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Such noble fury in fo poor a thing:
Such precious deeds in one that promis'd nought
But begg'ry and poor 3 luck.`

that you have paid too much, and forry that you are paid too much; purfe and brain, both empty; the brain the heavier, for being too light; the purfe too light, being drawn of heavinefs. Oh, of this contradiction you fhall now be quit: oh the charity of a penny cord, it fums up thousands in a trice; you have no true debtor, and creditor, but it; of what's paft, is, and to come, the difcharge; your neck, Sir, is pen, book, and counters; fo the acquittance follows.

Poft. I am merrier to die, than thou art to live.

Goal. Indeed, Sir, he that fleeps, feels not the tooth-ache: but a man that were to fleep your fleep, 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 thall go.

Poft. Yes indeed do I, fellow.

Goal. Your death has eyes in's head then; I have not feen him fo pictur'd: you must either be directed by fome that take upon them to know; or to take upon your felf that which I am fure you do not know; or lump 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.

Poft. I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes, to direct them the way I am going, but fuch as wink, and will not use them.

Goal. What an infinite mock is this, that a man should have the best ufe of eyes, to feek the way of blindness: I am fure fuch hanging's the way of winking.

Enter a Messenger.

Mef. Knock off his manacles, bring your prifoner to the King.
Poft. Thou bring'ft good news, I am called to be made free.
Goal. I'll be hang'd then.

Poft. Thou shalt be then freer than a goaler: no bolts for the dead.
[Exeunt.

Goal. Unless a man would marry a gallows, and beget young gibbets, I never faw one fo prone. Yet on my confcience, there are verier knaves defire to live, for all he be a Roman: and there be fome of them too that die against their wills; fo fhould I, if I were one. I would we were all of one mind, and one mind good; O there were defolation of goalers, and gallowfes; I fpeak against my present profit, but my wish hath a preferment in't.

SCENE IV. &c.

3 looks...old edit. Warb. emend.

[Exit.

Cym

Cym. No tidings of him?

Pif. He hath been fearch'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

To you, the liver, heart, and brain of Britain,

[To Bellarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus.

By whom, I grant, fhe 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 modeft,
Unless I add, we're honeft.

Cym. Bow your knees,

Arife my knights o'th' battel; I create you
Companions to our perfon, and will fit you
With dignities becoming your estates.

Enter Cornelius and Ladies.
There's business in these faces: why fo fadly
Greet you our victory? you look like Romans,
And not o'th' Court of Britain.

Cor. Hail, great King!

To four your happiness, I must report
The Queen is dead.

Cym. Whom worse than a physician
Would this report become? but I confider,
By med'cine life may be prolong'd, yet death
Will feize the doctor too. How ended fhe?
Cor. With horror, madly dying, like her felf,
Who being cruel to the world, concluded
Moft cruel to her felf. What she confeft,
I will report, so please you. These her women
Can trip me, if I err; who with wet cheeks
Were present when the finish'd.

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Cym. Pr'ythee say.

Cor. First, fhe confefs'd fhe never lov'd you, only Affected greatness got by you, not you:

Married your royalty, wife to your place

VOL. VI.

O

Abhorr'd

Abhorr'd your perfon.

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 the bore in hand to love With fuch integrity, fhe did confefs

Was as a fcorpion to her fight, whofe life,
But that her flight prevented it, fhe had
Ta'en off by poifon.

Cym. O moit delicate fiend!

Who is't can read a woman? is there more?

Cor. More, Sir, and worfe. She did confefs fhe had
For you a mortal mineral, which being took
Should by the minute feed on life, and lingring
By inches wafte you. In which time fhe purpos'd
By watching, weeping, tendance, kiffing, to
O'ercome you with her fhew: yes, and in time
When fhe had fitted you with her craft, to work
Her fon into th' adoption of the crown:
But failing of her end by his ftrange abfence,
Grew fhameless, defperate; open'd in defpight
Of heav'n and men, her purposes: repented
The ills fhe hatch'd were not effected: fo
Despairing, dy'd.

Cym. Heard you all this, her women?
Lady. We did, fo please your Highness.
Cym. Yet mine eyes

4

Were not in fault, for fhe was beautiful:

Mine ears, that heard her flattery, nor. my heart,
That thought her like her feeming. It had been vicious
To have mistrusted her.. Yet oh my daughter!

That it was folly in me thou may'ft fay,
And prove it in thy feeling. Heav'n mend all!

4 Mine eyes

SCENE

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Enter Lucius, Iachimo, and other Roman Prifoners,
Pofthumus behind, and Imogen.

Thou com'ft not, Caius, now for tribute; that
The Britons have ras'd out, though with the lofs
Of many a bold one; whofe kinfmen have made fuit
That their good fouls may be appeas'd with flaughter
Of you their captives, which our self have granted.
So think of your eftate.

Luc. Confider, Sir, the chance of war; the day
Was yours by accident: had it gone with us,

We fhould not, when the blood was cool, have threatned
Our pris'ners with the fword. But fince the Gods
Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives
May be call'd ranfom, let it come. Sufficeth,
A Roman with a Roman's heart can fuffer.
Auguftus lives to think on't. And fo much
For my peculiar care. This one thing only
I will intreat; my boy, a Briton born,
Let him be ransom'd; never master had
A page fo kind, fo duteous, diligent,
So tender over his occafions, true,

So feat, fo nurfe-like; let his virtue join

With my request, which I'll make bold your Highne
Cannot deny he hath done no Briton harm,
Though he hath ferv'd a Roman. Save him, Sir,
And fpare no blood befide.

Cym. I've furely seen him;

His favour is familiar to me.

Boy, thou haft look'd thy felf into my grace,

And art mine own. I know not why, nor wherefore
To fay, Live boy: ne'er thank thy mafter, live;
And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt,
Fitting my bounty and thy ftate, I'll give it:
Yea, though thou do demand a prisoner,
The nobleft ta'en.

O 2

Imo.

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 fee a thing
Bitter to me as death; your life, good master,
Muft fhuffle for it felf.

Luc. The boy difdains me,

He leaves me, fcorns me: briefly die their joys,
That place them on the truth of girls and boys.
Why ftands he fo perplext?

Cym. What wouldst thou, boy?

I love thee more and more: think more and more, What's best to ask. Know'ft him thou look'st on? fpeak, 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 vaffal Am fomething nearer.

Cym. Wherefore eye'ft him fo?

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?
Imo. Fidele, Sir.

Cym. Thou'rt my good youth, my page,
I'll be thy mafter: walk with me, fpeak freely.

[Cymbeline and Imogen go afide. Bel. Is not this boy reviv'd from death? Arv. One fand

Another 'doth not more resemble,` 'than He the sweet rofie lad who died, and was 7'Fidele.

8

Guid. 'Ev'n the fame dead thing alive.

Bel. Peace, peace, fee more; he eyes us not, forbear, Creatures may be alike: were't he, I'm fure He would have spoke t' us.

5 not more resembles

6 that fweet rofie youth... old edit. Theob. emend.

7 Fidele. What think you?

8 The fame

Guid.

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