Cymbeline

and we will nothing pay
For wearing our own noses. Queen

That opportunity
Which then they had to take from’s, to resume
We have again. Remember, sir, my liege,
The kings your ancestors, together with
The natural bravery of your isle, which stands
As Neptune’s park, ribbed and paled in
With rocks unscalable and roaring waters,
With sands that will not bear your enemies’ boats,
But suck them up to the topmast. A kind of conquest
Caesar made here; but made not here his brag
Of “Came” and “saw” and “overcame:” with shame⁠—
The first that ever touch’d him⁠—he was carried
From off our coast, twice beaten; and his shipping⁠—
Poor ignorant baubles!⁠—upon our terrible seas,
Like egg-shells moved upon their surges, crack’d
As easily ’gainst our rocks: for joy whereof
The famed Cassibelan, who was once at point⁠—
O giglot fortune!⁠—to master Caesar’s sword,
Made Lud’s town with rejoicing fires bright
And Britons strut with courage.

Cloten Come, there’s no more tribute to be paid: our kingdom is stronger than it was at that time; and, as I said, there is no moe such Caesars: other of them may have crook’d noses, but to owe such straight arms, none. Cymbeline Son, let your mother end. Cloten We have yet many among us can gripe as hard as Cassibelan: I do not say I am one; but I have a hand. Why tribute? why should we pay tribute? If Caesar can hide the sun from us with a blanket, or put the moon in his pocket, we will pay him tribute for light; else, sir, no more tribute, pray you now. Cymbeline

You must know,
Till the injurious Romans did extort
This tribute from us, we were free: Caesar’s ambition,
Which swell’d so much that it did almost stretch
The sides o’ the world, against all colour here
Did put the yoke upon’s; which to shake off
Becomes a warlike people, whom we reckon
Ourselves to be.

Cloten
Lords We do. Cymbeline

Say, then, to Caesar,
Our ancestor was that Mulmutius which
Ordain’d our laws, whose use the sword of Caesar
Hath too much mangled; whose repair and franchise
Shall, by the power we hold, be our good deed,
Though Rome be therefore angry: Mulmutius made our laws,
Who was the first of Britain which did put
His brows within a golden crown and call’d
Himself a king.

Lucius

I am sorry, Cymbeline,
That I am to pronounce Augustus Caesar⁠—
Caesar, that hath more kings his servants than
Thyself domestic officers⁠—thine enemy:
Receive it from me, then: war and confusion
In Caesar’s name pronounce I ’gainst thee: look
For fury not to be resisted. Thus defied,
I thank thee for myself.

Cymbeline

Thou art welcome, Caius.
Thy Caesar knighted me; my youth I spent
Much under him; of him I gather’d honour;
Which he to seek of me again, perforce,
Behoves me keep at utterance. I am perfect
That the Pannonians and Dalmatians for
Their liberties are now in arms; a precedent
Which not to read would show the Britons cold:
So Caesar shall not find them.

Lucius Let proof speak. Cloten His majesty bids you welcome. Make pastime with us a day or two, or longer: if you seek us afterwards in other terms, you shall find us in our salt-water girdle: if you beat us out of it, it is yours; if you fall in the adventure, our crows shall fare the better for you; and there’s an end. Lucius So, sir. Cymbeline

I know your master’s pleasure and he mine:
All the remain is “Welcome!” Exeunt.

Scene II

Another room in the palace.

	Enter Pisanio, with a letter.
Pisanio	How? of adultery? Wherefore write you not What monster’s her accuser? Leonatus! O master! what a strange infection Is fall’n into thy ear! What false Italian, As poisonous-tongued as handed, hath prevail’d On thy too ready hearing? Disloyal! No: She’s punish’d for her truth, and undergoes, More goddess-like than wife-like, such assaults As would take in some virtue. O my master! Thy mind to her is now as low as were Thy fortunes. How! that I should murder her? Upon the love and truth and vows which I Have made to thy command? I, her? her blood? If it be so to do good service, never Let me be counted serviceable. How look I, That I should seem to lack humanity So much as this fact comes to? Reading. “Do’t: the letter That I have sent her, by her own command Shall give thee opportunity.” O damn’d paper! Black as the ink that’s on thee! Senseless bauble, Art thou a feodary for this act, and look’st So virgin-like without? Lo, here she comes. I am ignorant in what I am commanded.
	Enter Imogen.
Imogen	How now, Pisanio!
Pisanio	Madam, here is a letter from my lord.
Imogen	Who? thy lord? that is my lord, Leonatus! O, learn’d indeed were that astronomer That knew the stars as I his characters; He’ld lay the future open. You good gods, Let what is here contain’d relish of love, Of my lord’s health, of his content, yet not That we two are asunder; let that grieve him: Some griefs are med’cinable; that is one of them, For it doth physic love: of his content, All but in that! Good wax, thy leave. Blest be You bees that make these locks of counsel! Lovers And men in dangerous bonds pray not alike: Though forfeiters you cast in prison, yet You clasp young Cupid’s tables. Good news, gods! Reads. “Justice, and your father’s wrath, should he take me in his dominion, could not be so cruel to me, as you, O the dearest of creatures, would even renew me with your eyes. Take notice that I am in Cambria, at Milford-Haven: what your own love will out of this advise you, follow. So he wishes you all happiness, that remains loyal to his vow, and your, increasing in love, “Leonatus Posthumus.” O, for a horse with wings! Hear’st thou, Pisanio? He is at Milford-Haven: read, and tell me How far ’tis thither. If one of mean affairs May plod it in a week, why may not I Glide thither in a day? Then, true Pisanio⁠— Who long’st, like me, to see thy lord; who long’st⁠— O, let me bate⁠—but not like me⁠—yet long’st, But in a fainter kind:⁠—O, not like me; For mine’s beyond beyond⁠—say, and speak thick; Love’s counsellor should fill the bores of hearing, To the smothering of the sense⁠—how far it is To this same blessed Milford: and by