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beget young gibbets, I never saw one so prone. 5 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, ArviRAGUS, 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 targe 9 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. Сут.

No tidings of him? Pis. He hath been search'd among the dead and

:

living, But no trace of him.

8 Forward.

9 Target, shield.

Cym.

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

(T. BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS. By whom, I grant, she lives; 'Tis now the time

I
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,
Сут.

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. Суп.

Pr’ythee, say. Cor. First, she confess’d she never lov’d you; only Affected greatness got by you, not you:

a

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.
Сут.

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, lingøring, 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 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 !

Mine eyes

That it was folly in me, thou may'st say,
And prove it in thy feeling. Heaven mend all !

with us,

Enter Lucius, Iachimo, the Soothsayer, and other

Roman Prisoners, guarded; Posthumus behind, and IMOGEN. Thou com’st not, Caius, now for tribute; that The Britons have raz'd out, though with the loss Of many a bold one; whose kinsmen have made

suit, That their good souls may be appeas'd with slaughter Of you their captives, which ourself have granted; So, think of your estate.

Luc. Consider, sir, the chance of war : the day Was yours by accident; had it

gone 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 callid ransome, 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'll make bold, your

highness Cannot deny; he hath done no Briton harm, Though he have serv'd a Roman: save him, sir, And spare no blood beside.

a

| Ready, dexterous.

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Cyni.

I have surely seen him: His favour2 is familiar to me.Boy, thou hast look'd thyself into my grace, And art mine own. I know not why, nor 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. Imo.

I humbly thank your highness.
Luc. I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad,
And yet, I know, thou wilt.
Imo.

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.
Luc.

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 ?
Cym.

What would'st 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 ?

Imo. He is a Roman; no more kin to me, Than I to your highness; who, being born your

vassal, Am something nearer. Сут.

Wherefore ey'st him so ? Imo. I'll tell you, sir, in private, if you please To give me hearing. Cym.

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

2 Countenance.

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