Early modern literature
Drama, gender & the body
Modern spelling. Stage directions omitted.
CYMBELINE
Stand by my side, you whom the gods have made
Preservers of my throne. Woe is my heart
That the poor soldier that so richly fought,
Whose rags sham’d gilded arms, whose naked breast
Stepp’d before targes of proof, cannot be found.
He shall be happy that can find him, if
Our grace can make him so.
BELARIUS
I never saw
Such noble fury in so poor a thing;
Such precious deeds in one that promis’d nought
But beggary and poor looks.
CYMBELINE
No tidings of him?
PISANIO
He been search’d among the dead and living,
But no trace of him.
CYMBELINE
To my grief, I am
The heir of his reward, which I will add
To you, the liver, heart, and brain of Britain,
By whom I grant she lives. now the time
To ask of you are. Report it.
BELARIUS
Sir,
In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen;
Further to boast were neither true nor modest,
Unless I add we are honest.
CYMBELINE
Bow your knees.
Arise my knights o’ th’ battle; I create you
Companions to our person, and will fit you
With dignities becoming your estates.
CYMBELINE
There’s business in these faces. Why so sadly
Greet you our victory? You look like Romans,
And not o’ th’ court of Britain.
CORNELIUS
Hail, great King!
To sour your happiness I must report
The Queen is dead.
CYMBELINE
Who worse than a physician
Would this report become? But I consider
By med’cine life may be prolong’d, yet death
Will seize the doctor too. How ended she?
CORNELIUS
With horror, madly dying, like her life;
Which, being cruel to the world, concluded
Most cruel to herself. What she confess’d
I will report, so please you; these her women
Can trip me if I err, who with wet cheeks
Were present when she finish’d.
CYMBELINE
say.
CORNELIUS
First, she confess’d she never lov’d you; only
Affected greatness got by you, not you;
Married your royalty, was wife to your place;
Abhorr’d your person.
CYMBELINE
She alone knew this;
And but she spoke it dying, I would not
Believe her lips in opening it. Proceed.
CORNELIUS
Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to love
With such integrity, she did confess
Was as a scorpion to her sight; whose life,
But that her flight prevented it, she had
Ta’en off by poison.
CYMBELINE
O most delicate fiend!
Who is’t can read a woman? Is there more?
CORNELIUS
More, sir, and worse. She did confess she had
For you a mortal mineral, which, being took,
Should by the minute feed on life, and ling’ring,
By inches waste you. In which time she purpos’d,
By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to
O’ercome you with her show; and in time,
When she had fitted you with her craft, to work
Her son into th’ adoption of the crown;
But failing of her end by his strange absence,
Grew shameless-desperate, open’d, in despite
Of heaven and men, her purposes, repented
The evils she hatch’d were not effected; so,
Despairing, died.
CYMBELINE
Heard you all this, her women?
LADIES
We did, so please your Highness.
CYMBELINE
Mine eyes
Were not in fault, for she 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, O my daughter!
That it was folly in me mayst say,
And prove it in feeling. Heaven mend all!
CYMBELINE
com’st not, Caius, now for tribute; that
The Britons have raz’d out, though with the loss
Of many a bold one, whose kinsmen have made suit
That their good souls may be appeas’d with slaughter
Of you their captives, which ourself have granted;
So think of your estate.
LUCIUS
Consider, sir, the chance of war. The day
Was yours by accident; had it gone with us,
We should not, when the blood was cool, have threaten’d
Our prisoners with the sword. But since the gods
Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives
May be call’d ransom, let it come. Sufficeth
A Roman with a Roman’s heart can suffer.
Augustus lives to think on’t; and so much
For my peculiar care. This one thing only
I will entreat: my boy, a Briton born,
Let him be ransom’d. Never master had
A page so kind, so duteous, diligent,
So tender over his occasions, true,
So feat, so nurse-like; let his virtue join
With my request, which I’ll make bold your Highness
Cannot deny; he done no Briton harm
Though he have serv’d a Roman. Save him, sir,
And spare no blood beside.
CYMBELINE
I have surely seen him;
His favour is familiar to me. Boy,
look’d thyself into my grace,
And art mine own. I know not why,
To say “Live, boy.” thank master. Live;
And ask of Cymbeline what boon wilt,
Fitting my bounty and state, I’ll give it;
Yea, though do demand a prisoner,
The noblest ta’en.
IMOGEN
I humbly thank your Highness.
LUCIUS
I do not bid beg my life, good lad,
And yet I know wilt.
IMOGEN
No, no! ,
There’s other work in hand. I see a thing
Bitter to me as death; your life, good master,
Must shuffle for itself.
LUCIUS
The boy disdains me,
He leaves me, scorns me. Briefly die their joys
That place them on the truth of girls and boys.
Why stands he so perplex’d?
CYMBELINE
What , boy?
I love more and more; think more and more
What’s best to ask. Know’st him look’st on? Speak,
Wilt have him live? Is he kin? friend?
IMOGEN
He is a Roman, no more kin to me
Than I to your Highness; who, being born your vassal,
Am something nearer.
CYMBELINE
ey’st him so?
IMOGEN
I’ll tell you, sir, in private, if you please
To give me hearing.
CYMBELINE
Ay, with all my heart,
And lend my best attention. What’s name?
IMOGEN
Fidele, sir.
CYMBELINE
Thou’rt my good youth, my page;
I’ll be master. Walk with me; speak freely.
BELARIUS
Is not this boy reviv’d from death?
ARVIRAGUS
One sand another
Not more resembles that sweet rosy lad
Who died and was Fidele. What think you?
GUIDERIUS
The same dead thing alive.
BELARIUS
Peace, peace! see further. He eyes us not; forbear.
Creatures may be alike; were’t he, I am sure
He would have spoke to us.
GUIDERIUS
But we see him dead.
BELARIUS
Be silent; let’s see further.
PISANIO
It is my mistress.
Since she is living, let the time run on
To good or bad.
CYMBELINE
Come, stand by our side;
Make demand aloud. Sir, step you forth;
Give answer to this boy, and do it freely,
Or, by our greatness and the grace of it,
Which is our honour, bitter torture shall
Winnow the truth from falsehood. On, speak to him.
IMOGEN
My boon is that this gentleman may render
Of whom he had this ring.
POSTHUMUS
What’s that to him?
CYMBELINE
That diamond upon your finger, say
How came it yours?
IACHIMO
Thou’lt torture me to leave unspoken that
Which to be spoke would torture .
CYMBELINE
How? me?
IACHIMO
I am glad to be constrain’d to utter that
Which torments me to conceal. By villainy
I got this ring; Leonatus’ jewel,
Whom banish; and—which more may grieve ,
As it me—a nobler sir liv’d
’Twixt sky and ground. Wilt hear more, my lord?
CYMBELINE
All that belongs to this.
IACHIMO
That paragon, daughter,
For whom my heart drops blood and my false spirits
Quail to remember—Give me leave, I faint.
CYMBELINE
My daughter? What of her? Renew strength;
I had rather live while nature will
Than die I hear more. Strive, man, and speak.
IACHIMO
Upon a time, unhappy was the clock
That struck the hour: was in Rome, accurs’d
The mansion where: at a feast, O, would
Our viands had been poison’d (or at least
Those which I heav’d to head) the good Posthumus
(What should I say? he was too good to be
Where ill men were, and was the best of all
Amongst the rar’st of good ones) sitting sadly
Hearing us praise our loves of Italy
For beauty that made barren the swell’d boast
Of him that best could speak; for feature, laming
The shrine of Venus or straight-pight Minerva,
Postures beyond brief nature; for condition,
A shop of all the qualities that man
Loves woman for; besides that hook of wiving,
Fairness which strikes the eye.
CYMBELINE
I stand on fire.
Come to the matter.
IACHIMO
All too soon I shall,
Unless grieve quickly. This Posthumus,
Most like a noble lord in love and one
That had a royal lover, took his hint;
And (not dispraising 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 unspeaking sots.
CYMBELINE
Nay, nay, to th’ purpose.
IACHIMO
Your daughter’s chastity (there it begins)
He spake of her as Dian had hot dreams
And she alone were cold; whereat I, wretch,
Made scruple of his praise, and wager’d with him
Pieces of gold ’gainst this which then he wore
Upon his honour’d finger, to attain
In suit the place of’s bed, and win this ring
By hers and mine adultery. He, true knight,
No lesser of her honour confident
Than I did truly find her, stakes this ring;
And would so, had it been a carbuncle
Of Phoebus’ wheel; and might so safely, had it
Been all the worth of’s car. Away to Britain
Post I in this design. Well may you, sir,
Remember me at court, where I was taught
Of your chaste daughter the wide difference
’Twixt amorous and villainous. Being thus quench’d
Of hope, not longing, mine Italian brain
Gan in your duller Britain operate
Most vilely; for my vantage, excellent;
And, to be brief, my practice so prevail’d
That I return’d with simular proof enough
To make the noble Leonatus mad,
By wounding his belief in her renown
With tokens thus and thus; averring notes
Of chamber-hanging, pictures, this her bracelet
(O cunning, how I got it!) nay, some marks
Of secret on her person, that he could not
But think her bond of chastity quite crack’d,
I having ta’en the forfeit. Whereupon
I see him now—
POSTHUMUS
Ay, so ,
Italian fiend! Ay me, most credulous fool,
Egregious murderer, thief, anything
That’s due to all the villains past, in being,
To come! O, give me cord, or knife, or poison,
Some upright justicer! , King, send out
For torturers ingenious. It is I
That all th’ abhorred things o’ th’ earth amend
By being worse than they. I am Posthumus,
That kill’d daughter; villain-like, I lie;
That caus’d a lesser villain than myself,
A sacrilegious thief, to do’t. The temple
Of virtue was she; yea, and she herself.
Spit, and throw stones, cast mire upon me, set
The dogs o’ th’ street to bay me. Every villain
Be call’d Posthumus Leonatus, and
Be villainy less than ! O Imogen!
My queen, my life, my wife! O Imogen,
Imogen, Imogen!
IMOGEN
Peace, my lord. Hear, hear!
POSTHUMUS
Shall’s have a play of this? scornful page,
There lies part.
PISANIO
O gentlemen, help!
Mine and your mistress! O, my lord Posthumus!
You kill’d Imogen till now. Help, help!
Mine honour’d lady!
CYMBELINE
Does the world go round?
POSTHUMUS
How comes these staggers on me?
PISANIO
Wake, my mistress!
CYMBELINE
If this be so, the gods do mean to strike me
To death with mortal joy.
PISANIO
How fares my mistress?
IMOGEN
O, get from my sight;
gav’st me poison. Dangerous fellow, !
Breathe not where princes are.
CYMBELINE
The tune of Imogen!
PISANIO
Lady,
The gods throw stones of sulphur on me, if
That box I gave you was not thought by me
A precious thing! I had it from the Queen.
CYMBELINE
New matter still?
IMOGEN
It poison’d me.
CORNELIUS
O gods!
I left out one thing which the Queen confess’d,
Which must approve honest. ‘If Pisanio
Have’ said she ‘given his mistress that confection
Which I gave him for cordial, she is serv’d
As I would serve a rat.’
CYMBELINE
What’s this, Cornelius?
CORNELIUS
The Queen, sir, very importun’d me
To temper poisons for her; still pretending
The satisfaction of her knowledge only
In killing creatures vile, as cats and dogs,
Of no esteem. I, dreading that her purpose
Was of more danger, did compound for her
A certain stuff, which, being ta’en would cease
The present pow’r of life, but in short time
All offices of nature should again
Do their due functions. Have you ta’en of it?
IMOGEN
Most like I did, for I was dead.
BELARIUS
My boys,
There was our error.
GUIDERIUS
This is sure Fidele.
IMOGEN
Why did you throw your wedded lady from you?
Think that you are upon a rock, and now
Throw me again.
POSTHUMUS
Hang there like fruit, my soul,
Till the tree die!
CYMBELINE
How now, my flesh? my child?
What, mak’st me a dullard in this act?
Wilt not speak to me?
IMOGEN
Your blessing, sir.
BELARIUS
Though you did love this youth, I blame not;
You had a motive for’t.
CYMBELINE
My tears that fall
Prove holy water on ! Imogen,
mother’s dead.
IMOGEN
I am sorry for’t, my lord.
CYMBELINE
O, she was , and long of her it was
That we meet here so strangely; but her son
Is gone, we know not how nor where.
PISANIO
My lord,
Now fear is from me, I’ll speak troth. Lord Cloten,
Upon my lady’s missing, came to me
With his sword drawn, foam’d at the mouth, and swore,
If I discover’d not which way she was gone,
It was my instant death. By accident
I had a feigned letter of my master’s
Then in my pocket, which directed him
To seek her on the mountains near to Milford;
Where, in a frenzy, in my master’s garments,
Which he enforc’d from me, away he posts
With unchaste purpose, and with oath to violate
My lady’s honour. What became of him
I further know not.
GUIDERIUS
Let me end the story:
I slew him there.
CYMBELINE
Marry, the gods forfend!
I would not good deeds should from my lips
Pluck a hard sentence. , valiant youth,
Deny’t again.
GUIDERIUS
I have spoke it, and I did it.
CYMBELINE
He was a prince.
GUIDERIUS
A most incivil one. The wrongs he did me
Were nothing prince-like; for he did provoke me
With language that would make me spurn the sea,
If it could so roar to me. I cut off’s head,
And am right glad he is not standing here
To tell this tale of mine.
CYMBELINE
I am sorry for .
By own tongue art condemn’d, and must
Endure our law. Thou’rt dead.
IMOGEN
That headless man
I thought had been my lord.
CYMBELINE
Bind the offender,
And take him from our presence.
BELARIUS
Stay, sir King.
This man is better than the man he slew,
As well descended as thyself, and
More of merited than a band of Clotens
Had ever scar for. Let his arms alone;
They were not born for bondage.
CYMBELINE
Why, old soldier,
Wilt undo the worth art unpaid for
By tasting of our wrath? How of descent
As good as we?
ARVIRAGUS
In that he spake too far.
CYMBELINE
And die for’t.
BELARIUS
We will die all three;
But I will prove that two on’s are as good
As I have given out him. My sons, I must
For mine own part unfold a dangerous speech,
Though haply well for you.
ARVIRAGUS
Your danger’s ours.
GUIDERIUS
And our good his.
BELARIUS
Have at it then by leave!
hadst, great King, a subject who
Was call’d Belarius.
CYMBELINE
What of him? He is
A banish’d traitor.
BELARIUS
He it is that
Assum’d this age; indeed a banish’d man;
I know not how a traitor.
CYMBELINE
Take him ,
The whole world shall not save him.
BELARIUS
Not too hot.
First pay me for the nursing of sons,
And let it be confiscate all, so soon
As I have receiv’d it.
CYMBELINE
Nursing of my sons?
BELARIUS
I am too blunt and saucy: here’s my knee.
I arise I will prefer my sons;
Then spare not the old father. Mighty sir,
These two young gentlemen that call me father,
And think they are my sons, are none of mine;
They are the issue of your loins, my liege,
And blood of your begetting.
CYMBELINE
How? my issue?
BELARIUS
So sure as you your father’s. I, old Morgan,
Am that Belarius whom you sometime banish’d.
Your pleasure was my mere offence, my punishment
Itself, and all my treason; that I suffer’d
Was all the harm I did. These gentle princes
(For such and so they are) these twenty years
Have I train’d up; those arts they have as I
Could put into them. My breeding was, sir, as
Your Highness knows. Their nurse, Euriphile,
Whom for the theft I wedded, stole these children
Upon my banishment; I mov’d her to’t,
Having receiv’d the punishment before
For that which I did then. Beaten for loyalty
Excited me to treason. Their dear loss,
The more of you felt, the more it shap’d
Unto my end of stealing them. But, gracious sir,
Here are your sons again, and I must lose
Two of the sweet’st companions in the world.
The benediction of these covering heavens
Fall on their heads like dew! for they are worthy
To inlay heaven with stars.
CYMBELINE
weep’st and speak’st.
The service that you three have done is more
Unlike than this tell’st. I lost my children.
If these be they, I know not how to wish
A pair of worthier sons.
BELARIUS
Be pleas’d awhile.
This gentleman, whom I call Polydore,
Most worthy prince, as yours, is true Guiderius;
This gentleman, my Cadwal, Arviragus,
Your younger princely son; he, sir, was lapp’d
In a most curious mantle, wrought by th’ hand
Of his queen mother, which for more probation
I can with ease produce.
CYMBELINE
Guiderius had
Upon his neck a mole, a sanguine star;
It was a mark of wonder.
BELARIUS
This is he,
Who upon him still that natural stamp.
It was wise nature’s end in the donation,
To be his evidence now.
CYMBELINE
O, what am I?
A mother to the birth of three? mother
Rejoic’d deliverance more. Blest pray you be,
That, after this strange starting from your orbs,
You may reign in them now! O Imogen,
lost by this a kingdom.
IMOGEN
No, my lord;
I have got two worlds by’t. O my gentle brothers,
Have we thus met? O, never say hereafter
But I am truest speaker! You call’d me brother,
When I was but your sister: I you brothers,
When we were so indeed.
CYMBELINE
Did you e’er meet?
ARVIRAGUS
Ay, my good lord.
GUIDERIUS
And at first meeting lov’d,
Continu’d so until we thought he died.
CORNELIUS
By the Queen’s dram she swallow’d.
CYMBELINE
O rare instinct!
When shall I hear all through? This fierce abridgement
to it circumstantial branches, which
Distinction should be rich in. Where? how liv’d you?
And when came you to serve our Roman captive?
How parted with your brothers? how first met them?
Why fled you from the court? and ? These,
And your three motives to the battle, with
I know not how much more, should be demanded,
And all the other by-dependances,
From chance to chance; but nor the time nor place
Will serve our long interrogatories. See,
Posthumus anchors upon Imogen;
And she, like harmless lightning, throws her eye
On him, her brothers, me, her master, hitting
Each object with a joy; the counterchange
Is severally in all. Let’s quit this ground,
And smoke the temple with our sacrifices.
art my brother; so we’ll hold ever.
IMOGEN
You are my father too, and did relieve me
To see this gracious season.
CYMBELINE
All o’erjoy’d
Save these in bonds. Let them be joyful too,
For they shall taste our comfort.
IMOGEN
My good master,
I will yet do you service.
LUCIUS
Happy be you!
CYMBELINE
The forlorn soldier, that so nobly fought,
He would have well becom’d this place and grac’d
The thankings of a king.
POSTHUMUS
I am, sir,
The soldier that did company these three
In poor beseeming; a fitment for
The purpose I then follow’d. That I was he,
Speak, Iachimo. I had you down, and might
Have made you finish.
IACHIMO
I am down again;
But now my heavy conscience sinks my knee,
As then your force did. Take that life, beseech you,
Which I so often owe; but your ring first,
And here the bracelet of the truest princess
That ever swore her faith.
POSTHUMUS
Kneel not to me.
The pow’r that I have on you is to spare you;
The malice towards you to forgive you. Live,
And deal with others better.
CYMBELINE
Nobly doom’d!
We’ll learn our freeness of a son-in-law;
Pardon’s the word to all.
ARVIRAGUS
You holp us, sir,
As you did mean indeed to be our brother;
Joy’d are we that you are.
POSTHUMUS
Your servant, Princes. Good my lord of Rome,
Call forth your soothsayer. As I slept, methought
Great Jupiter, upon his eagle back’d,
Appear’d to me, with other spritely shows
Of mine own kindred. When I wak’d, I found
This label on my bosom; whose containing
Is so from sense in hardness that I can
Make no collection of it. Let him show
His skill in the construction.
LUCIUS
Philarmonus!
SOOTHSAYER
Here, my good lord.
LUCIUS
Read, and declare the meaning.
SOOTHSAYER
When as a lion’s whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embrac’d by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopp’d branches which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate and flourish in peace and plenty.
, Leonatus, art the lion’s whelp;
The fit and apt construction of name,
Being Leo-natus, import so much.
The piece of tender air, virtuous daughter,
Which we call mollis aer, and mollis aer
We term it mulier; which mulier I divine
Is this most constant wife, who even now
Answering the letter of the oracle,
Unknown to you, unsought, were clipp’d about
With this most tender air.
CYMBELINE
This some seeming.
SOOTHSAYER
The lofty cedar, royal Cymbeline,
Personates ; and lopp’d branches point
two sons forth, who, by Belarius stol’n,
For many years thought dead, are now reviv’d,
To the majestic cedar join’d, whose issue
Promises Britain peace and plenty.
CYMBELINE
Well,
My peace we will begin. And, Caius Lucius,
Although the victor, we submit to Cæsar
And to the Roman empire, promising
To pay our wonted tribute, from the which
We were dissuaded by our wicked queen,
Whom heavens in justice, both on her and hers,
Have laid most heavy hand.
SOOTHSAYER
The fingers of the pow’rs above do tune
The harmony of this peace. The vision
Which I made known to Lucius the stroke
Of yet this scarce-cold battle, at this instant
Is full accomplish’d; for the Roman eagle,
From south to west on wing soaring aloft,
Lessen’d herself and in the beams o’ th’ sun
So vanish’d; which foreshow’d our princely eagle,
Th’ imperial Cæsar, should again unite
His favour with the radiant Cymbeline,
Which shines here in the west.
CYMBELINE
Laud we the gods;
And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils
From our bless’d altars. Publish we this peace
To all our subjects. Set we forward; let
A Roman and a British ensign wave
Friendly together. So through Lud’s Town march;
And in the temple of great Jupiter
Our peace we’ll ratify; seal it with feasts.
Set on there! Never was a war did cease,
bloody hands were wash’d, with such a peace.
Open Cymbeline in the 1623 First Folio. See its words in the cloud.
Modern spelling for reading. The edition is public domain in the United States. Edition source.