Follow'd my banishment; and, this twenty years, This rock, and these demesnes, have been my

world:

Where I have liv'd at honest freedom; paid
More pious debts to heaven, than in all

The fore-end of my time. - But, up to the moun

tains;

This is not hunters' language: - He, that strikes The vension first, shall be the lord o'the feast; To him the other two shall minister;

And we will fear no poison, which attends In place of greater state. I'll meet you in the val[Exeunt Gui. and Arv.

leys.

How hard it is, to hide the sparks of nature !
These boys know little, they are sons to the king;
Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive.
They think, they are mine: and though train'd up

thus meanly

I'the cave, wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit
The roofs of palaces; and nature prompts them,
In simple and low things, to prince it, much
Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore,
The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, whom
The king his father call'd Guiderius, - Jove!
When on my three-foot stool I sit, and tell
The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out
Into my story: say, - Thus mine enemy fell,
And thus I set my foot on his neck; even then
The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats,
Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in pos-

ture

That acts my words. The younger brother, Cad

wal,

(Once, Arvirágus,) in as like a figure, Strikes life into my speech, and shows much more His own conceiving. Hark! the game is rous'd!

O Cymbeline! heaven, and my conscience, knows,
Thou didst unjustly banish me: whereon,
At three, and two years old, I stole these babes;
Thinking to bar thee of succession, as
Thou reft'st me of my lands. Euriphile,

Thou wast their nurse; they took thee for their

mother,

And every day do honour to her grave:
Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call'd,

They take for natural father. The game is up.

SCENE IV.

Near Milford-Haven.

Enter PISANIO and IMOGEN.

[Exit.

Imo. Thou told'st me, when we came from horse,

the place

Was near at hand: - Ne'er long'd my mother so To see me first, as I have now: - Pisanio! Man! Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind, That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks

that sigh

From the inward of thee? One, but painted thus,
Would be interpreted a thing perplex'd
Beyond self-explication: Put thyself
Into a haviour & of less fear, ere wildness
Vanquish my staider senses. What's the matter?
Why tender'st thou that paper to me, with
A look untender? If it be summer news,.
Smile to't before: if winterly, thou need'st
But keep that countenance still. - My husband's
That drug-damn'd Italy hath out-craftied him,
And he's at some hard point.- Speak, man; thy

tongue

May take off some extremity, which to read

Would be even mortal to me.

Pis.

Please you, read;

And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing
The most disdain'd of fortune.

Imo. [reads.] Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath played the strumpet in my bed; the testimonies whereof lie bleeding in me. I speak not out of weak surmises; but from proof as strong as my grief, and as certain as I expect my revenge. That part, thou, Pisanio, must act for me, if thy faith be not tainted with the breach of hers. Let thine own hands take away her life: I shall give thee opportunities at Milford-Haven: she hath my letter for the purpose: Where, if thou fear to strike, and to make me certain it is done, thou art the pander to her dishonour, and equally to me disloyal.

Pis. What shall I need to draw my sword? the paper Hath cut her throat already. - No, 'tis slander; Whose edge is sharper than the sword; whose

tongue

Outvenoms all the worms of Nile; whose breath
Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie
All corners of the world: kings, queens, and states,
Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave
This viperous slander enters. - What cheer, ma-

dam?

Imo. False to his bed! What is it, to be false ? To lie in watch there, and to think on him? To weep 'twixt clock and clock? if sleep charge

nature,

To break it with a fearful dream of him,

And cry myself awake? that's false to his bed?
Is it ?

Pis. Alas, good lady!

Imo. I false ? Thy conscience witness:

Iachimo,

Thou didst accuse him of incontinency;
Thou then look'dst like a villain; now, methinks,
Thy favour's good enough. - Some jay 9 of Italy,
Whose mother was her painting, hath betray'd

him:

Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion;
And, for I am richer than to hang by the walls,
I must be ripp'd: - to pieces with me! - O,
Men's vows are women's traitors! All good seem-

ing,

By thy revolt, O husband, shall be thought
Put on for villainy; not born, where't grows;
But worn, a bait for ladies.

Pis.

Good madam, hear me. Imo. True honest men being heard, like false

Æneas,

Were, in his time, thought false: and Sinon's

weeping

Did scandal many a holy tear; took pity

From most true wretchedness: So, thou, Post

húmus,

Wilt lay the leaven on all proper men:
Goodly, and gallant, shall be false, and perjur'd,

From thy great fail. - Come, fellow, be thou

honest:

Do thou thy master's bidding: when thou see'st him, A little witness my obedience: Look!

I draw the sword myself: take it; and hit

9 Putta, in Italian signifies both a jay and a whore.

The innocent mansion of my love, my heart:
Fear not: 'tis empty of all things, but grief:
Thy master is not there; who was, indeed,
The riches of it: Do his bidding; strike.
Thou may'st be valiant in a better cause;

But now thou seem'st a coward.

Pis.

Hence, vile instrument!

Thou shalt not damn my hand.
Imo.

Why, I must die;

And if I do not by thy hand, thou art

No servant of thy master's: Against self-slaughter There is a prohibition so divine,

That cravens my weak hand. Come, here's my

heart;

Something's afore't: - Soft, soft; we'll no defence;
Obedient as the scabbard. - What is here?
The scriptures 3 of the loyal Leonatus,
All turn'd to heresy? Away, away,

Corrupters of my faith! you shall no more
Be stomachers to my heart! Thus may poor fools
Believe false teachers: Though those that are be-

tray'd

Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor
Stands in worse case of woe.

And thou, Posthumus, thou that didst set up
My disobedience 'gainst the king my father,
And make me put into contempt the suits
Of princely fellows, shalt hereafter find
It is no act of common passage, but
A strain of rareness: and I grieve myself,
To think, when thou shalt be disedg'd by her
That now thou tir'st 4 on, how thy memory
Will then be pang'd by me. - Pr'ythee, despatch :