Imatges de pÓgina

But to look back in frown: stand, stand !"--These

three2 Lord. Were there but three? Pisario, There was a fourth man, in a poor rustic

habit, That stood che front with them. These matchless

four, Accommodated by the place, gilded pale looks ; Part, shame; part, spirit renew'd ; that some, turn'd

But by example, 'gan to look

way that they did, and to grin like lions
Upon the pikes o' the hunters. Then began
A stop i' the chaser, a retire; anon,
A rout, confusion thick; and the event,
A victory for us.

2 Lord. This was strange chance.-
An old man, two boys, and a poor rustic!

Pisanio. Nay, do not wonder :--go with me, and


These wonders, sir, and join the general joy.

[Drums, Trumpets, c.-Exeunt.


Another Part of the Forest.

Enter PostHUMUS.

Post. To-day, how many would have given their

honours To have sav'd their carcasses ? took heel to do't, And yet died too ?-1, in mine own woe charm’d,

Could not find death, where I did hear him groan;
Nor feel him, where he struck.
Well, I will find him :
No more a Briton, I have resum'd again
The part I came in: Fight I will no more,
But yield me to the veriest hind, that shall
Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is
On either side. For me, my ransom's death;
On either side I come to spend my breath ;
Which neither here I'll keep, nor bear again,
But end it by some means for Imogen. [Exit.



A Retreat sounded.


Pisanio, and British SOLDIERS, discovered. Cym. Stand by my side, you, whom the gods have

Preservers of my throne. Woe is my heart,
That the poor soldier, that so richly fought,

rags sham'd gilded arms, whose naked breast
Stepp'd before targe 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.

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

But no trace of him.

Cym. To my grief, I am
The heir of his reward; which I will add
To 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 of the battle; I create you
Companions to our person, and will fit you
With dignities becoming your estates.

[Drums and Trumpets.

Enter Two Lords; Lachimo, Caius Lucius, IMO

gen, Roman Prisoners, in Chains ; and Posthu

Mus behind, guarded by British SOLDIERS. Thou com'st not, Caius, now for tribute ; that 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 with us, 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 call'd ransom, 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:
He hath done no Briton harm,
Though he hath serv'd a Roman: Save him, sir,
And spare no blood beside.

Cym. I have surely seen him;
His favour is familiar to me.
Boy, thou hast look'd thyself into my grace,
And art mine own. I know not why, nor where-

fore, 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. [Imogen looks at lachimo. Know'st him thou look'st on ? speak, Wilt have him live? Is he thy kin ? thy friend?

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

vassal, Am something nearer.

Cym. Wherefore ey'st him so?

Imog. I'll tell you, sir, in private, if you please To give me hearing.

Cym. Ay, with all my heart: Walk with me; speak freely.

(CYMBELINE and Imogen walk aside.
Bel. Is not this boy reviv'd from death?
Arv. One sand another
Not more resembles :-That sweet rosy lad,
Who died, and was Fidele:—What think you ?

Guid. The same dead thing alive.
Bel. Peace, peace! see further,

Pisanio. (Aside.] It is my mistress:
Since she is living, let the time run on,
To good, or bad.

Cymbeline and Imogen come forward.
Cym. Come, stand thou by our side;
Make thy demand aloud.--Sir, step you forth ;

Give answer to this boy, and do it freely;
Or, by our greatness,
Bitter torture shall
Winnow the truth from falsehood.-On, speak to him.

Imog. My boon is, that this gentleman may render Of whom he had this ring.

Post. [Aside.] What's that to him?

Cym. That diamond upon your finger, say, How came it yours?

Iach. Thou!t torture me to leave unspoken that Which, to be spoke, would torture thee.

Cym. How ! me?
Iach. I am glad to be constrain’d to atter that

Torments me to conceal. By villany
I got this ring; 'twas Leonatus' jewel,
Whom thou didst banish; and (which more may

grieve thee, As it doth me,) a nobler sir ne'er liv'd Twixt sky and ground. Will you hear more, my

lord ? Cym. All that belongs to this.

Iach. That paragon, thy daughter, For whom my heart drops blood, and my false spirits Quail to remember, -Give me leave; I faint. Cym. My daughter! what of her? Renew thy

strength : I had rather thou shouldst live while nature will, Than die ere I hear more,

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