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twg_000000016500 | music before them. Then, after other music, follows the two young Leonati, brothers to Posthumus, with wounds, as they died in the wars. They circle Posthumus round as he lies sleeping. SICILIUS. No more, thou thunder-master, show Thy spite on mortal flies. With Mars fall out, with Juno chide, That thy adulteries Rates and revenges. Hath my poor boy done | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016501 | aught but well, Whose face I never saw? I died whilst in the womb he stayd Attending natures law; Whose father then, as men report Thou orphans father art, Thou shouldst have been, and shielded him From this earth-vexing smart. MOTHER. Lucina lent not me her aid, But took me in my throes, That from me was Posthumus rippd, Came | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016502 | crying mongst his foes, A thing of pity. SICILIUS. Great Nature like his ancestry Moulded the stuff so fair That he deservd the praise o th world As great Sicilius heir. FIRST BROTHER. When once he was mature for man, In Britain where was he That could stand up his parallel, Or fruitful object be In eye of Imogen, that | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016503 | best Could deem his dignity? MOTHER. With marriage wherefore was he mockd, To be exild and thrown From Leonati seat and cast From her his dearest one, Sweet Imogen? SICILIUS. Why did you suffer Iachimo, Slight thing of Italy, To taint his nobler heart and brain With needless jealousy, And to become the geck and scorn O th others villainy? | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016504 | SECOND BROTHER. For this from stiller seats we came, Our parents and us twain, That, striking in our countrys cause, Fell bravely and were slain, Our fealty and Tenantius right With honour to maintain. FIRST BROTHER. Like hardiment Posthumus hath To Cymbeline performd. Then, Jupiter, thou king of gods, Why hast thou thus adjournd The graces for his merits due, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016505 | Being all to dolours turnd? SICILIUS. Thy crystal window ope; look out; No longer exercise Upon a valiant race thy harsh And potent injuries. MOTHER. Since, Jupiter, our son is good, Take off his miseries. SICILIUS. Peep through thy marble mansion. Help! Or we poor ghosts will cry To th shining synod of the rest Against thy deity. BROTHERS. Help, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016506 | Jupiter! or we appeal, And from thy justice fly. Jupiter descends in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an eagle. He throws a thunderbolt. The Ghosts fall on their knees. JUPITER. No more, you petty spirits of region low, Offend our hearing; hush! How dare you ghosts Accuse the Thunderer whose bolt, you know, Sky-planted, batters all rebelling coasts? Poor shadows | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016507 | of Elysium, hence and rest Upon your never-withering banks of flowrs. Be not with mortal accidents opprest: No care of yours it is; you know tis ours. Whom best I love I cross; to make my gift, The more delayd, delighted. Be content; Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift; His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent. Our Jovial | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016508 | star reignd at his birth, and in Our temple was he married. Rise and fade! He shall be lord of Lady Imogen, And happier much by his affliction made. This tablet lay upon his breast, wherein Our pleasure his full fortune doth confine; And so, away; no farther with your din Express impatience, lest you stir up mine. Mount, eagle, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016509 | to my palace crystalline. [_Ascends._] SICILIUS. He came in thunder; his celestial breath Was sulphurous to smell; the holy eagle Stoopd as to foot us. His ascension is More sweet than our blest fields. His royal bird Prunes the immortal wing, and cloys his beak, As when his god is pleasd. ALL. Thanks, Jupiter! SICILIUS. The marble pavement closes, he | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016510 | is enterd His radiant roof. Away! and, to be blest, Let us with care perform his great behest. [_Ghosts vanish._] POSTHUMUS. [_Waking._] Sleep, thou has been a grandsire and begot A father to me; and thou hast created A mother and two brothers. But, O scorn, Gone! They went hence so soon as they were born. And so I am | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016511 | awake. Poor wretches, that depend On greatness favour, dream as I have done; Wake and find nothing. But, alas, I swerve; Many dream not to find, neither deserve, And yet are steepd in favours; so am I, That have this golden chance, and know not why. What fairies haunt this ground? A book? O rare one! Be not, as is | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016512 | our fangled world, a garment Nobler than that it covers. Let thy effects So follow to be most unlike our courtiers, As good as promise. [_Reads._] _When as a lions whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embracd by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be loppd branches which, being dead | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016513 | 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._ Tis still a dream, or else such stuff as madmen Tongue, and brain not; either both or nothing, Or senseless speaking, or a speaking such As sense cannot untie. Be what | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016514 | it is, The action of my life is like it, which Ill keep, if but for sympathy. Enter Gaoler. GAOLER. Come, sir, are you ready for death? POSTHUMUS. Over-roasted rather; ready long ago. GAOLER. Hanging is the word, sir; if you be ready for that, you are well cookd. POSTHUMUS. So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016515 | the dish pays the shot. GAOLER. A heavy reckoning for you, sir. But the comfort is, you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more tavern bills, which are often the sadness of parting, as the procuring of mirth. You come in faint for want of meat, depart reeling with too much drink; sorry that you have paid | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016516 | too much, and sorry that you are paid too much; purse and brain both empty; the brain the heavier for being too light, the purse too light, being drawn of heaviness. O, of this contradiction you shall now be quit. O, the charity of a penny cord! It sums up thousands in a trice. You have no true debitor and | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016517 | creditor but it; of whats past, is, and to come, the discharge. Your neck, sir, is pen, book, and counters; so the acquittance follows. POSTHUMUS. I am merrier to die than thou art to live. GAOLER. Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the toothache. But a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016518 | to bed, I think he would change places with his officer; for look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go. POSTHUMUS. Yes indeed do I, fellow. GAOLER. Your death has eyes ins head, then; I have not seen him so picturd. You must either be directed by some that take upon them to know, or to take | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016519 | upon yourself that which I am sure you do not know, or jump the after-inquiry on your own peril. And how you shall speed in your journeys end, I think youll never return to tell one. POSTHUMUS. I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes to direct them the way I am going, but such as wink and will | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016520 | not use them. GAOLER. What an infinite mock is this, that a man should have the best use of eyes to see the way of blindness! I am sure hangings the way of winking. Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. Knock off his manacles; bring your prisoner to the King. POSTHUMUS. Thou bringst good news: I am calld to be made free. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016521 | GAOLER. Ill be hangd then. POSTHUMUS. Thou shalt be then freer than a gaoler; no bolts for the dead. [_Exeunt Posthumus and Messenger._] GAOLER. Unless a man would marry a gallows and beget young gibbets, I never saw one so prone. Yet, on my conscience, there are verier knaves desire to live, for all he be a Roman; and there | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016522 | be some of them too that die against their wills; so should I, if I were one. I would we were all of one mind, and one mind good. O, there were desolation of gaolers and gallowses! I speak against my present profit, but my wish hath a preferment int. [_Exit._] SCENE V. Britain. Cymbelines tent. Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016523 | Arviragus, Pisanio, Lords, Officers and Attendants. CYMBELINE. Stand by my side, you whom the gods have made Preservers of my throne. Woe is my heart That the poor soldier that so richly fought, Whose rags shamd gilded arms, whose naked breast Steppd before targes of proof, cannot be found. He shall be happy that can find him, if Our grace | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016524 | can make him so. BELARIUS. I never saw Such noble fury in so poor a thing; Such precious deeds in one that promisd nought But beggary and poor looks. CYMBELINE. No tidings of him? PISANIO. He hath been searchd among the dead and living, But no trace of him. CYMBELINE. To my grief, I am The heir of his reward, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016525 | [_To Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus_] which I will add To you, the liver, heart, and brain of Britain, By whom I grant she lives. Tis now the time To ask of whence you are. Report it. BELARIUS. Sir, In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen; Further to boast were neither true nor modest, Unless I add we are honest. CYMBELINE. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016526 | Bow your knees. Arise my knights o th battle; I create you Companions to our person, and will fit you With dignities becoming your estates. Enter Cornelius and Ladies. Theres business in these faces. Why so sadly Greet you our victory? You look like Romans, And not o th court of Britain. CORNELIUS. Hail, great King! To sour your happiness | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016527 | I must report The Queen is dead. CYMBELINE. Who worse than a physician Would this report become? But I consider By medcine life may be prolongd, yet death Will seize the doctor too. How ended she? CORNELIUS. With horror, madly dying, like her life; Which, being cruel to the world, concluded Most cruel to herself. What she confessd I will | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016528 | report, so please you; these her women Can trip me if I err, who with wet cheeks Were present when she finishd. CYMBELINE. Prithee say. CORNELIUS. First, she confessd she never lovd you; only Affected greatness got by you, not you; Married your royalty, was wife to your place; Abhorrd your person. CYMBELINE. She alone knew this; And but she | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016529 | spoke it dying, I would not Believe her lips in opening it. Proceed. CORNELIUS. Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to love With such integrity, she did confess Was as a scorpion to her sight; whose life, But that her flight prevented it, she had Taen off by poison. CYMBELINE. O most delicate fiend! Who ist can read a | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016530 | woman? Is there more? CORNELIUS. More, sir, and worse. She did confess she had For you a mortal mineral, which, being took, Should by the minute feed on life, and lingring, By inches waste you. In which time she purposd, By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to Oercome you with her show; and in time, When she had fitted you with | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016531 | her craft, to work Her son into th adoption of the crown; But failing of her end by his strange absence, Grew shameless-desperate, opend, in despite Of heaven and men, her purposes, repented The evils she hatchd were not effected; so, Despairing, died. CYMBELINE. Heard you all this, her women? LADIES. We did, so please your Highness. CYMBELINE. Mine eyes | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016532 | Were not in fault, for she was beautiful; Mine ears, that heard her flattery; nor my heart That thought her like her seeming. It had been vicious To have mistrusted her; yet, O my daughter! That it was folly in me thou mayst say, And prove it in thy feeling. Heaven mend all! Enter Lucius, Iachimo, the Soothsayer and other | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016533 | Roman prisoners, guarded; Posthumus behind, and Imogen. Thou comst not, Caius, now for tribute; that The Britons have razd out, though with the loss Of many a bold one, whose kinsmen have made suit That their good souls may be appeasd with slaughter Of you their captives, which ourself have granted; So think of your estate. LUCIUS. Consider, sir, the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016534 | chance of war. The day Was yours by accident; had it gone with us, We should not, when the blood was cool, have threatend Our prisoners with the sword. But since the gods Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives May be calld ransom, let it come. Sufficeth A Roman with a Romans heart can suffer. Augustus lives | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016535 | to think ont; and so much For my peculiar care. This one thing only I will entreat: my boy, a Briton born, Let him be ransomd. Never master had A page so kind, so duteous, diligent, So tender over his occasions, true, So feat, so nurse-like; let his virtue join With my request, which Ill make bold your Highness Cannot | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016536 | deny; he hath done no Briton harm Though he have servd a Roman. Save him, sir, And spare no blood beside. CYMBELINE. I have surely seen him; His favour is familiar to me. Boy, Thou hast lookd thyself into my grace, And art mine own. I know not why, wherefore To say Live, boy. Neer thank thy master. Live; And | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016537 | ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt, Fitting my bounty and thy state, Ill give it; Yea, though thou do demand a prisoner, The noblest taen. IMOGEN. I humbly thank your Highness. LUCIUS. I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad, And yet I know thou wilt. IMOGEN. No, no! Alack, Theres other work in hand. I see | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016538 | a thing Bitter to me as death; your life, good master, Must shuffle for itself. LUCIUS. The boy disdains me, He leaves me, scorns me. Briefly die their joys That place them on the truth of girls and boys. Why stands he so perplexd? CYMBELINE. What wouldst thou, boy? I love thee more and more; think more and more Whats | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016539 | best to ask. Knowst him thou lookst on? Speak, Wilt have him live? Is he thy kin? thy friend? IMOGEN. He is a Roman, no more kin to me Than I to your Highness; who, being born your vassal, Am something nearer. CYMBELINE. Wherefore eyst him so? IMOGEN. Ill tell you, sir, in private, if you please To give me | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016540 | hearing. CYMBELINE. Ay, with all my heart, And lend my best attention. Whats thy name? IMOGEN. Fidele, sir. CYMBELINE. Thourt my good youth, my page; Ill be thy master. Walk with me; speak freely. [_Cymbeline and Imogen converse apart._] BELARIUS. Is not this boy revivd from death? ARVIRAGUS. One sand another Not more resembles that sweet rosy lad Who died | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016541 | and was Fidele. What think you? GUIDERIUS. The same dead thing alive. BELARIUS. Peace, peace! see further. He eyes us not; forbear. Creatures may be alike; weret he, I am sure He would have spoke to us. GUIDERIUS. But we see him dead. BELARIUS. Be silent; lets see further. PISANIO. [_Aside._] It is my mistress. Since she is living, let | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016542 | the time run on To good or bad. [_Cymbeline and Imogen advance._] CYMBELINE. Come, stand thou by our side; Make thy demand aloud. [_To Iachimo._] Sir, step you forth; Give answer to this boy, and do it freely, Or, by our greatness and the grace of it, Which is our honour, bitter torture shall Winnow the truth from falsehood. On, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016543 | speak to him. IMOGEN. My boon is that this gentleman may render Of whom he had this ring. POSTHUMUS. [_Aside._] Whats that to him? CYMBELINE. That diamond upon your finger, say How came it yours? IACHIMO. Thoult torture me to leave unspoken that Which to be spoke would torture thee. CYMBELINE. How? me? IACHIMO. I am glad to be constraind | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016544 | to utter that Which torments me to conceal. By villainy I got this ring; twas Leonatus jewel, Whom thou didst banish; andwhich more may grieve thee, As it doth mea nobler sir neer livd Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou hear more, my lord? CYMBELINE. All that belongs to this. IACHIMO. That paragon, thy daughter, For whom my heart drops | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016545 | blood and my false spirits Quail to rememberGive me leave, I faint. CYMBELINE. My daughter? What of her? Renew thy strength; I had rather thou shouldst live while nature will Than die ere I hear more. Strive, man, and speak. IACHIMO. Upon a time, unhappy was the clock That struck the hour: was in Rome, accursd The mansion where: twas | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016546 | at a feast, O, would Our viands had been poisond (or at least Those which I heavd to head) the good Posthumus (What should I say? he was too good to be Where ill men were, and was the best of all Amongst the rarst of good ones) sitting sadly Hearing us praise our loves of Italy For beauty that | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016547 | made barren the swelld boast Of him that best could speak; for feature, laming The shrine of Venus or straight-pight Minerva, Postures beyond brief nature; for condition, A shop of all the qualities that man Loves woman for; besides that hook of wiving, Fairness which strikes the eye. CYMBELINE. I stand on fire. Come to the matter. IACHIMO. All too | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016548 | soon I shall, Unless thou wouldst grieve quickly. This Posthumus, Most like a noble lord in love and one That had a royal lover, took his hint; And (not dispraising whom we praisd, therein He was as calm as virtue) he began His mistress picture; which by his tongue being made, And then a mind put int, either our brags | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016549 | Were crackd of kitchen trulls, or his description Provd us unspeaking sots. CYMBELINE. Nay, nay, to th purpose. IACHIMO. Your daughters chastity (there it begins) He spake of her as Dian had hot dreams And she alone were cold; whereat I, wretch, Made scruple of his praise, and wagerd with him Pieces of gold gainst this which then he wore | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016550 | Upon his honourd finger, to attain In suit the place ofs bed, and win this ring By hers and mine adultery. He, true knight, No lesser of her honour confident Than I did truly find her, stakes this ring; And would so, had it been a carbuncle Of Phoebus wheel; and might so safely, had it Been all the worth | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016551 | ofs car. Away to Britain Post I in this design. Well may you, sir, Remember me at court, where I was taught Of your chaste daughter the wide difference Twixt amorous and villainous. Being thus quenchd Of hope, not longing, mine Italian brain Gan in your duller Britain operate Most vilely; for my vantage, excellent; And, to be brief, my | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016552 | practice so prevaild That I returnd with simular proof enough To make the noble Leonatus mad, By wounding his belief in her renown With tokens thus and thus; averring notes Of chamber-hanging, pictures, this her bracelet (O cunning, how I got it!) nay, some marks Of secret on her person, that he could not But think her bond of chastity | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016553 | quite crackd, I having taen the forfeit. Whereupon Methinks I see him now POSTHUMUS. [_Coming forward._] Ay, so thou dost, Italian fiend! Ay me, most credulous fool, Egregious murderer, thief, anything Thats due to all the villains past, in being, To come! O, give me cord, or knife, or poison, Some upright justicer! Thou, King, send out For torturers ingenious. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016554 | It is I That all th abhorred things o th earth amend By being worse than they. I am Posthumus, That killd thy daughter; villain-like, I lie; That causd a lesser villain than myself, A sacrilegious thief, to dot. The temple Of virtue was she; yea, and she herself. Spit, and throw stones, cast mire upon me, set The dogs | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016555 | o th street to bay me. Every villain Be calld Posthumus Leonatus, and Be villainy less than twas! O Imogen! My queen, my life, my wife! O Imogen, Imogen, Imogen! IMOGEN. Peace, my lord. Hear, hear! POSTHUMUS. Shalls have a play of this? Thou scornful page, There lies thy part. [_Strikes her. She falls._] PISANIO. O gentlemen, help! Mine and | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016556 | your mistress! O, my lord Posthumus! You neer killd Imogen till now. Help, help! Mine honourd lady! CYMBELINE. Does the world go round? POSTHUMUS. How comes these staggers on me? PISANIO. Wake, my mistress! CYMBELINE. If this be so, the gods do mean to strike me To death with mortal joy. PISANIO. How fares my mistress? IMOGEN. O, get thee | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016557 | from my sight; Thou gavst me poison. Dangerous fellow, hence! Breathe not where princes are. CYMBELINE. The tune of Imogen! PISANIO. Lady, The gods throw stones of sulphur on me, if That box I gave you was not thought by me A precious thing! I had it from the Queen. CYMBELINE. New matter still? IMOGEN. It poisond me. CORNELIUS. O | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016558 | gods! I left out one thing which the Queen confessd, Which must approve thee honest. If Pisanio Have said she given his mistress that confection Which I gave him for cordial, she is servd As I would serve a rat. CYMBELINE. Whats this, Cornelius? CORNELIUS. The Queen, sir, very oft importund me To temper poisons for her; still pretending The | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016559 | satisfaction of her knowledge only In killing creatures vile, as cats and dogs, Of no esteem. I, dreading that her purpose Was of more danger, did compound for her A certain stuff, which, being taen would cease The present powr of life, but in short time All offices of nature should again Do their due functions. Have you taen of | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016560 | it? IMOGEN. Most like I did, for I was dead. BELARIUS. My boys, There was our error. GUIDERIUS. This is sure Fidele. IMOGEN. Why did you throw your wedded lady from you? Think that you are upon a rock, and now Throw me again. [_Embracing him._] POSTHUMUS. Hang there like fruit, my soul, Till the tree die! CYMBELINE. How now, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016561 | my flesh? my child? What, makst thou me a dullard in this act? Wilt thou not speak to me? IMOGEN. [_Kneeling._] Your blessing, sir. BELARIUS. [_To Guiderius and Arviragus._] Though you did love this youth, I blame ye not; You had a motive fort. CYMBELINE. My tears that fall Prove holy water on thee! Imogen, Thy mothers dead. IMOGEN. I | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016562 | am sorry fort, my lord. CYMBELINE. O, she was naught, and long of her it was That we meet here so strangely; but her son Is gone, we know not how nor where. PISANIO. My lord, Now fear is from me, Ill speak troth. Lord Cloten, Upon my ladys missing, came to me With his sword drawn, foamd at the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016563 | mouth, and swore, If I discoverd not which way she was gone, It was my instant death. By accident I had a feigned letter of my masters Then in my pocket, which directed him To seek her on the mountains near to Milford; Where, in a frenzy, in my masters garments, Which he enforcd from me, away he posts With | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016564 | unchaste purpose, and with oath to violate My ladys honour. What became of him I further know not. GUIDERIUS. Let me end the story: I slew him there. CYMBELINE. Marry, the gods forfend! I would not thy good deeds should from my lips Pluck a hard sentence. Prithee, valiant youth, Denyt again. GUIDERIUS. I have spoke it, and I did | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016565 | it. CYMBELINE. He was a prince. GUIDERIUS. A most incivil one. The wrongs he did me Were nothing prince-like; for he did provoke me With language that would make me spurn the sea, If it could so roar to me. I cut offs head, And am right glad he is not standing here To tell this tale of mine. CYMBELINE. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016566 | I am sorry for thee. By thine own tongue thou art condemnd, and must Endure our law. Thourt dead. IMOGEN. That headless man I thought had been my lord. CYMBELINE. Bind the offender, And take him from our presence. BELARIUS. Stay, sir King. This man is better than the man he slew, As well descended as thyself, and hath More | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016567 | of thee merited than a band of Clotens Had ever scar for. [_To the guard._] Let his arms alone; They were not born for bondage. CYMBELINE. Why, old soldier, Wilt thou undo the worth thou art unpaid for By tasting of our wrath? How of descent As good as we? ARVIRAGUS. In that he spake too far. CYMBELINE. And thou | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016568 | shalt die fort. BELARIUS. We will die all three; But I will prove that two ons are as good As I have given out him. My sons, I must For mine own part unfold a dangerous speech, Though haply well for you. ARVIRAGUS. Your dangers ours. GUIDERIUS. And our good his. BELARIUS. Have at it then by leave! Thou hadst, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016569 | great King, a subject who Was calld Belarius. CYMBELINE. What of him? He is A banishd traitor. BELARIUS. He it is that hath Assumd this age; indeed a banishd man; I know not how a traitor. CYMBELINE. Take him hence, The whole world shall not save him. BELARIUS. Not too hot. First pay me for the nursing of thy sons, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016570 | And let it be confiscate all, so soon As I have receivd it. CYMBELINE. Nursing of my sons? BELARIUS. I am too blunt and saucy: heres my knee. Ere I arise I will prefer my sons; Then spare not the old father. Mighty sir, These two young gentlemen that call me father, And think they are my sons, are none | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016571 | of mine; They are the issue of your loins, my liege, And blood of your begetting. CYMBELINE. How? my issue? BELARIUS. So sure as you your fathers. I, old Morgan, Am that Belarius whom you sometime banishd. Your pleasure was my mere offence, my punishment Itself, and all my treason; that I sufferd Was all the harm I did. These | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016572 | gentle princes (For such and so they are) these twenty years Have I traind up; those arts they have as I Could put into them. My breeding was, sir, as Your Highness knows. Their nurse, Euriphile, Whom for the theft I wedded, stole these children Upon my banishment; I movd her tot, Having receivd the punishment before For that which | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016573 | I did then. Beaten for loyalty Excited me to treason. Their dear loss, The more of you twas felt, the more it shapd Unto my end of stealing them. But, gracious sir, Here are your sons again, and I must lose Two of the sweetst companions in the world. The benediction of these covering heavens Fall on their heads like | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016574 | dew! for they are worthy To inlay heaven with stars. CYMBELINE. Thou weepst and speakst. The service that you three have done is more Unlike than this thou tellst. I lost my children. If these be they, I know not how to wish A pair of worthier sons. BELARIUS. Be pleasd awhile. This gentleman, whom I call Polydore, Most worthy | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016575 | prince, as yours, is true Guiderius; This gentleman, my Cadwal, Arviragus, Your younger princely son; he, sir, was lappd In a most curious mantle, wrought by th hand Of his queen mother, which for more probation I can with ease produce. CYMBELINE. Guiderius had Upon his neck a mole, a sanguine star; It was a mark of wonder. BELARIUS. This | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016576 | is he, Who hath upon him still that natural stamp. It was wise natures end in the donation, To be his evidence now. CYMBELINE. O, what am I? A mother to the birth of three? Neer mother Rejoicd deliverance more. Blest pray you be, That, after this strange starting from your orbs, You may reign in them now! O Imogen, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016577 | Thou hast lost by this a kingdom. IMOGEN. No, my lord; I have got two worlds byt. O my gentle brothers, Have we thus met? O, never say hereafter But I am truest speaker! You calld me brother, When I was but your sister: I you brothers, When we were so indeed. CYMBELINE. Did you eer meet? ARVIRAGUS. Ay, my | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016578 | good lord. GUIDERIUS. And at first meeting lovd, Continud so until we thought he died. CORNELIUS. By the Queens dram she swallowd. CYMBELINE. O rare instinct! When shall I hear all through? This fierce abridgement Hath to it circumstantial branches, which Distinction should be rich in. Where? how livd you? And when came you to serve our Roman captive? How | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016579 | 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-dependances, From chance to chance; but nor the time nor place Will serve our long interrogatories. See, Posthumus anchors upon Imogen; And | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016580 | 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. Lets quit this ground, And smoke the temple with our sacrifices. [_To Belarius._] Thou art my brother; so well hold thee ever. IMOGEN. You are my father too, and did relieve me To see | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016581 | this gracious season. CYMBELINE. All oerjoyd Save these in bonds. Let them be joyful too, For they shall taste our comfort. IMOGEN. My good master, I will yet do you service. LUCIUS. Happy be you! CYMBELINE. The forlorn soldier, that so nobly fought, He would have well becomd this place and gracd The thankings of a king. POSTHUMUS. I am, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016582 | sir, The soldier that did company these three In poor beseeming; twas a fitment for The purpose I then followd. That I was he, Speak, Iachimo. I had you down, and might Have made you finish. IACHIMO. [_Kneeling._] I am down again; But now my heavy conscience sinks my knee, As then your force did. Take that life, beseech you, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016583 | Which I so often owe; but your ring first, And here the bracelet of the truest princess That ever swore her faith. POSTHUMUS. Kneel not to me. The powr that I have on you is to spare you; The malice towards you to forgive you. Live, And deal with others better. CYMBELINE. Nobly doomd! Well learn our freeness of a | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016584 | son-in-law; Pardons the word to all. ARVIRAGUS. You holp us, sir, As you did mean indeed to be our brother; Joyd are we that you are. POSTHUMUS. Your servant, Princes. Good my lord of Rome, Call forth your soothsayer. As I slept, methought Great Jupiter, upon his eagle backd, Appeard to me, with other spritely shows Of mine own kindred. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016585 | When I wakd, I found This label on my bosom; whose containing Is so from sense in hardness that I can Make no collection of it. Let him show His skill in the construction. LUCIUS. Philarmonus! SOOTHSAYER. Here, my good lord. LUCIUS. Read, and declare the meaning. SOOTHSAYER. [_Reads._] _When as a lions whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016586 | find, and be embracd by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be loppd 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 lions whelp; The fit | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016587 | and apt construction of thy name, Being Leo-natus, doth import so much. [_To Cymbeline_] The piece of tender air, thy virtuous daughter, Which we call _mollis aer_, and _mollis aer_ We term it _mulier_; which _mulier_ I divine Is this most constant wife, who even now Answering the letter of the oracle, Unknown to you, unsought, were clippd about With | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016588 | this most tender air. CYMBELINE. This hath some seeming. SOOTHSAYER. The lofty cedar, royal Cymbeline, Personates thee; and thy loppd branches point Thy two sons forth, who, by Belarius stoln, For many years thought dead, are now revivd, To the majestic cedar joind, whose issue Promises Britain peace and plenty. CYMBELINE. Well, My peace we will begin. And, Caius Lucius, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016589 | Although the victor, we submit to Csar 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. SOOTHSAYER. The fingers of the powrs above do tune The harmony of this peace. The vision Which I | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016590 | made known to Lucius ere the stroke Of yet this scarce-cold battle, at this instant Is full accomplishd; for the Roman eagle, From south to west on wing soaring aloft, Lessend herself and in the beams o th sun So vanishd; which foreshowd our princely eagle, Th imperial Csar, should again unite His favour with the radiant Cymbeline, Which shines | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016591 | here in the west. CYMBELINE. Laud we the gods; And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils From our blessd altars. Publish we this peace To all our subjects. Set we forward; let A Roman and a British ensign wave Friendly together. So through Luds Town march; And in the temple of great Jupiter Our peace well ratify; seal | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016592 | it with feasts. Set on there! Never was a war did cease, Ere bloody hands were washd, with such a peace. [_Exeunt._] THE TRAGEDY OF HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK Contents ACT I Scene I. Elsinore. A platform before the Castle Scene II. Elsinore. A room of state in the Castle Scene III. A room in Poloniuss house Scene IV. The | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016593 | platform Scene V. A more remote part of the Castle ACT II Scene I. A room in Poloniuss house Scene II. A room in the Castle ACT III Scene I. A room in the Castle Scene II. A hall in the Castle Scene III. A room in the Castle Scene IV. Another room in the Castle ACT IV Scene I. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016594 | A room in the Castle Scene II. Another room in the Castle Scene III. Another room in the Castle Scene IV. A plain in Denmark Scene V. Elsinore. A room in the Castle Scene VI. Another room in the Castle Scene VII. Another room in the Castle ACT V Scene I. A churchyard Scene II. A hall in the Castle | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016595 | Dramatis Person HAMLET, Prince of Denmark CLAUDIUS, King of Denmark, Hamlets uncle The GHOST of the late king, Hamlets father GERTRUDE, the Queen, Hamlets mother, now wife of Claudius POLONIUS, Lord Chamberlain LAERTES, Son to Polonius OPHELIA, Daughter to Polonius HORATIO, Friend to Hamlet FORTINBRAS, Prince of Norway VOLTEMAND, Courtier CORNELIUS, Courtier ROSENCRANTZ, Courtier GUILDENSTERN, Courtier MARCELLUS, Officer BARNARDO, Officer | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016596 | FRANCISCO, a Soldier OSRIC, Courtier REYNALDO, Servant to Polonius Players A Gentleman, Courtier A Priest Two Clowns, Grave-diggers A Captain English Ambassadors. Lords, Ladies, Officers, Soldiers, Sailors, Messengers, and Attendants SCENE. Elsinore. ACT I SCENE I. Elsinore. A platform before the Castle. Enter Francisco and Barnardo, two sentinels. BARNARDO. Whos there? FRANCISCO. Nay, answer me. Stand and unfold yourself. BARNARDO. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016597 | Long live the King! FRANCISCO. Barnardo? BARNARDO. He. FRANCISCO. You come most carefully upon your hour. BARNARDO. Tis now struck twelve. Get thee to bed, Francisco. FRANCISCO. For this relief much thanks. Tis bitter cold, And I am sick at heart. BARNARDO. Have you had quiet guard? FRANCISCO. Not a mouse stirring. BARNARDO. Well, good night. If you do meet | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016598 | Horatio and Marcellus, The rivals of my watch, bid them make haste. Enter Horatio and Marcellus. FRANCISCO. I think I hear them. Stand, ho! Who is there? HORATIO. Friends to this ground. MARCELLUS. And liegemen to the Dane. FRANCISCO. Give you good night. MARCELLUS. O, farewell, honest soldier, who hath relievd you? FRANCISCO. Barnardo has my place. Give you good-night. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000016599 | [_Exit._] MARCELLUS. Holla, Barnardo! BARNARDO. Say, what, is Horatio there? HORATIO. A piece of him. BARNARDO. Welcome, Horatio. Welcome, good Marcellus. MARCELLUS. What, has this thing appeard again tonight? BARNARDO. I have seen nothing. MARCELLUS. Horatio says tis but our fantasy, And will not let belief take hold of him Touching this dreaded sight, twice seen of us. Therefore I | 60 | gutenberg |
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