Would this report become? But I consider,
By medicine life may be prolong'd, yet death
Will seize the doctor too. How ended she?

Cor. 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.

Cym.

Prithee, say.

Cor. First, she confess'd she never loved you, only

Affected greatness got by you, not you:

Married your royalty, was wife to your place;

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Abhorr'd your person.

Cym.

Proceed.

And, but she spoke it dying, I would not

Believe her lips in opening it.

Cor. Your daughter, whom she bore in hand. to love

With such integrity, she did ccnfess

Was as a scorpion to her sight; whose life,
But that her flight prevented it, she had

Ta'en off by poison.

Cym.

O most delicate fiend!

Who is 't can read a woman?

Cor. More, sir, and worse.

she had

Is there more?

She did confess

For you a mortal mineral; which, being took,
Should by the minute feed on life and lingering
By inches waste you: in which time she pur-
posed,

By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to

43. bore in hand to love, beguiled into the belief that she loved her.

47. delicate, fine, subtle.

50. mineral, poison.

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живо

O'ercome you with her show, and in time,
When she had fitted you with her craft, to work
Her son into the 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.

Cym.

Heard you all this, her women? First Lady. We did, so please your highness. Cym. 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, thou mayst say,

And prove it in thy feeling.

Heaven mend all!

Enter LUCIUS, IACHIMO, the Soothsayer, and other Roman Prisoners, guarded; POSTHUMUS behind, and IMOGEN.

Thou comest not, Caius, now for tribute; that
The Britons have razed out, though with the loss
Of many a bold one; whose kinsmen have made

suit

That their good souls may be appeased with
slaughter

Of you their captives, which ourself have granted :
So think of your estate.

Luc. Consider, sir, the chance of war: the day
Was yours by accident; had it gone with us,

55. to work her son into the adoption of the crown, to procure his adoption as heir.

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70

68. prove it in thy feeling. attest it by your own sufferings. 74. estate, condition.

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 hath done no Briton harm,
Though he have served a Roman: save him, sir,
And spare no blood beside.

Cym.
I have surely seen him :
His favour is familiar to me. Boy,

Thou hast look'd thyself into my grace,

And art mine own. I know not why, nor wherefore,
To say 'live, boy:' ne'er thank thy master; live:
And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt,
Fitting my bounty and thy state, I'll give it ;
Yea, though thou do demand a prisoner,

The noblest ta'en.

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90

Imo. I humbly thank your highness. 100 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 see a thing

Bitter to me as death: your life, good master,

83 my peculiar care, my

personal concern.

87. over his occasions, in

ministering to his wants.

95. nor; omitted in Ff, supplied by Rowe.

Must shuffle for itself.

Luc.
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?

Cym.
What wouldst thou, boy?
I love thee more and more: think more and more
What's best to ask. Know'st him thou look'st
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 highness; who, being born your

vassal,

Am something nearer.

Cym.

Wherefore eyest 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 best attention. What's thy name?

Imo. Fidele, sir.

Cym.

Thou 'rt my good youth, my page;
I'll be thy master: walk with me; speak freely.
[Cymbeline and Imogen converse apart.
Bel. Is not this boy revived from death?
Arv.

One sand another 120

Not more resembles that sweet rosy lad

Who died, and was Fidele. What think you?
Gui. The same dead thing alive.

Bel. 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.

Gui.

Bel. Be silent; let's see further.

Pis.

But we saw him dead.

[Aside] It is my mistress :

Since she is living, let the time run on

To good or bad.

Cym.

[Cymbeline and Imogen come forward.
Come, stand thou by our side;

Make thy demand aloud. [To Iachimo] 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.

Imo. My boon is, that this gentleman may render Of whom he had this ring.

Post.

[Aside] What's that to him? Cym. That diamond upon your finger, say How came it yours?

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

Cym.

How! me?

Iach. I am glad to be constrain'd to utter that Which 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 lived

'Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou 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

strength :

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