Cymbeline Part 9

Pisa. Madam, you're best consider

Imo. I see before me (Man) nor heere, nor heere; Nor what ensues but haue a Fog in them That I cannot looke through. Away, I prythee, Do as I bid thee: There's no more to say: Accessible is none but Milford way.

Exeunt.

Scena Tertia.

Enter Belarius, Guiderius, and Aruiragus.

Bel. A goodly day, not to keepe house with such, Whose Roofe's as lowe as ours: Sleepe Boyes, this gate Instructs you how t' adore the Heauens; and bowes you To a mornings holy office. The Gates of Monarches Are Arch'd so high, that Giants may iet through And keepe their impious Turbonds on, without Good morrow to the Sun. Haile thou faire Heauen, We house i'th' Rocke, yet vse thee not so hardly As prouder liuers do

Guid. Haile Heauen

Aruir. Haile Heauen

Bela. Now for our Mountaine sport, vp to yond hill Your legges are yong: Ile tread these Flats. Consider, When you aboue perceiue me like a Crow, That it is Place, which lessen's, and sets off, And you may then reuolue what Tales, I haue told you, Of Courts, of Princes; of the Tricks in Warre.

This Seruice, is not Seruice; so being done, But being so allowed. To apprehend thus, Drawes vs a profit from all things we see: And often to our comfort, shall we finde The sharded-Beetle, in a safer hold Then is the full-wing'd Eagle. Oh this life, Is n.o.bler, then attending for a checke: Richer, then doing nothing for a Babe: Prouder, then rustling in vnpayd-for Silke: Such gaine the Cap of him, that makes him fine, Yet keepes his Booke vncros'd: no life to ours

Gui. Out of your proofe you speak: we poore vnfledg'd Haue neuer wing'd from view o'th' nest; nor knowes not What Ayre's from home. Hap'ly this life is best, (If quiet life be best) sweeter to you That haue a sharper knowne. Well corresponding With your stiffe Age; but vnto vs, it is A Cell of Ignorance: trauailing a bed, A Prison, or a Debtor, that not dares To stride a limit

Arui. What should we speake of When we are old as you? When we shall heare The Raine and winde beate darke December? How In this our pinching Caue, shall we discourse The freezing houres away? We haue seene nothing: We are beastly; subtle as the Fox for prey, Like warlike as the Wolfe, for what we eate: Our Valour is to chace what flyes: Our Cage We make a Quire, as doth the prison'd Bird, And sing our Bondage freely

Bel. How you speake.

Did you but know the Citties Vsuries, And felt them knowingly: the Art o'th' Court, As hard to leaue, as keepe: whose top to climbe Is certaine falling: or so slipp'ry, that The feare's as bad as falling. The toyle o'th' Warre, A paine that onely seemes to seeke out danger I'th' name of Fame, and Honor, which dyes i'th' search, And hath as oft a sland'rous Epitaph, As Record of faire Act. Nay, many times Doth ill deserue, by doing well: what's worse Must curt'sie at the Censure. Oh Boyes, this Storie The World may reade in me: My bodie's mark'd With Roman Swords; and my report, was once First, with the best of Note. Cymbeline lou'd me, And when a Souldier was the Theame, my name Was not farre off: then was I as a Tree Whose boughes did bend with fruit. But in one night, A Storme, or Robbery (call it what you will) Shooke downe my mellow hangings: nay my Leaues, And left me bare to weather

Gui. Vncertaine fauour

Bel. My fault being nothing (as I haue told you oft) But that two Villaines, whose false Oathes preuayl'd Before my perfect Honor, swore to Cymbeline, I was Confederate with the Romanes: so Followed my Banishment, and this twenty yeeres, This Rocke, and these Demesnes, haue bene my World, Where I haue liu'd at honest freedome, payed More pious debts to Heauen, then in all The fore-end of my time. But, vp to'th' Mountaines, This is not Hunters Language; he that strikes The Venison first, shall be the Lord o'th' Feast, To him the other two shall minister, And we will feare no poyson, which attends In place of greater State: Ile meete you in the Valleyes.

Exeunt.

How hard it is to hide the sparkes of Nature?

These Boyes know little they are Sonnes to'th' King, Nor Cymbeline dreames that they are aliue.

They thinke they are mine, And though train'd vp thus meanely I'th' Caue, whereon the Bowe their thoughts do hit, The Roofes of Palaces, and Nature prompts them In simple and lowe things, to Prince it, much Beyond the tricke of others. This Paladour, The heyre of Cymbeline and Britaine, who The King his Father call'd Guiderius. Ioue, When on my three-foot stoole I sit, and tell The warlike feats I haue done, his spirits flye out Into my Story: say thus mine Enemy fell, And thus I set my foote on's necke, euen then The Princely blood flowes in his Cheeke, he sweats, Straines his yong Nerues, and puts himselfe in posture That acts my words. The yonger Brother Cadwall, Once Aruiragus, in as like a figure Strikes life into my speech, and shewes much more His owne conceyuing. Hearke, the Game is rows'd, Oh Cymbeline, Heauen and my Conscience knowes Thou didd'st vniustly banish me: whereon At three, and two yeeres old, I stole these Babes, Thinking to barre thee of Succession, as Thou refts me of my Lands. Euriphile, Thou was't their Nurse, they took thee for their mother, And euery day do honor to her graue: My selfe Belarius, that am Mergan call'd They take for Naturall Father. The Game is vp.

Enter.

Scena Quarta.

Enter Pisanio and Imogen.

Imo. Thou told'st me when we came fro[m] horse, y place Was neere at hand: Ne're long'd my Mother so To see me first, as I haue now. Pisanio, Man: Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that sigh From th' inward of thee? One, but painted thus Would be interpreted a thing perplex'd Beyond selfe-explication. Put thy selfe Into a hauiour of lesse feare, ere wildnesse Vanquish my stayder Senses. What's the matter?

Why render'st thou that Paper to me, with A looke vntender? If't be Summer Newes Smile too't before: if Winterly, thou need'st But keepe that count'nance stil. My Husbands hand?

That Drug-d.a.m.n'd Italy, hath out-craftied him, And hee's at some hard point. Speake man, thy Tongue May take off some extreamitie, which to reade Would be euen mortall to me

Pis. Please you reade, And you shall finde me (wretched man) a thing The most disdain'd of Fortune

Imogen reades. Thy Mistris (Pisanio) hath plaide the Strumpet in my Bed: the Testimonies whereof, lyes bleeding in me. I speak not out of weake Surmises, but from proofe as strong as my greefe, and as certaine as I expect my Reuenge. That part, thou (Pisanio) must acte for me, if thy Faith be not tainted with the breach of hers; let thine owne hands take away her life: I shall giue thee opportunity at Milford Hauen. She hath my Letter for the purpose; where, if thou feare to strike, and to make mee certaine it is done, thou art the Pander to her dishonour, and equally to me disloyall

Pis. What shall I need to draw my Sword, the Paper Hath cut her throat alreadie? No, 'tis Slander, Whose edge is sharper then the Sword, whose tongue Out-venomes all the Wormes of Nyle, whose breath Rides on the posting windes, and doth belye All corners of the World. Kings, Queenes, and States, Maides, Matrons, nay the Secrets of the Graue This viperous slander enters. What cheere, Madam?

Imo. False to his Bed? What is it to be false?

To lye in watch there, and to thinke on him?

To weepe 'twixt clock and clock? If sleep charge Nature, To breake it with a fearfull dreame of him, And cry my selfe awake? That's false to's bed? Is it?

Pisa. Alas good Lady

Imo. I false? Thy Conscience witnesse: Iachimo, Thou didd'st accuse him of Incontinencie, Thou then look'dst like a Villaine: now, me thinkes Thy fauours good enough. Some Iay of Italy (Whose mother was her painting) hath betraid him: Poore I am stale, a Garment out of fas.h.i.+on, And for I am richer then to hang by th' walles, I must be ript: To peeces with me: Oh!

Mens Vowes are womens Traitors. All good seeming By thy reuolt (oh Husband) shall be thought Put on for Villainy; not borne where't growes, But worne a Baite for Ladies

Pisa. Good Madam, heare me

Imo. True honest men being heard, like false Aeneas, Were in his time thought false: and Synons weeping Did scandall many a holy teare: tooke pitty From most true wretchednesse. So thou, Posthumus Wilt lay the Leauen on all proper men; Goodly, and gallant, shall be false and periur'd From thy great faile: Come Fellow, be thou honest, Do thou thy Masters bidding. When thou seest him, A little witnesse my obedience. Looke I draw the Sword my selfe, take it, and hit The innocent Mansion of my Loue (my Heart:) Feare not, 'tis empty of all things, but Greefe: Thy Master is not there, who was indeede The riches of it. Do his bidding, strike, Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause; But now thou seem'st a Coward

Pis. Hence vile Instrument, Thou shalt not d.a.m.ne my hand

Imo. Why, I must dye: And if I do not by thy hand, thou art No Seruant of thy Masters. Against Selfe-slaughter, There is a prohibition so Diuine, That crauens my weake hand: Come, heere's my heart: Something's a-foot: Soft, soft, wee'l no defence, Obedient as the Scabbard. What is heere, The Scriptures of the Loyall Leonatus, All turn'd to Heresie? Away, away Corrupters of my Faith, you shall no more Be Stomachers to my heart: thus may pooru Fooles Beleeue false Teachers: Though those that are betraid Do feele the Treason sharpely, yet the Traitor Stands in worse case of woe. And thou Posthumus, That didd'st set vp my disobedience 'gainst the King My Father, and makes me put into contempt the suites Of Princely Fellowes, shalt heereafter finde It is no acte of common pa.s.sage, but A straine of Rarenesse: and I greeue my selfe, To thinke, when thou shalt be disedg'd by her, That now thou tyrest on, how thy memory Will then be pang'd by me. Prythee dispatch, The Lambe entreats the Butcher. Wher's thy knife?

Thou art too slow to do thy Masters bidding When I desire it too

Pis. Oh gracious Lady: Since I receiu'd command to do this businesse, I haue not slept one winke

Imo. Doo't, and to bed then

Pis. Ile wake mine eye-balles first

Imo. Wherefore then Didd'st vndertake it? Why hast thou abus'd So many Miles, with a pretence? This place?

Mine Action? and thine owne? Our Horses labour?

The Time inuiting thee? The perturb'd Court For my being absent? whereunto I neuer Purpose returne. Why hast thou gone so farre To be vn-bent? when thou hast 'tane thy stand, Th' elected Deere before thee?

Pis. But to win time To loose so bad employment, in the which I haue consider'd of a course: good Ladie Heare me with patience

Imo. Talke thy tongue weary, speake: I haue heard I am a Strumpet, and mine eare Therein false strooke, can take no greater wound, Nor tent, to bottome that. But speake

Pis. Then Madam, I thought you would not backe againe

Imo. Most like, Bringing me heere to kill me

Pis. Not so neither: But if I were as wise, as honest, then My purpose would proue well: it cannot be, But that my Master is abus'd. Some Villaine, I, and singular in his Art, hath done you both This cursed iniurie

Imo. Some Roman Curtezan?

Pisa. No, on my life: Ile giue but notice you are dead, and send him Some b.l.o.o.d.y signe of it. For 'tis commanded I should do so: you shall be mist at Court, And that will well confirme it

Imo. Why good Fellow, What shall I do the while? Where bide? How liue?

Or in my life, what comfort, when I am Dead to my Husband?

Pis. If you'l backe to'th' Court

Imo. No Court, no Father, nor no more adoe With that harsh, n.o.ble, simple nothing: That Clotten, whose Loue-suite hath bene to me As fearefull as a Siege

Pis. If not at Court, Then not in Britaine must you bide