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. 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.

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

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. [Exeunt.

SCENE V.

Cymbeline's Tent.

Enter CYMBELINE, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVI-
RAGUS, PISANIO, Lords, Officers, and Attendants.
Cym. 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 targe9 of proof, cannot be found: He shall be happy that can find him, if

Our grace can make him so.

Bel.

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.

Cym.

No tidings of him?

Pis. He hath been search'd among the dead and

living,

But no trace of him.

Cym.

To my grief, I am
The heir of his reward; which I will add
Το you, the liver, heart, and brain of Britain,

[To BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS. By whom, I grant, she lives; 'Tis now the time To ask of whence you are:-report it.

Bel.

Sir,

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

Cym.
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.

Cor.

Hail, great king!
To sour your happiness, I must report
The queen. is dead.
Cym
Whom 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?

Cor. 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.

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,
But that her flight prevented it, she had

Ta'en off by poison.

Cym.

O most delicate fiend!

Who is't can read a woman?-Is there more?
Cor. 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, ling'ring,
By inches waste you: In which time she purpos'd,
By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to
O'ercome you with her show: yes, 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.

Cym.

Heard you all this, her women? Lady. We did so, please your highness. Cym.

Were not in fault, for she was beautiful;

Mine eyes

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!