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And sing our bondage freely.
How you speak!
Dint you but know the city's usuries,
And felt them knowingly: the art o’the court,
As hard to leave, as keep; whose top to climb
Is certain falling, or so slippery, that
The lear's as bad as falling: the toil of the war,
A pain that only seems to seek out danger
I'the name of fame, and honour; which dies i' the
search; And hath as oft a slanderous epitaph, As record of fair act; nay, many times, Doth ill deserve by doing well; what's worse, Must court'sey at ihe censure:-0, boys, this story The world may read in me: My body's mark'd With Roman swords: and mv report was once First with the best of note: Cymbeline lov'd me; And when a soldies was the theme, my name Was not far off: Then was 1 as a tree, Whose boughs did bend with fruit: but in one night, A storm, or robbery, call it what you' will, Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, And left ine bare to weather. Gui.
Uncertain farour! Bel. My fault being nothing (as I have told you
oft) But that two villains, whose false oaths prevaild Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline, I was confederate with the Romans; so, Followed my banishment; and, this twenty years, This rock, and these demesnes, have been my world: Where I have liv’d at honest freedom; paid More pious debts to heaven, than in all The fore-end of my time.- But, up to the mountains; This is not hunter's language:-He, that strikes The venison first, shall be the lord o' the seast; To him the other two shall minister; And we will lear no poison, which attends In place of greater state.
How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature!
These bovs know little they are sons to the king;
Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive.
They think they are mine: and, though train'd up
'the cave, wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit
The roofs of palaces; and nature prompts them,
In simple and low things to prince it, much
l'eyond the trick of others. This Polrdore,
The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, whom
The king his father called Guiderius,- Jove!
When on my three-foot stool I sit, and tell
The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out
Into my story: say, Thus mine enemy fell.;
And thus I sel my foot on his neck; even then
The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats,
Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture
That acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal,
(Once Arviragus,) in as like a figure,
Strikes life into my speech, and shows much more
His own conceiving.
No, 'tis slander; Whose edge is sharper than the sword; whose tongue Outvenoms all the worms of Nile; whose breath Riles on the posting winds, and doth belie All corners of the world: kings, queens, and states, Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave This viperous slander enters.
A WIFE'S INNOCENCY. False to his bed! What is it, to be false? To lie in watch there, and to think on him? To weep 'twixt clock and clock? if sleep charge na.
To break it with a fearful dream of him,
And ery myself awake? that's false to his bed?
WOMAN IN MAN'S APPAREL.
You must forget to be a woman; change
Comniand into obedience; fear and niceness,
(The handmaids of all womeil, or, more truly,
Voman its pretty sell,) to a waggish courage;
Ready in gibes, quick-answer'), saucy, and
As quarrelous as the weasel: nay, you must
Forget that rarest treasure of your cheek,
Exposing it (but, 0, the harder heart!
Alack no remedy!) to the greedy touch
Of common-kissing Trian;" and forget
Your laboursome and dainty trims, wherein
You made great Juno angry.
SCENE. Before the Cave of Belarius.
Enter Imogen, in Boy's Clothes.
lino. I see, man's life is a tedious one:
I have tir'd myself; and for two nights together
Have made the ground my bed. I should be sick,
But that my resolution helps ine.- Milford,
When from the mountain-top Pisanio show'd thee,
Thou wast within a ken: 0 Jove! I think,
Foundations fly the wretched: such, I mean, [me,
When they should be reliöy'd. Two beggars told
I could not miss my way: Will poor folks lie,
That have afflictions on them; knowing 'lis
A punishment, or trial? Yes, no wonder,
When rich ones scarce tell true: To lapse in fulness
Is sorer, than to lie for need: and falschood
Is worse in kings than beggars.—My dear lord'
Thou art one o' the false ones: Now I think on thee,
My hunger's gone; but eren before, I was
At point to sink for food.-But what is this?
Here is a path to it: 'Tis some savage hold:
I were best not call; I dare not call: yet famine,
Ere clean it o’erthrow nature, makes it valiant.
Plenty, and peace, breeds cowards; hardness ever
Of hardiness is mother.
Can snore upon the flint, when restire sloth
Finds the down pillow hard.
Ino. Good master harm me not:
Before I entered here, I call'd; and thought
• The sun.
To hare begg'd, or bought, what I hare took: Good
troth, I have stolen naught; nor would not though I had
found Gold strew'd o' the floor. Here's
my meat I would have left it on the board, so soon As I had made my nieal; and parted With prayers
for the provider. Gui.
Arv. All gold and silver rather turn to dirt!
As 'tis no better reckon'd, but of those
Who worship dirty gods.
To who? to thee? What art thou? Have not I
An arm as big as thine? a heart as big?
Thy words, I grant, are bigger; for I wear not
My dagger in my mouth.
Being scarce made up,
I mean, to man, he had not apprehension
Oi roaring terrors; for the effect of judgment
Is oft the cause of fear.
O thou goddess,
Thou divine nature, how thyself thou blazon'st
In these two princely boys! They are as gentle
As zephyrs blowing below the violet,
Not wagging his sweet head: and yet as rough,
Their royal blood enchaf'd, as the rud’et wind,
That by the top doth take the mountain pine,
And make him stoop to the vale. "Tis wonderful
That an invisible instinct should frame them
To royalty unlearn'd; honour urtaught;
Civility not seen from other: valour,
That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop
As if it had been sow'd.
Enter Agviragus, bearing Imogen, as dead, in his
Look, here he conces. And brings the dire occasion in his arms, Or what we blame him for! Arv.
The bird is dead
That we hare made so much on. I had rather
Have skipp'd from sixteen years of age to sixty,
To have turn'd my leaping time into a crutch,
T'han to have seen this.
O sweetest, fairest lily!
My brother wears thee not the one hall so well,
As when thou grew'st thyself.
Whoerer yet could sound thy bottom. find
The voze, to show what coast thy sluggish crare*
Might easiliest harbour in?--Thou blessed thing:
Jove knows what man thou might'st have made; but I,
Thou died'st a most rare boy of melancholy!-
Stark,t as you see: Thus smiling, as some tly had tickled slumber, Not as death's dart, being laugh'd at: his right cheek Reposing on a cushion. Gui.
O'the floor; His arms thus leagu’d: I thought, lie slept; and put My clouted broguest from off my feet, whose rudeAnswer'd my steps too loud.
Why, he but sleeps; If he be gone, he'll make his grave a bed; With female fairies will his tomb be haunted, And worms will not conie to thee.
With fairest flowers, Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, I'll sweeten thy sad grave: Thou shalt not lack The flower, that's like thy face, pale primrose; nor The azurid hare-bell like thy reins: no, nor T'he leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, Out-sweetend not thy breath; the ruddocks would With charitable bill (0 bill, sore-sharing * Slow-sailing, unwieldy vessel. † Stiff.
Shocs plated with iron. § The red-breast.