all he be a Roman: and there be fome 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 gallowies; I fpeak against my prefent profit, but my with hath a preferment in't. [Exit.

SCENE, Cymbeline's Tent.

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

TAND by my fide, you, whom the Gods

Cym. S have made

Prefervers of my Throne. Wo is
Wo is my heart,
That the poor Soldier, that fo richly fought,
(Whofe rags fham'd gilded arms; whofe naked breast
Stept before fhields of proof,) cannot be found:
He fhall be happy that can find him, if

Our

grace can make him fo.

Bel. I never faw (28)

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,

(28)

-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 Looks.]

But pray, how can it be said, that one, whose poor Looks promise Beggary, fhould promife poor Looks too? No; it was not the poor Look that was promised: That was visible. We muft read with Certainty ;

Eut Begg'ry and poor Luck.

This fets the Matter entirely right, and makes Belarius speak
Senfe and to the purpose. For there was the extraordinary
Thing he promis'd Nothing but poor Luck, and yet per
form'd fuch Wonders.
Mr. Warburton.

But

But no trace of him.

Cymb. 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 ask 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 estates.

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 worse than a physician
Would this report become? but I confider,
By med'cine life may be prolong'd, yet death
Will feize the Doctor too. How ended the ?
Cor. With horror, madly dying, like her felf;
Who, being cruel to the world, concluded
Moft cruel to her felf. What the confeft,
I will report, so please you: These her women
Can trip me, if I err; who, with wet cheeks,
Were present when the finish'd.

Cym. Pr'ythee, fay.

Cor. Firit, fhe 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 the fose it dying, I would not

Believe

Believe her lips in opening it. Proceed.

Cor. Your Daughter, whom the 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 poison.

Cym. O most 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 lingring
By inches waste you. In which time the purpos'd,
By watching, weeping, tendance, kiffing, to
O'ercome you with her fhew: yes, and in time,
(When she 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 despight.
Of heaven and men, her purposes: repented,
The ills the hatch'd were not effected: so,
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 fhe was beautiful :

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

That thought her like her Seeming. It had been vicibus
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 kinsmen have made suit,
That their good fouls may be appeas'd with flaughter
Of you their Captives, which our felf have granted.
So, think of your eftate.

Lus. 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 threat

ned

Our Prisoners with the fword. But fince the Gods
Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives
May be call'd ranfome, 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 mafter 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 Highness 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 thy felf into my grace,

And art mine own. I know not why, nor wherefore,.
To fay, "live, boy:" ne'er thank thy master, 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 it felf.

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 fo perplext?

Cym. What would't thou, boy?

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

What

What's beft to ask. Know'ft him thou look'st on?

fpeak,

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 fo?

Imo. I'll tell you, Sir, in private, if you please

To give me hearing.

Cym. Ay, with all my heart,

And lend my best attention.

Imo. Fidele, Sir.

What's thy name?

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 rofie 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; for

bear,

Creatures may

be alike were't he, I'm fure,

He would have spoke t'us.

Guid. But we saw him dead.

Bel. Be filent: let's fee further.

Pif. "Tis

my

miftrefs

Since fhe is living, let the time run on,

[Afide.

To good, or bad. [Cymb. and Imog. come forward. Cym. Come, ftand thou by our fide.

Make thy demand aloud.

(29)

Sir, Step you forth,

-One fand another

Not more refembles that sweet rofie Touth,

Who dy'd and was Fidele.]

To Iachimo.

A flight corruption has made ftark Nonfenfe of this Paffage. One Grain of Sand certainly might resemble another; but it could never refemble a human Form. I believe, I have reftor'd the Poet's Meaning; The Vere is none of the imootheft; but, refembles, muft be pronounc'd as a dissyllable,