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All curses madded Hecuba gave
And mine to boot, be darted on thee! thou,
'Twas thou, conspiring with that devil Cloten,
Hast here cut off my Lord. To write, and read,
Be henceforth treach'rous ! -Damn’d Pifanio
Hath with his forged letters—damn'd Pifanio !
From this the bravest vessel of the world
Struck the main-top! oh Pofthumus, alas,
Where is thy head ? where's that ? ah me, where's that?
Pisanio might have kill'd thee at the heart,
And left his head on. How should this be, Pifanio ? -
'Tis he and Cloten. Malice and lucre in them
Have laid this woe here. Oh, 'tis pregnant, pregnant !
The drug he gave me, which, he said, was precious
And cordial to me, have I not found it
Murd'rous to th' senses ? that confirms it home :
This is Pisanio's deed, and Cloten's. Oh!
Give colour to my pale cheek with thy blood,
That we the horrider may seem to those
Which chance to find us. my
Enter Lucius, Captains, and a Soothsayer.
Cap. To them, the legions garrisond in Gallia, After your will, have cross’d the fea, attending You here at Milford-Haven, with your Ships: They are in readiness.
Luc. But what from Rome?
Cap. The Senate hath stirr'd up the Confiners,
And Gentlemen of Italy, most willing spirits,
That promise noble service: and they come
Under the conduct of bold lachimo,
Luc. When expect you them?
Cap. With the next benefit o'th' wind.
Luc. This forwardness
Makes our hopes fair. Command, our present numbers
Be muster'd; bid the Captains look to't. Now, Sir,
What have you dream'd, of late, of this war's purpose?
Sooth. Last night, the very Gods Thew'd me a vision.
(I fast, and pray'd for their intelligence)
I saw Jove's bird, the Roman eagle, wing'd
From the spungy south, to this part of the West,
There vanilh'd in the sun-beams; which portends
(Unless my sins abuse my divination)
Success to th’ Roman Hoft.
Luc. Dream often so,
And never false! -Soft, ho, what Trunk is here
Without his top? the ruin speaks, that sometime
It was a worthy building. How! a pa, el-
Or dead, or sleeping on him ? but derd, rather :
For Nature doth abhor to make his couch
With the defunct, or deep upon the dead.
Let's see the boy's face.
Cap. He's alive, my Lord.
Luc. He'll then instruct us of this body. Young one,
Inform us of thy fortunes, for, it seems,
They crave to be demanded : who is this,
Thou mak'lt thy bloody pillow ?, who was he,
That, otherwise than noble Nature did,
Hath alter'd that good picture? what's thy interest
In this fad wreck ? how came it, and who is it?
What art thou ?
Imo. I am nothing; or if not,
Nothing to be, were better. This was my master,
A very valiant Briton, and a good,
That here by mountaineers lies slain : alas !
There are no more such masters: I may wander
From East to Occident, cry out for service,
Try many, all good, serve them truly, never
Find such another master.
Luc. 'Lack, good youth !
Thou mov'it no less with thy complaining, than
Thy master in bleeding : say his name, good friend.
Imo. Richard du Champ. If I do lye, and do
No harm by it, though the Gods hear, I hope, [aside.
They'll pardon it. Say you, Sir ?
Luc. Thy name?
Imo. Fidele, Sir.
Luc. Thou doft approve thyself the very fame;
Thy name well fits thy faith ; thy faith, thy name.
Wilt take thy chance with me? I will not say
Thou shalt be so well master'd, but, be sure,
No less belov'd. The Roman Emperor's letters,
Sent by a Consul to me, should no sooner,
Than thine own worth, prefer thee : with me.
Imo. I'll follow, Sir
. “But firit, an't please the Gods,
I'll hide my matter from the flies as deep
As these poor pickaxes can dig: and when
With wild wood-leaves and weeds I ha' ftrew'd his Grave,
And on it said a century of pray’rs,
(Such as I can,) twice o'er, I'll weep and figh;
And, leaving so his service, follow you,
So please you entertain me.
Luc. Ay, good youth, And rather father thee, than master thee. My friends, The boy hath taught us manly duties : let us Find out the prettiest dazied-Plot we can, And make him with our pikes and partizans A Grave; come, arm him : boy, he is preferr'd By thee to us, and he shall be interr'd As soldiers can. Be chearful, wipe thine eyes: Some Falls are means the happier to arise. [Exeunt.
SCENE changes to Cymbeline's Palace.
Enter Cymbeline, Lords, and Pifanio.
Cym. A Gaiter and bring me, word, how. "tiswith her ;
A fever with the absence of her son ;
Madness, of which her life's in danger; heav'ns!
How deeply you at once do touch me. Imogen,
The great part of my comfort, gone! my Queen
Upon a desperate bed, and in a time
When fearful wars point at me! her son gone,
So needful for this present! it strikes me, paft
The hope of comfort. But for thee, fellow,
Who needs must know of her departure, and
Dort seem so ignorant, we'll force it from thee
283 By a sharp torture.
Pif. Sir, my life is yours,
I set it at your will: but, for my mistress,
I nothing know where she remains; why, gone ;
Nor when she purposes Return. 'Beseech your Highness,
Hold me your loyal servant.
Lord. Good my Liege,
The day that she was missing, he was here;
I dare be bound he's true, and shall perform
All parts of his subjection loyally. For Cloten,
There wants no diligence in seeking him,
And will no doubt be found.
Cym. The time is troublesome;
We'll flip you for a season, but our jealousy
Does yet depend.
Lord. So pleafe your Majesty',
The Roman Legions, all from Gallia drawn,
Are landed on your coast, with large supply
Of Roman Gentlemen, by th' Senare fent.
Cym. Now for the counsel of my Son and Queen !
I am amaz'd with matter.
Lord. Good my Liege, Your preparation can affront no less Than what you hear of. Come more, for more you're
The want is, but to put these Powers in motion,
That long to move.
Cym. I thank you; let's withdraw,
And meet the time, as it seeks us. We fear not
What can from Italy annoy us,
but We grieve at chances here.--Away.
[Exeuista Pif, I heard no letter from my master, since I wrote him, Imogen was slain. 'Tis strange; Nor hear I from my mistress, who did promise To yield me often tidings. Neither know I, What is betide to Cloten ; but remain Perplext in all. The heavens ftill must work ; Wherein I'm false, I'm honeft : not true, to be true: These present wars shall find, I love my Country, Ev'n to the note o'th' King, or I'll fall in them;
All other doubts, by time let them be clear'd;
Fortune brings in fome boats, that are not steer'd. (Exit.
SCENE changes to the Forest.
Enter Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus. Guid. HE noise is round about us.
Bel. Let us from it.
Arsu. What pleasure, Sir, find we in life, to lock it
From action and adventure ?
Guid. Nay, what hope
Have we in hiding us ? this way
Muit or for Britons slay us, or receive us
For barb'rous and unnatural Revolts
During their use, and slay us after.
We'll higher to the mountains, there secure us.
To the King's Party there's no going; newness
Of Cloten's death (we being not known, nor muster'd
Among the bands) may drive us to a Render
Where we have liv'd: and fo extort from us
That which we've done, whose answer would be death
Drawn on with torture,
Guid. This is, Sir, a doubt
(In such a time) nothing becoming you,
Nor satisfying us.
Arv. It is not likely,
That when they hear the Roman horses neigh,
Behold their quarter'd fires, have both their eyes
And ears so cloy'd importantly as now,
That they will waste their time upon our note
To know from whence we are.
Bel. Oh, I am known
Of many in the army; many years,
Though Cloten then but young, (you see,) not wore him
From my remembrance. And, besides, the King
Hath not deservd my service, nor your loves,
Who find in my exile the want of breeding;
The certainty of this hard life, ay hopeless