LITMIR.BIZ

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But that two Villaines, whose false Oathes preuayl’d

       Before my perfect Honor, swore to Cymbeline,

       I was Confederate with the Romanes: so

       Followed my Banishment, and this twenty yeeres,

       This Rocke, and these Demesnes, haue bene my World,

       Where I haue liu’d at honest freedome, payed

       More pious debts to Heauen, then in all

       The fore-end of my time. But, vp to’th’ Mountaines,

       This is not Hunters Language; he that strikes

       The Venison first, shall be the Lord o’th’ Feast,

       To him the other two shall minister,

       And we will feare no poyson, which attends

       In place of greater State:

       Ile meete you in the Valleyes.

       Exeunt.

       How hard it is to hide the sparkes of Nature?

       These Boyes know little they are Sonnes to’th’ King,

       Nor Cymbeline dreames that they are aliue.

       They thinke they are mine,

       And though train’d vp thus meanely

       I’th’ Caue, whereon the Bowe their thoughts do hit,

       The Roofes of Palaces, and Nature prompts them

       In simple and lowe things, to Prince it, much

       Beyond the tricke of others. This Paladour,

       The heyre of Cymbeline and Britaine, who

       The King his Father call’d Guiderius. Ioue,

       When on my three-foot stoole I sit, and tell

       The warlike feats I haue done, his spirits flye out

       Into my Story: say thus mine Enemy fell,

       And thus I set my foote on’s necke, euen then

       The Princely blood flowes in his Cheeke, he sweats,

       Straines his yong Nerues, and puts himselfe in posture

       That acts my words. The yonger Brother Cadwall,

       Once Aruiragus, in as like a figure

       Strikes life into my speech, and shewes much more

       His owne conceyuing. Hearke, the Game is rows’d,

       Oh Cymbeline, Heauen and my Conscience knowes

       Thou didd’st vniustly banish me: whereon

       At three, and two yeeres old, I stole these Babes,

       Thinking to barre thee of Succession, as

       Thou refts me of my Lands. Euriphile,

       Thou was’t their Nurse, they took thee for their mother,

       And euery day do honor to her graue:

       My selfe Belarius, that am Mergan call’d

       They take for Naturall Father. The Game is vp.

       Enter.

      SCENE IV.

       Enter Pisanio and Imogen.

       Imo. Thou told’st me when we came fro[m] horse, y place

       Was neere at hand: Ne’re long’d my Mother so

       To see me first, as I haue now. Pisanio, Man:

       Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind

       That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that sigh

       From th’ inward of thee? One, but painted thus

       Would be interpreted a thing perplex’d

       Beyond selfe-explication. Put thy selfe

       Into a hauiour of lesse feare, ere wildnesse

       Vanquish my stayder Senses. What’s the matter?

       Why render’st thou that Paper to me, with

       A looke vntender? If’t be Summer Newes

       Smile too’t before: if Winterly, thou need’st

       But keepe that count’nance stil. My Husbands hand?

       That Drug-damn’d Italy, hath out-craftied him,

       And hee’s at some hard point. Speake man, thy Tongue

       May take off some extreamitie, which to reade

       Would be euen mortall to me

       Pis. Please you reade,

       And you shall finde me (wretched man) a thing

       The most disdain’d of Fortune

       Imogen reades. Thy Mistris (Pisanio) hath plaide the Strumpet in my Bed: the Testimonies whereof, lyes bleeding in me. I speak not out of weake Surmises, but from proofe as strong as my greefe, and as certaine as I expect my Reuenge. That part, thou (Pisanio) must acte for me, if thy Faith be not tainted with the breach of hers; let thine owne hands take away her life: I shall giue thee opportunity at Milford Hauen. She hath my Letter for the purpose; where, if thou feare to strike, and to make mee certaine it is done, thou art the Pander to her dishonour, and equally to me disloyall Pis. What shall I need to draw my Sword, the Paper

       Hath cut her throat alreadie? No, ‘tis Slander,

       Whose edge is sharper then the Sword, whose tongue

       Out-venomes all the Wormes of Nyle, whose breath

       Rides on the posting windes, and doth belye

       All corners of the World. Kings, Queenes, and States,

       Maides, Matrons, nay the Secrets of the Graue

       This viperous slander enters. What cheere, Madam?

       Imo. False to his Bed? What is it to be false?

       To lye in watch there, and to thinke on him?

       To weepe ‘twixt clock and clock? If sleep charge Nature,

       To breake it with a fearfull dreame of him,

       And cry my selfe awake? That’s false to’s bed? Is it?

       Pisa. Alas good Lady

       Imo. I false? Thy Conscience witnesse: Iachimo,

       Thou didd’st accuse him of Incontinencie,

       Thou then look’dst like a Villaine: now, me thinkes

       Thy fauours good enough. Some Iay of Italy

       (Whose mother was her painting) hath betraid him:

       Poore I am stale, a Garment out of fashion,

       And for I am richer then to hang by th’ walles,

       I must be ript: To peeces with me: Oh!

       Mens Vowes are womens Traitors. All good seeming

       By thy reuolt (oh Husband) shall be thought

       Put on for Villainy; not borne where’t growes,

       But worne a Baite for Ladies

       Pisa. Good Madam, heare me Imo. True honest men being heard, like false Aeneas,

       Were in his time thought false: and Synons weeping

       Did scandall many a holy teare: tooke pitty

       From most true wretchednesse. So thou, Posthumus

       Wilt lay the Leauen on all proper men;

       Goodly, and gallant, shall be false and periur’d

       From thy great faile: Come Fellow, be thou honest,

       Do thou thy Masters bidding. When thou seest him,

       A little witnesse my obedience. Looke

       I draw the Sword my selfe, take it, and hit

       The innocent Mansion

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