Сут. O rare instinct! When shall I hear all through? This fierce 7

abridgement

Hath to it circumstantial branches, which Distinction should be rich in. 8 - Where? how

liv'd you ?

And when came you to serve our Roman captive? How parted with your brothers? how first met

them?

Why fled you from the court? and whither?

These, And your three motives to the battle, with I know not how much more, should be demanded; And all the other by-dependancies,

From chance to chance; but nor the time, nor

place,

Will serve our long intergatories. See,
Posthúmus anchors upon Imogen;
And she, like harmless lightning, throws her eye
On him, her brothers, me, her master; hitting
Each object with a joy; the counterchange
Is severally in all. Let's quit this ground,
And smoke the templ with our sacrifices. -
Thou art my brother; So we'll hold thee ever.

temple

[TO BELARIUS.

Imo. You are my father too; and did relieve me,

To see this gracious season.

All o'erjoy'd,

Save these in bonds; let them be joyful too,

For they shall taste our comfort.

Imo.

I will yet do you service.
Luc.

7 Vehement, rapid.

My good master,

Happy be you!

8 i. e. Which ought to

be rendered distinct by an ample narrative.

Cym. The forlorn soldier, that so nobly fought, He would have well becom'd this place, and grac'd

The thankings of a king.

Post.

I am, sir,

The soldier that did company these three

In poor beseeming; 'twas a fitment for

The purpose I then follow'd; - That I was he,
Speak, Iachimo; I had you down, and might

Have made you finish.

Iach.

But now my heavy conscience sinks my knee,
As then your force did. Take that life, 'beseech

you,

Which I so often owe: but, your ring first;

And here the bracelet of the truest princess,

That ever swore her faith.

Post.

Kneel not to me;

The power that I have on you, is to spare you;
The malice towards you, to forgive you: Live,

And deal with others better.

Cym.

Nobly doom'd:

We'll learn our freeness of a son-in-law;

Pardon's the word to all.

Arv.

You holp us, sir,

As you did mean indeed to be our brother;
Joy'd are we, that you are.

Post. Your servant, princes. - Good my lord of

Rome,

Call forth your soothsayer: As I slept, methought,
Great Jupiter, upon his eagle back,

Appear'd to me, with other spritely shows &
Of mine own kindred: when I wak'd, I found
This label on my bosom; whose containing

8 Ghostly appearances.

Is so from sense in hardness, that I can
Make no collection of it; let him show

His skill in the construction.

Luc.

Sooth. Here, my good lord.

Philarmonus,

Read, and declare the meaning.

lion's

Luc. Sooth. [reads.] When as a whelp shall, to himself unknown, 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.

Thou, Leonatus, art the lion's whelp;
The fit and apt construction of thy name,
Being Leo-natus, doth import so much :
The piece of tender air, thy virtuous daughter,

[TO CYMBELINE.

Which we call mollis aer; and mollis aer
We term it mulier: which malier I divine,
Is this most constant wife; who, even now,
Answering the letter of the oracle,
Unknown to you, unsought, were clipp'd about
With this most tender air.

Cym.

This hath some seeming.

Sooth. The lofty cedar, royal Cymbeline, Personates thee: and thy lopp'd branches point Thy two sons forth: who, by Belarius stolen, For many years thought dead, are now reviv'd, To the majestic cedar join'd; whose issue

Promises Britain peace and plenty.

Cym.

Well,

My peace we will begin : - And, Caius Lucius,

Although the victor, we submit to Cæsar,
And to the Roman empire; promising
To pay our wonted tribute, from the which
We were dissuaded by our wicked queen;
Whom heavens, in justice, (both on her and hers,)
Have laid most heavy hand.

Sooth. The fingers of the powers above do tune
The harmony of this peace. The vision
Which I made known to Lucius, ere the stroke of
Of this yet scarce-cold battle, at this instant
Is full accomplish'd: For the Roman eagle,
From south to west on wing soaring aloft,
Lessen'd herself, and in the beams o'the sun
So vanish'd: which foreshow'd our princely eagle,
The imperial Cæsar, should again unite
His favour with the radiant Cymbeline,
Which shines here in the west.

Cym.
Laud we the gods;
And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils
From our blest altars! Publish we this peace
To all our subjects. Set we forward: Let
A Roman and a British ensign wave

Friendly together: so through Lud's town march:
And in the temple of great Jupiter
Our peace we'll ratify; seal it with feasts. -
Set on there: - Never was a war did cease,
Ere bloody hands were wash'd, with such a peace.
[Exeunt.

This play has many just sentiments, some natural dialogues, and some pleasing scenes, but they are obtained at the expence of much incongruity. To remark the folly of the fiction, the absurdity of the conduct, the confusion of the names, and manners of different times, and the impossibility of the events in any system of life, were to waste criticism upon unresisting imbecility, upon faults too evident for detection, and too gross for aggravation.

JOHNSON,

A SONG,

SUNG BY GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FIDELE, SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD.

BY MR. WILLIAM COLLINS.

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb,
Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;
But shepherd lads assemble here,
And melting virgins own their love.
No wither'd witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew:
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew.

The red-breast oft at evening hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gather'd flowers,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds and beating rain,
In tempests shake the sylvan cell;
Or midst the chace on every plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell.

Each lonely scene shall thee restore;
For thee the tear be duly shed:
Belov'd, till life could charm no more;
And mourn'd till pity's self be dead.