Cor. Your Daughter, whom fhe bore in hand to love With fuch integrity, fhe did confefs,

Was as a scorpion to her fight; whose life,
But that her flight prevented it, she 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 worse. She did confefs, she 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, kiffing, 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 heav'n and men, her purposes: repented,
The ills the hatch'd were not effected: fo,
Despairing, dy'd.

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

Were not in fault, for fhe was beautiful:

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

That thought her like her Seeming. It had been vicious
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!

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 kinfmen have made fuit,
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

Was yours by accident: had it gone with us,

We should not, when the blood was cold, have threatned
Our Prisoners 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 intreat: my boy, a Briton born,
Let him be ranfom'd; never master had
A page fo kind, fo duteous, diligent,
So tender over his occafions, true,

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

With my request, which, I'll make bold, your Highnef
Cannot deny: he hath done no Briton harm,
Though he hath ferv'd a Roman. Save him, Sir,
And fpare no blood befide.

Cym. I've furely feen him;

His favour is familiar to me. Boy,

Thou haft look'd thyself into my grace,

And art mine own. I know not why, nor wherefore,
To fay, "live, boy:" ne'er thank thy mafter, live;
And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt,
Fitting my bounty, and thy ftate, I'll give it:
Yea, though thou do demand a prifoner,
The nobleft ta'en.

Imo. I humbly thank your Highness.

Luc. I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad; And yet, I know, thou wilt.

Imo. No, no, alack,

There's other work in hand; I fee a thing
Bitter to me, as death; your life, good master,
Muft fhuffle for itfelf.

Luc. The boy difdains me,

He leaves me, fcorns me: briefly die their joys,
That place them on the truth of girls and boys!
Why ftands he so perplext?

Cym. What wouldst thou, boy?

I love thee more and more: think more and more,

What's

What's best to ask. Know'ft him thou look'ft on speak,
Wilt have him live? is he thy kin? thy friend?
Imo. He is a Roman; no more kin to me,

Than I to your Highnefs: who, being born your vaffal,
Am fomething nearer.

Cym. Wherefore eye'ft him so?

Imo. I'll tell you, Sir, in private, if you please To give me hearing.

Cym. Ay, with all my heart,

And lend my beft attention. What's thy name?
Imo. Fidele, Sir.

Cym. Thou art my good youth, my page;
I'll be thy mafter: walk with me, fpeak freely.

[Cymbel. and Imo. walk afide.

Bel. Is not this boy reviv'd from death?
Arv. One fand another (29)

Not more resembles, than he th' fweet rofy lad,
Who dy'd and was Fidele. What think you? -
Guid. The fame dead thing alive.

Bel. Peace, peace, fee more; he eyes us not; forbear, Creatures may be alike: were't he, I'm fure,

He would have spoke t'us.

Guid. But we faw him dead.

Bel. Be filent: let's fee further.

Pif. 'Tis my mistress

[Afide.

[Cymb. and Imog. come forward.

Since the is living, let the time run on,

To good, or bad.

Cym. Come, ftand thou by our fide.

Make thy demand aloud.

Sir, ftep you forth,

Give answer to this boy, and do it freely;

Not more refembles that feet rofy Youth,
Who dy'd and was Fidele.]

To Iachimo.

A flight corruption has made stark Nonsense of this Paffage. One Grain of Sand certainly might refemble another; but it could never refemble a human Form. I believe, I have reftor'd the Poet's Meaning; The Verfe is none of the fmoothest; but, refembles, must be pronounc'd as a diffyllable.

Or,

Or, by our Greatness and the Grace of it,
Which is our Honour, bitter torture shall

Winnow the truth from falfhood.On; fpeak to him. Imo. My boon is, that this Gentleman may render Of whom he had this ring.

Poft. What's that to him?

Cym. That diamond upon your finger, say, How came it yours?

Jach. Thou'lt torture me to leave unspoken that, Which to be spoke would torture thee.

Cym. How? me?

Tach. I'm glad to be constrain'd to utter what Torments me to conceal. By villany

I got this ring; 'twas Leonatus' jewel,

Whom thou didst banish: and (which more may grieve thee,

As it doth me) a nobler Sir ne'er liv'd

'Twixt fky and ground. Will you hear more, my Lord ? Cym. All that belongs to this.

Iach. That paragon, thy daughter,

For whom my heart drops blood, and my false spirits
Quail to remember, give me leave, I faint.
Cym. My daughter, what of her? renew thy ftrength;
I'd rather thou fhouldft live, while nature will,
Than die ere I hear more: ftrive, man, and speak.

Iach. Upon a time, (unhappy was the clock,
That ftruck the hour;) it was in Rome, (accurs'd
The mansion where) 'twas at a feast, (oh, 'would
Our viands had been poifon'd! or at least,
Those which I heav'd to head :) the good Pofthumus
(What fhould I fay? he was too good to be
Where ill men were; and was the beft of all
Amongst the rar'st of good ones) — fitting fadly,
Hearing us praise our Loves of Italy (30)

(30) Hearing us praise our Loves of Italy

For Beauty, that made barren the fwell'd Boaft
Of him that beft could fpeak; for Feature, laming
The fhrine of Venus, or frait-pight Minerva,
Poftures, beyond brief Nature;

For

As

For Beauty, that made barren the fwell'd Boaft
Of him that beft could fpeak; for Stature, laming
The shrine of Venus, or ftraight-pight Minerva,
Poftures, beyond brief nature; for condition,
A shop of all the qualities, that man

Loves woman for; befides that hook of wiving,
Fairness, which strikes the eye.
Cym. I ftand on fire.
Come to the matter.

Iach. All too foon I fhall,

Unless thou wouldst grieve quickly.

This Pofthumus,

(Moft like a noble Lord in love, and one

That had a royal lover) took his hint;

And, not difpraifing whom we prais'd, (therein

He was as calm as virtue) he began

His mistress' picture; which by his tongue being made,
And then a mind put in't, either our brags

Were crack'd-of kitchen-trulls, or his description
Prov'd us unfpeaking fots.

Cym. Nay, nay, to th' purpose.

lach. Your daughter's chastity; there it begins:
He spake of her, as Dian had hot dreams,
And the alone were cold; whereat, I, wretch!
Made fcruple of his praise; and wag'd with him
Pieces of gold, 'gainst this which then he wore
Upon his honour'd finger, to attain

In fuit the place of's bed, and win this ring

As plaufible as this Reading may appear at first View, I dare fay, it is flightly corrupted. What! did they praise their Miftreffes for Beauty, and for Feature too? The Symmetry of Features is always one main part of Beauty. Then why fhould Features be faid to lame a Statue, or the Poftures of a well-built Goddefs? We muft certainly restore

-for Stature laming

The Shrine of Venus, &c.

This agrees perfectly well with, laming, ftrait-pight, and Poftures: and fo the Lady is prais'd for her Beauty, her Shape, and her Temper of Mind,

By