A figure of truth, of faith, of loyalty: Had spread their cursed deed and honour'd name That him and his they in his palace burn; [Exit. DRAMATIS PERSONÆ CYMBELINE, king of Britain. POSTHUMUS LEONATUS, a gentleman, hus- ARVIRAGUS, PHILARIO, Mario, Italians. CAIUS LUCIUS, General of the Roman forces. PISANIO, servant to Posthumus. A Frenchman, friend to Philario. Queen, wife to Cymbeline. IMOGEN, daughter to Cymbeline by a former queen. HELEN, a lady attending on Imogen. Lords, Ladies, Roman Senators, Tribunes, a Soothsayer, a Dutchman, a Spaniard, Musicians, Officers, Captains, Soldiers, Messengers, and other Attendants. Apparitions. SCENE: Britain: Rome. ACT I-SCENE I Britain. The garden of Cymbeline's palace. First 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. Sec. Gent. First Gent. His daughter, and the heir of 's kingdom, whom That late he married-hath referr'd herself Is outward sorrow; though I think the king Be touch'd at very heart. Sec. Gent. None but the king? First Gent. He that hath lost her too: so is the queen, Of the king's looks, hath a heart that is not Sec. Gent. And why so? First Gent. He that hath miss'd the princess is a thing I mean, that married her,-alack, good man!— For one his like, there would be something failing In him that should compare. I do not think Endows a man but he. Sec. Gent. You speak him fair. First Gent. I do extend him, sir, within himself, His measure duly. Sec. Gent. What's his name and birth? First Gent. I cannot delve him to the root: his father Died with their swords in hand; for which their father, And in 's spring became a harvest: lived in court- Even out of your report. But, pray you, tell me, First Gent. His only child. He had two sons,-if this be worth your hearing, I' the swathing clothes the other, from their nursery Sec. Gent. How long is this ago? First Gent. Some twenty years. Sec. Gent. That a king's children should be so convey'd! That could not trace them! First Gent. Howsoe'er 'tis strange, Or that the negligence may well be laugh'd at, Sec. Gent. I do well believe you. First Gent. We must forbear: here comes the gentleman, Enter the Queen, Posthumus and Imogen. [Exeunt. Queen. No, be assured you shall not find me, daughter, Evil-eyed unto you: you're my prisoner, but That lock up your restraint. For you, Posthumus, I will be known your advocate: marry, yet You lean'd unto his sentence with what patience Post. I will from hence to-day. Please your highness, You know the peril. Queen. The pangs of barr'd affections, though the king Imo. Dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant Can tickle where she wounds! My dearest husband, 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: Known but by letter: thither write, my queen, [Exit And with mine eyes I ll drink the words you send, Queen. Re-enter Queen. 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 But he does buy my injuries, to be friends; Post. Should we be taking leave As long a term as yet we have to live, The loathness to depart would grow. Adieu! Imo. 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; When Imogen is dead. Post. How, how! another? You gentle gods, give me but this I have, And sear up my embracements from a next [Exit. [thou here With bonds of death! [Putting on the ring.] Remain, remain 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 Upon this fairest prisoner. [Putting a bracelet on her arm. Imo. When shall we see again? Post. Enter Cymbeline and Lords. Alack, the king! Cym. Thou basest thing, avoid! hence, from my sight! With thy unworthiness, thou diest: away! Post. I am gone. Imo. The gods protect you, [Exit. There cannot be a pinch in death More sharp than this is. Cym. O disloyal thing, That shouldst repair my youth, thou heap'st Imo. I beseech you, sir, |