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They think, they're mine; tho' trained up thus meanly
(14) l'th’ Cave, there, on the Brow, their thoughts do hit The roof of Palaces; and nature prompts them, In fimple and low things, to prince it, inuch Beyond the trick of others. This Paladour, (1 he heir of Cymbeline and Britaine, whom The King his father calld Guiderius,) Jove! When on my three-foot-stool I fit, and tell The warlike feats I've done, his fpirits fly out Into my story: say, “ thus mine enemy fell, “ And thus' I set my foot on's neck”.
even then The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats, Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in pofture That acts my words---The younger brother Cadwal, (Once, Arviragus,) in as like a figure Strikes life into my speech, and shews much more His own conceiving. Hark, the game is rouz’d.-Oh Cymbelive ! heav'n and my conscience know, Thou didft unjuitly banish me: whereon, At three and two years old, I stole these babes; Thinking to bar thee of succession, as Thou refi'it me of my lands. Euriphile, Thou waft their nurfe ; they take thee for their ma
the trained up thus meally
The Roof of Palaces.--)
l'th' Cave, whereon the Bow their Thoughts do bit, &c. Mr. Rowe saw, this likewise was faulty; and therefore amended it thus:
I'rb' Cave, where, on the Bow, their thoughts do bit, &c. I think, it should be, only with the Alteration of one Letter, and ihe Addition of another;
I’ib' Cave, there, on the Brow, And so the Grammar and Syntax of the Sentence is compleat. We call the Arching of a Cavern, or Overbanging of a Hill, metaphorically, the Brow; and in lik: manner the Greeks and Latines used ¢ fès, and Supercilium.
And every day do honour to thy Grave;
Enter Pifanio, and Imogen.
place Was near at hand. Ne'er long'd my mother so To see me first, as I have now. -Pifania, Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind, That makes thee ftare thus ? wherefore breaks that ligh From th' inward of thee? one, but painted thus, Would be interpreted a thing perplex'd Beyond self-explication. Put thyself Into a 'haviour of less fear, ere wildness Vanquish my staider fenses what's the matter Why tender'ft thou that paper to me, with A look untender? if't be fummer news, Smile to't before ; if winterly, thou need'st But keep that countnance still. My husband's hand ? That drug-damnd Italy hath out-craftied him, And he's at some hard point. Speak, man; thy tongue May take off fome extremity, which to read Would be e'en mortal to me.
Pis. Please you, read; And
you shall find me, wretched man, a thing The most disdain'd of fortune.
bed: the testimonies whereof lie bleeding in me. I Speak not out of weak furmiles, but from proof as strong as my grief, and as certain as I expect my revenge. That part thou, Pifanio, must act for me. If thy faith be not tainted with the breach of hers, let thine hands take away her life : I shall give thee opportunity at Milford-Haven. She hath pły letter for the purpose; where, if thou fear to frike, and to make me certain it is done, thou art the Pander 19 ber dishonour, and equally to me disloyal,
Pif. What shall I need to draw my sword ? the paper
Kings, Queens, and states,
Imo. False to his bed! what is it to be false ?
Pif. Alas, good lady!
Imo. I false ? thy conscience witness, Iachimo,
Pif. Madam, hear me
Imo. True honeft men being heard, like false Æneas,
The riches of it. Do his Bidding, strike;
Pif. Hence, vile instrument !
Imo. Why, I must die; And, if I do not by thy hand, thou art No servant of thy master's. 'Gainst self-flaughter There is a prohibition fo divine, That cravens my weak hand: come, here's my heart (Something's afore't - soft, foft, we'll no defence ;)
[Opening her breast. Obedient as the scabbard ! What is here? The Scriptures of the loyal Leonatus All turn'd to Heresy? away, away,
[Pulling his letters out of her bofom, Corrupters of my faith! you
shall no more
Pis. O gracious Lady!
Imo. Do't, and to bed then.
Imo. Ah, wherefore then
Mine action ? and thine own? our horses' labour?
Pis. But to win time
Imo. Talk thy tongue weary, speak,
Pil. Then, Madam,
Imo. Most like,
Pif. Not fo neither;
Imo. Some Roman Courtezan
Pif. No, on my life.
Imo. Why, good fellow,
Pis. If you'll back to th’ Court
Imo. No Court, no Father; nor no more ado