Cymbeline

You do not meet a man but frowns: our bloods
No more obey the heavens than our courtiers
Still seem as does the king.

His daughter, and the heir of’s kingdom, whom
He purposed to his wife’s sole son—a widow
That late he married—hath referr’d herself
Unto a poor but worthy gentleman: she’s wedded;
Her husband banish’d; she imprison’d: all
Is outward sorrow; though I think the king
Be touch’d at very heart.

He that hath lost her too; so is the queen,
That most desired the match; but not a courtier,
Although they wear their faces to the bent
Of the king’s looks, hath a heart that is not
Glad at the thing they scowl at.

He that hath miss’d the princess is a thing
Too bad for bad report: and he that hath her—
I mean, that married her, alack, good man!
And therefore banish’d—is a creature such
As, to seek through the regions of the earth
For one his like, there would be something failing
In him that should compare. I do not think
So fair an outward and such stuff within
Endows a man but he.

I do extend him, sir, within himself,
Crush him together rather than unfold
His measure duly.

I cannot delve him to the root: his father
Was call’d Sicilius, who did join his honour
Against the Romans with Cassibelan,
But had his titles by Tenantius whom
He served with glory and admired success,
So gain’d the sur-addition Leonatus;
And had, besides this gentleman in question,
Two other sons, who in the wars o’ the time
Died with their swords in hand; for which their father,
Then old and fond of issue, took such sorrow
That he quit being, and his gentle lady,
Big of this gentleman our theme, deceased
As he was born. The king he takes the babe
To his protection, calls him Posthumus Leonatus,
Breeds him and makes him of his bedchamber,
Puts to him all the learnings that his time
Could make him the receiver of; which he took,
As we do air, fast as ’twas minister’d,
And in’s spring became a harvest, lived in court—
Which rare it is to do—most praised, most loved,
A sample to the youngest, to the more mature
A glass that feated them, and to the graver
A child that guided dotards; to his mistress,
For whom he now is banish’d, her own price
Proclaims how she esteem’d him and his virtue;
By her election may be truly read
What kind of man he is.

I honour him
Even out of your report. But, pray you, tell me
Is she sole child to the king?

His only child.
He had two sons: if this be worth your hearing,
Mark it: the eldest of them at three years old,
I’ the swathing-clothes the other, from their nursery
Were stol’n, and to this hour no guess in knowledge
Which way they went.

That a king’s children should be so convey’d,
So slackly guarded, and the search so slow,
That could not trace them!

Howsoe’er ’tis strange,
Or that the negligence may well be laugh’d at,
Yet is it true, sir.

We must forbear: here comes the gentleman,
The queen, and princess. Exeunt.

No, be assured you shall not find me, daughter,
After the slander of most stepmothers,
Evil-eyed unto you: you’re my prisoner, but
Your gaoler shall deliver you the keys
That lock up your restraint. For you, Posthumus,
So soon as I can win the offended king,
I will be known your advocate: marry, yet
The fire of rage is in him, and ’twere good
You lean’d unto his sentence with what patience
Your wisdom may inform you.

Please your highness,
I will from hence to-day.

You know the peril.
I’ll fetch a turn about the garden, pitying
The pangs of barr’d affections, though the king
Hath charged you should not speak together. Exit.

O
Dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant
Can tickle where she wounds! My dearest husband,
I something fear my father’s wrath; but nothing—
Always reserved my holy duty—what
His rage can do on me: you must be gone;
And I shall here abide the hourly shot
Of angry eyes, not comforted to live,
But that there is this jewel in the world
That I may see again.

My queen! my mistress!
O lady, weep no more, lest I give cause
To be suspected of more tenderness
Than doth become a man. I will remain
The loyal’st husband that did e’er plight troth:
My residence in Rome at one Philario’s,
Who to my father was a friend, to me
Known but by letter: thither write, my queen,
And with mine eyes I’ll drink the words you send,
Though ink be made of gall.

Be brief, I pray you:
If the king come, I shall incur I know not
How much of his displeasure. Aside. Yet I’ll move him
To walk this way: I never do him wrong,
But he does buy my injuries, to be friends;
Pays dear for my offences. Exit.

Should we be taking leave
As long a term as yet we have to live,
The loathness to depart would grow. Adieu!

Nay, stay a little:
Were you but riding forth to air yourself,
Such parting were too petty. Look here, love;
This diamond was my mother’s: take it, heart;
But keep it till you woo another wife,
When Imogen is dead.

How, how! another?
You gentle gods, give me but this I have,
And sear up my embracements from a next
With bonds of death! Putting on the ring. Remain, remain thou here
While sense can keep it on. And, sweetest, fairest,
As I my poor self did exchange for you,
To your so infinite loss, so in our trifles
I still win of you: for my sake wear this;
It is a manacle of love; I’ll place it
Upon this fairest prisoner. Putting a bracelet upon her arm.

O the gods!
When shall we see again?

Thou basest thing, avoid! hence, from my sight!
If after this command thou fraught the court
With thy unworthiness, thou diest: away!
Thou’rt poison to my blood.

The gods protect you!
And bless the good remainders of the court!
I am gone! Exit.

There cannot be a pinch in death
More sharp than this is.

O disloyal thing,
That shouldst repair my youth, thou heap’st
A year’s age on me.

I beseech you, sir,
Harm not yourself with your vexation:
I am senseless of your wrath; a touch more rare
Subdues all pangs, all fears.

O blest, that I might not! I chose an eagle,
And did avoid a puttock.

Thou took’st a beggar; wouldst have made my throne
A seat for baseness.

No; I rather added
A lustre to it.

Sir,
It is your fault that I have loved Posthumus:
You bred him as my playfellow, and he is
A man worth any woman, overbuys me
Almost the sum he pays.

Almost, sir: heaven restore me! Would I were
A neat-herd’s daughter, and my Leonatus
Our neighbour shepherd’s son!

They were again together: you have done
Not after our command. Away with her,
And pen her up.

Beseech your patience. Peace,
Dear lady daughter, peace! Sweet sovereign,
Leave us to ourselves; and make yourself some comfort
Out of your best advice.

Nay, let her languish
A drop of blood a day; and, being aged,
Die of this folly! Exeunt Cymbeline and Lords.

Ha!
No harm, I trust, is done?

There might have been,
But that my master rather play’d than fought
And had no help of anger: they were parted
By gentlemen at hand.

Your son’s my father’s friend; he takes his part.
To draw upon an exile! O brave sir!
I would they were in Afric both together;
Myself by with a needle, that I might prick
The goer-back. Why came you from your master?

On his command: he would not suffer me
To bring him to the haven; left these notes
Of what commands I should be subject to,
When’t pleased you to employ me.

This hath been
Your faithful servant: I dare lay mine honour
He will remain so.

About some half-hour hence,
I pray you, speak with me: you shall at least
Go see my lord aboard: for this time leave me. Exeunt.

I would thou grew’st unto the shores o’ the haven,
And question’dst every sail: if he should write,
And not have it, ’twere a paper lost,
As offer’d mercy is. What was the last
That he spake to thee?

Senseless Linen! happier therein than I!
And that was all?

No, madam; for so long
As he could make me with this eye or ear
Distinguish him from others, he did keep
The deck, with glove, or hat, or handkerchief,
Still waving, as the fits and stirs of’s mind
Could best express how slow his soul sail’d on,
How swift his ship.

Thou shouldst have made him
As little as a crow, or less, ere left
To after-eye him.

I would have broke mine eye-strings; crack’d them, but
To look upon him, till the diminution
Of space had pointed him sharp as my needle,
Nay, follow’d him, till he had melted from
The smallness of a gnat to air, and then
Have turn’d mine eye and wept. But, good Pisanio,
When shall we hear from him?

Be assured, madam,
With his next vantage.

I did not take my leave of him, but had
Most pretty things to say: ere I could tell him
How I would think on him at certain hours
Such thoughts and such, or I could make him swear
The shes of Italy should not betray
Mine interest and his honour, or have charged him,
At the sixth hour of morn, at noon, at midnight,
To encounter me with orisons, for then
I am in heaven for him; or ere I could
Give him that parting kiss which I had set
Betwixt two charming words, comes in my father
And like the tyrannous breathing of the north
Shakes all our buds from growing.

The queen, madam,
Desires your highness’ company.

Those things I bid you do, get them dispatch’d.
I will attend the queen.

Whiles yet the dew’s on ground, gather those flowers;
Make haste: who has the note of them?

Dispatch. Exeunt Ladies.
Now, master doctor, have you brought those drugs?

Pleaseth your highness, ay: here they are, madam: Presenting a small box.
But I beseech your grace, without offence—
My conscience bids me ask—wherefore you have
Commanded of me those most poisonous compounds,
Which are the movers of a languishing death;
But though slow, deadly?

I wonder, doctor,
Thou ask’st me such a question. Have I not been
Thy pupil long? Hast thou not learn’d me how
To make perfumes? distil? preserve? yea, so
That our great king himself doth woo me oft
For my confections? Having thus far proceeded—
Unless thou think’st me devilish—is’t not meet
That I did amplify my judgment in
Other conclusions? I will try the forces
Of these thy compounds on such creatures as
We count not worth the hanging, but none human,
To try the vigour of them and apply
Allayments to their act, and by them gather
Their several virtues and effects.

Your highness
Shall from this practise but make hard your heart:
Besides, the seeing these effects will be
Both noisome and infectious.

Aside. Here comes a flattering rascal; upon him
Will I first work: he’s for his master,
An enemy to my son. How now, Pisanio!
Doctor, your service for this time is ended;
Take your own way.

Aside. I do suspect you, madam;
But you shall do no harm.

Aside. I do not like her. She doth think she has
Strange lingering poisons: I do know her spirit,
And will not trust one of her malice with
A drug of such damn’d nature. Those she has
Will stupify and dull the sense awhile;
Which first, perchance, she’ll prove on cats and dogs,
Then afterward up higher: but there is
No danger in what show of death it makes,
More than the locking-up the spirits a time,
To be more fresh, reviving. She is fool’d
With a most false effect; and I the truer,
So to be false with her.

No further service, doctor,
Until I send for thee.

Weeps she still, say’st thou? Dost thou think in time
She will not quench and let instructions enter
Where folly now possesses? Do thou work:
When thou shalt bring me word she loves my son,
I’ll tell thee on the instant thou art then
As great as is thy master, greater, for
His fortunes all lie speechless and his name
Is at last gasp: return he cannot, nor
Continue where he is: to shift his being
Is to exchange one misery with another,
And every day that comes comes to decay
A day’s work in him. What shalt thou expect,
To be depender on a thing that leans,
Who cannot be new built, nor has no friends,
So much as but to prop him? The Queen drops the box: Pisanio takes it up. Thou takest up
Thou know’st not what; but take it for thy labour:
It is a thing I made, which hath the king
Five times redeem’d from death: I do not know
What is more cordial. Nay, I prethee, take it;
It is an earnest of a further good
That I mean to thee. Tell thy mistress how
The case stands with her; do’t as from thyself.
Think what a chance thou changest on, but think
Thou hast thy mistress still, to boot, my son,
Who shall take notice of thee: I’ll move the king
To any shape of thy preferment such
As thou’lt desire; and then myself, I chiefly,
That set thee on to this desert, am bound
To load thy merit richly. Call my women:
Think on my words. Exit Pisanio. A sly and constant knave,
Not to be shaked; the agent for his master
And the remembrancer of her to hold
The hand-fast to her lord. I have given him that
Which, if he take, shall quite unpeople her
Of liegers for her sweet, and which she after,
Except she bend her humour, shall be assured
To taste of too.

So, so: well done, well done:
The violets, cowslips, and the primroses,
Bear to my closet. Fare thee well, Pisanio;
Think on my words. Exeunt Queen and Ladies.

And shall do:
But when to my good lord I prove untrue,
I’ll choke myself: there’s all I’ll do for you. Exit.

A father cruel, and a step-dame false;
A foolish suitor to a wedded lady,
That hath her husband banish’d;—O, that husband!
My supreme crown of grief! and those repeated
Vexations of it! Had I been thief-stol’n,
As my two brothers, happy! but most miserable
Is the desire that’s glorious: blest be those,
How mean soe’er, that have their honest wills,
Which seasons comfort. Who may this be? Fie!

Madam, a noble gentleman of Rome,
Comes from my lord with letters.

Change you, madam?
The worthy Leonatus is in safety
And greets your highness dearly. Presents a letter.

Thanks, good sir:
You’re kindly welcome.

Aside. All of her that is out of door most rich!
If she be furnish’d with a mind so rare,
She is alone the Arabian bird, and I
Have lost the wager. Boldness be my friend!
Arm me, audacity, from head to foot!
Or, like the Parthian, I shall flying fight;
Rather directly fly.

Reads. “He is one of the noblest note, to whose kindnesses I am most infinitely tied. Reflect upon him accordingly, as you value your trust—

Thanks, fairest lady.
What, are men mad? Hath nature given them eyes
To see this vaulted arch, and the rich crop
Of sea and land, which can distinguish ’twixt
The fiery orbs above and the twinn’d stones
Upon the number’d beach? and can we not
Partition make with spectacles so precious
’Twixt fair and foul?

It cannot be i’ the eye, for apes and monkeys
’Twixt two such shes would chatter this way and
Contemn with mows the other; nor i’ the judgment,
For idiots in this case of favour would
Be wisely definite; nor i’ the appetite;
Sluttery to such neat excellence opposed
Should make desire vomit emptiness,
Not so allured to feed.

The cloyed will,
That satiate yet unsatisfied desire, that tub
Both fill’d and running, ravening first the lamb
Longs after for the garbage.

What, dear sir,
Thus raps you? Are you well?

Thanks, madam; well. To Pisanio. Beseech you, sir, desire
My man’s abode where I did leave him: he
Is strange and peevish.

I was going, sir,
To give him welcome. Exit.

Exceeding pleasant; none a stranger there
So merry and so gamesome: he is call’d
The Briton reveller.

When he was here,
He did incline to sadness, and oft-times
Not knowing why.

I never saw him sad.
There is a Frenchman his companion, one
An eminent monsieur, that, it seems, much loves
A Gallian girl at home; he furnaces
The thick sighs from him, whiles the jolly Briton—
Your lord, I mean—laughs from’s free lungs, cries “O,
Can my sides hold, to think that man, who knows
By history, report, or his own proof,
What woman is, yea, what she cannot choose
But must be, will his free hours languish for
Assured bondage?”

Ay, madam, with his eyes in flood with laughter:
It is a recreation to be by
And hear him mock the Frenchman. But, heavens know,
Some men are much to blame.

Not he: but yet heaven’s bounty towards him might
Be used more thankfully. In himself, ’tis much;
In you, which I account his beyond all talents,
Whilst I am bound to wonder, I am bound
To pity too.

Am I one, sir?
You look on me: what wreck discern you in me
Deserves your pity?

Lamentable! What,
To hide me from the radiant sun and solace
I’ the dungeon by a snuff?

I pray you, sir,
Deliver with more openness your answers
To my demands. Why do you pity me?

That others do—
I was about to say—enjoy your—But
It is an office of the gods to venge it,
Not mine to speak on’t.

You do seem to know
Something of me, or what concerns me: pray you—
Since doubting things go ill often hurts more
Than to be sure they do; for certainties
Either are past remedies, or, timely knowing,
The remedy then born—discover to me
What both you spur and stop.

Had I this cheek
To bathe my lips upon; this hand, whose touch,
Whose every touch, would force the feeler’s soul
To the oath of loyalty; this object, which
Takes prisoner the wild motion of mine eye,
Fixing it only here; should I, damn’d then,
Slaver with lips as common as the stairs
That mount the Capitol; join gripes with hands
Made hard with hourly falsehood—falsehood, as
With labour; then by-peeping in an eye
Base and unlustrous as the smoky light
That’s fed with stinking tallow; it were fit
That all the plagues of hell should at one time
Encounter such revolt.

My lord, I fear,
Has forgot Britain.

And himself. Not I,
Inclined to this intelligence, pronounce
The beggary of his change; but ’tis your graces
That from pay mutest conscience to my tongue
Charms this report out.

O dearest soul! your cause doth strike my heart
With pity, that doth make me sick. A lady
So fair, and fasten’d to an empery,
Would make the great’st king double—to be partner’d
With tomboys hired with that self exhibition
Which your own coffers yield! with diseased ventures
That play with all infirmities for gold
Which rottenness can lend nature! such boil’d stuff
As well might poison poison! Be revenged;
Or she that bore you was no queen, and you
Recoil from your great stock.

Revenged!
How should I be revenged? If this be true—
As I have such a heart that both mine ears
Must not in haste abuse—if it be true,
How should I be revenged?

Should he make me
Live, like Diana’s priest, betwixt cold sheets,
Whiles he is vaulting variable ramps,
In your despite, upon your purse? Revenge it.
I dedicate myself to your sweet pleasure,
More noble than that runagate to your bed,
And will continue fast to your affection,
Still close as sure.

Away! I do condemn mine ears that have
So long attended thee. If thou wert honourable,
Thou wouldst have told this tale for virtue, not
For such an end thou seek’st—as base as strange.
Thou wrong’st a gentleman, who is as far
From thy report as thou from honour, and
Solicit’st here a lady that disdains
Thee and the devil alike. What ho, Pisanio!
The king my father shall be made acquainted
Of thy assault: if he shall think it fit,
A saucy stranger in his court to mart
As in a Romish stew and to expound
His beastly mind to us, he hath a court
He little cares for and a daughter who
He not respects at all. What, ho, Pisanio!

O happy Leonatus! I may say:
The credit that thy lady hath of thee
Deserves thy trust, and thy most perfect goodness
Her assured credit. Blessed live you long!
A lady to the worthiest sir that ever
Country call’d his! and you his mistress, only
For the most worthiest fit! Give me your pardon.
I have spoke this, to know if your affiance
Were deeply rooted; and shall make your lord,
That which he is, new o’er: and he is one
The truest manner’d; such a holy witch
That he enchants societies into him;
Half all men’s hearts are his.

He sits ’mongst men like a descended god:
He hath a kind of honour sets him off,
More than a mortal seeming. Be not angry,
Most mighty princess, that I have adventured
To try your taking a false report; which hath
Honour’d with confirmation your great judgment
In the election of a sir so rare,
Which you know cannot err: the love I bear him
Made me to fan you thus, but the gods made you,
Unlike all others, chaffless. Pray, your pardon.

My humble thanks. I had almost forgot
To entreat your grace but in a small request,
And yet of moment to, for it concerns
Your lord; myself and other noble friends,
Are partners in the business.

Some dozen Romans of us and your lord—
The best feather of our wing—have mingled sums
To buy a present for the emperor;
Which I, the factor for the rest, have done
In France: ’tis plate of rare device, and jewels
Of rich and exquisite form; their values great;
And I am something curious, being strange,
To have them in safe stowage: may it please you
To take them in protection?

Willingly;
And pawn mine honour for their safety: since
My lord hath interest in them, I will keep them
In my bedchamber.

They are in a trunk,
Attended by my men: I will make bold
To send them to you, only for this night;
I must aboard to-morrow.

Yes, I beseech; or I shall short my word
By lengthening my return. From Gallia
I cross’d the seas on purpose and on promise
To see your grace.

I thank you for your pains:
But not away to-morrow!

O, I must, madam:
Therefore I shall beseech you, if you please
To greet your lord with writing, do’t to-night:
I have outstood my time; which is material
To the tender of our present.

I will write.
Send your trunk to me; it shall safe be kept,
And truly yielded you. You’re very welcome. Exeunt.