Enter Goaler.

Goal. Come, Sir, are you ready for death?
Poft. Over-roafted rather: ready long ago.

Goal. Hanging is the word, Sir; if you be ready for that, you are well cookt

Poft. So if it prove a good repaft to the spectators, the dish pays the fhot.

Goal. A heavy reckoning for you, Sir; but the comfort is, you fhall be call'd 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; forry 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 shall 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-ach: 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 fhall go.

Poft. Yes, indeed, do I, fellow.

Goal. Your death has eyes in's head then; I have not feen him fo picur'd: you muft either be directed by fome that take upon them to know; or to take upon yourself that, which, I am fure, you do not know; or lump the after-enquiry on your own peril; and how you fhall fpeed 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

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 fhould have the belt ufe of eyes, to fee the way of blindness! I am fure, hanging's the way of winking. Enter a Meffenger.

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 fhalt be then freer than a goaler; no bolts for the dead. [Exeunt Pofthumus and Meffenger. Goal. Unlefs a man would marry a gallows, and beget young gibbets. I never faw one fo prone. Yet, on my confcience, there are vérier knaves defire to live, for all he be a Roman: and there be some 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 prefent profit, but my wifh hath a preferment in't. [Exit.

Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pifanio, and lords.

Cym. STAND by my fide, you, whom the Gods

have made

Prefervers of my Throne.

Woe is my heart,

That the poor Soldier, that fo richly fought,

(Whole rags fham'd gilded arms; whofe naked breaft Stept before fields of proof.) cannot be found: He fhall be happy that can find him, if

Our grace can make him fo.

Bel.

Bel. I never faw

Such noble fury in fo poor a thing:

Such precious deeds in one that promis'd nought But begg'ry and poor Luck.

Cym. No tydings, of him?

Pif. He hath been search'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 Britaine;}

[To Bel. Guid. and Arvirag.

By whom, I grant, fhe lives. 'Tis now the time.
To afk of whence you are. Report it.

Bel. Sir,

In Cambria are we born, and Gentlemen:
Farther to boaft, were neither true nor modeft,
Unless I add, we're honeft.

Cym. Bow your knees;

Arife my Knights o'th' battle; I create you
Companions to our perfon, and will fit you
With dignities becoming your eftates.

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 Britaine.

Cor. Hail, great King!

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

Cym. Whom worfe than a phyfician
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 herself;
Who, being cruel to the world, concluded
Moft cruel to herfelf. What she confeft,
I will report, fo please you: These her women
VOL. VIII.

S

Can

Can trip me, if I err; who, with wet cheeks,
Were prefent when the finish'd.

Cym. Pr'ythee, fay.

Cor. Firft, the confefs'd, fhe never lov'd you: only Affected Greatnefs got by you, not you:

Married your Royalty, was wife to your Place;
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 he 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 moft 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 ling'ring
By inches wafte you. In which time the purpos'd,
By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to
O'ercome you with her fhew: yes, and in time,
(When he 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 heaven and men, her purposes: repented,
The ills the hatch'd were not effected: fo,
Defpairing, dy'd.

Cym. Heard you all this, her Women?
Lady. We did, fo please your Highness.

Cym. Mine eyes

Were not in fault, for he was beautiful :

Mine ears, that heard her flattery; nor my heart,

That thought her like her Seeming. It had been

vicious

Το

To have mistrusted her. Yet, oh my daughter!
That it was folly in me, thou may'st say,
And prove it in thy feeling.

Heav'n mend all!

SCENE V.

Enter Lucius, Iachimo, and other Roman prisoners;
Leonatus behind, and Imogen.

Thou com'ft not, Caius, now for Tribute; That
The Britons have raz'd out, though with the lofs
Of many a bold one; whofe kinsmen have made suit,
That their good fouls may be appeas'd with flaughter
Of you their Captives, which ourself have granted.
So, think of your estate.

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 cold, have

threaten'd

Our Prifoners 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 entreat: my boy, a Briton born,
Let him be ranfom'd; never mafter had
A page fo kind, fo duteous, diligent,
So tender over his occafions, true,

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

[nefs

With my requeft, which, I'll make bold, your HighCannot deny he hath done no Briton harm,

Though he hath ferv'd a Roman.

And spare no blood beside.

Cym. I've furely feen him;

His favour is familiar to me.

Save him, Sir,

Boy,

Thou haft look'd thyfelf into my grace,

And art mine own. I know not why, nor wherefore,