SCENE V-Before the Walls of Athens. [A parley sounded. Enter SENATORS on the Walls. Have wander'd with our traversed arms,* and breathed 1 Sen. Noble and young, When thy first griefs were but a mere conceit, 2 Sen. So did we woo Transformed Timon to our city's love, By humble message, and by promised means; 1 Sen. These walls of ours Were not erected by their hands, from whom You have received your griefs: nor are they such, Than these great towers, trophies, and schools should fall 2 Sen. Nor are they living, Who were the motives that you first went out; Shame that they wanted cunning, in excess Hath broke their hearts. March, noble lord, Into our city with thy banners spread : By decimation, and a tithed death (If thy revenges hunger for that food, Which nature loathes), take thou the destined tenth; Let die the spotted. 1 Sen. All have not offended; For those that were, it is not square, ‡ to take, *Arms across. † Mature. + Equitable. Approach the fold, and cull the infected forth, 2 Sen. What thou wilt, Thou rather shalt enforce it with thy smile, 1 Sen. Set but thy foot Against our rampired gates, and they shall ope; So thou wilt send thy gentle heart before, 2 Sen. Throw thy glove; Or any token of thine honour else, That thou wilt use the wars as thy redress, Alcib. Then there's my glove; Descend, and open your uncharged ports; Both. 'Tis most nobly spoken. Alcib. Descend, and keep your words. The SENATORS descend, and open the Gates. Sol. My noble general, Timon is dead; Entomb'd upon the very hem o' the sea: And on his grave-stone, this insculpture; which With wax I brought away, whose soft impression Interprets for my poor ignorance. Alcib. [reads]. Here lies a wretched corse, of wretched soul bereft: Seek not my name: A plague consume you wicked caitiffs left! Here lie I, Timon; who, alive, all living men did hate: Pass by, and curse thy fill; but pass, and stay not here thy gait. These well express in thee thy latter spirits: Though thou abhorr'dst in us our human griefs, Scorn'dst our brain's flow, ‡ and those our droplets which From niggard nature fall, yet rich conceit Taught thee to make vast Neptune weep for aye On thy low grave, on faults forgiven Is noble Timon; of whose memory Dead Hereafter more.-Bring me into your city And I will use the olive with my sword: Make war breed peace; make peace stint § war; make each Let our drums strike. * Unattacked gates. + Reconcile. § Stop. Physician. [Exeunt. I. e. our tears. Ab 31 CYMBELINE. PERSONS REPRESENTED. CYMBELINE, King of Britain. CLOTEN, Son to the Queen by a former husband. LEONATUS POSTHUMUS, a Gentleman, Husband to Imogen. BELARIUS, a banished Lord, disguised under the name of Morgan. GUIDERIUS Sons to Cymbeline, ARVIRAGUS, disguised under the names of POLYDORE and CADWAL, supposed sons to Belarius. PHILARIO, Friend to Posthumus, IACHIMO, Friend to Philario, Italians. A FRENCH GENTLEMAN, Friend CAIUS LUCIUS, General of the A ROMAN CAPTAIN. Two BRITISH CAPTAINS. QUEEN, Wife to Cymbeline. IMOGEN, Daughter to Cymbeline, by a former Queen. HELEN, Woman to Imogen. LORDS, LADIES, Roman SENATORS, TRIBUNES, APPARITIONS, a SOOTHSAYER, a Dutch GENTLEMAN, a Spanish GENTLEMAN, MUSICIANS, OFFICERS, CAPTAINS, SOLDIERS, MESSENGERS, and other ATTENDANTS. SCENE.-Sometimes in Britain; sometimes in Italy. ACT I. SCENE I-Britain. The Garden behind CYMBELINE'S Palace. Enter two GENTLEMEN. 1 Gent. You do not meet a man, but frowns: our bloods No more obey the heavens, than our courtiers; Still seem, as does the king's. * 2 Gent. But what's the matter? 1 Gent. His daughter, and the heir of his 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; Is outward sorrow; though I think, the king Be touch'd at very heart. 2 Gent. None but the king? 1 Gent. He, that hath lost her, too: so is the queen, That most desired the match: But not a courtier, * This difficult passage should, I think, be construed thus: our countenances, regulated by the blood, do not obey natural impulses, but, as courtiers, imitate that of the king. Although they wear their faces to the bent 2 Gent. And why so? 1 Gent. He that hath miss'd the princess, is a thing 2 Gent. You speak him far. * 1 Gent. I do extend him, Sir, within himself; Crush him together, rather than unfold His measure duly.f 2 Gent. What's his name and birth? 1 Gent. 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 And had, besides this gentleman in question, Died with their swords in hand; for which their father What kind of man he is. 2 Gent. I honour him Even out of your report. But, 'pray you, tell me, 1 Gent. His only child. He had two sons (if this be worth your hearing, * Praise him extensively. The father of Cymbeline. † My praise is within his merit. § I. e. a model that formed their manners. As to. Mark it), the eldest of them at three years old, I' the swathing clothes the other, from their nursery 2 Gent. How long is this ago? 1 Gent. Some twenty years. 2 Gent. That a king's children should be so convey'd! So slackly guarded! And the search so slow, That could not trace them! 1 Gent. Howsoe'er 'tis strange, Or that the negligence may well be laugh'd at, Yet is it true, Sir. 2 Gent. I do well believe you. 1 Gent. We must forbear: Here comes the gentleman, The queen and princess. SCENE II-The same. Enter the QUEEN, POSTHUMUS, and IMOGEN. [Exeunt. Queen. No, be assured, you shall not find me, daughter, After the slander of most step-mothers, Evil-eyed unto you: you are my prisoner, but Your jailer shall deliver you the keys That lock up your restraint. For you, Posthúmus, 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 Post. Please your highness, I will from hence to-day. Queen. You know the peril : I'll fetch a turn about the garden, pitying The pangs of barr'd affections; though the king Imo. O Dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant [Exit QUEEN. Can tickle where she wounds!-My dearest husband, (Always reserved my holy duty) what His rage can do on me: You must be gone; Post. 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. |