Sweet Imogen ?
Sici. Why did you suffer Iachimo,

Slight thing of Italy,
To taint his nobler heart and brain

With needless jealousy:
And to become the gecko and scorn

O’the other's villainy?
2 Bro. 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.
1 Bro. Like hardiment Posthumus hath

Ta Cymbeline perform'd:

6 The fool.


Then Jupiter, thou king of gods,

Why hast thou thus adjourn'd
The graces for his merits due;

Being all to dolours turn'd ?
Sici. Thy crystal window ope; look out;

No longer exercise,
Upon a valiant race, thy harsh

And potent injuries:
Moth. Since, Jupiter, our son is good,

Take off his miseries.
Sici. Peep through thy marble mansion; help!

Or we poor ghosts will cry
To the shining synod of the rest,

Against thy deity.
2 Bro. Help, Jupiter; or we appeal,

And from thy justice fly.
JUPITER descends in Thunder and Lightning, sitting

upon an Eagle: he throws a Thunder-bolt. The

Ghosts fall on their knees.
Jup. 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 flowers: 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 god-head 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 further with your din

Express impatience, lest you stir up mine.- Mount, eagle, to my palace crystaline. (Ascends. Sici. 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 bless'd fields his royal bird Prunes the immortal wing, and cloys his beak, As when his god is pleas’d. All.

Thanks, Jupiter ! Sici. 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. Post. [waking.) Sleep, thou hast been a grand

sire, 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

known, 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. '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.

Re-enter Gaolers.

Gaol. Come, sir, are you ready for death?
Post. Over-roasted rather: ready long ago.

Gaol. Hanging is the word, sir; if you be ready for that, you are well cooked.

Post. So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators, the dish pays the shot.

Gaol. 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. -0 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,


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is pen, book, and counters; so the acquittance follows.

Post. I am merrier to die, than thou art to live.

Gaol. Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the tooth-ach: 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.

Post. Yes, indeed, do I, fellow.

Gaol. Your death has eyes in's head then; I have not seen him so pictured: you must either be directed by some that take upon them to know; or take upon yourself that, which I am sure you do not know; or jump 7 the after-enquiry on your own peril: and how you shall speed in your journey's end, I think you'll never return to tell one.

Post. 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.

Gaol. 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, Mess. Knock off his manacles ; bring your prisoner to the king.

Post. Thou bringest good news ; - I am called to be made free.

Gaol. I'll be hanged then.

Post. Thou shalt be then freer than a gaoler ; no bolts for the dead.

[Exeunt Posthumus and Messenger. Gaol. Unless a man would marry a gallows, and

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