Cymbeline

to do,
I know he’ll quickly fly my friendship too.
You have put me into rhyme. Lord Farewell; you’re angry. Posthumus

Still going? Exit Lord. This is a lord! O noble misery,
To be i’ the field, and ask “what news?” of me!
To-day how many would have given their honours
To have saved their carcasses! took heel to do’t,
And yet died too! I, in mine own woe charm’d,
Could not find death where I did hear him groan,
Nor feel him where he struck: being an ugly monster,
’Tis strange he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds,
Sweet words; or hath more ministers than we
That draw his knives i’ the war. Well, I will find him:
For being now a favourer to the Briton,
No more a Briton, I have resumed again
The part I came in: fight I will no more,
But yield me to the veriest hind that shall
Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is
Here made by the Roman; great the answer be
Britons must take. For me, my ransom’s death;
On either side I come to spend my breath;
Which neither here I’ll keep nor bear again,
But end it by some means for Imogen.

Enter two British Captains and Soldiers. First Captain

Great Jupiter be praised! Lucius is taken.
’Tis thought the old man and his sons were angels.

Second Captain

There was a fourth man, in a silly habit,
That gave the affront with them.

First Captain

So ’tis reported:
But none of ’em can be found. Stand! who’s there?

Posthumus

A Roman,
Who had not now been drooping here, if seconds
Had answer’d him.

Second Captain

Lay hands on him; a dog!
A leg of Rome shall not return to tell
What crows have peck’d them here. He brags his service
As if he were of note: bring him to the king.

Enter Cymbeline, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanio, Soldiers, Attendants, and Roman Captives. The Captains present Posthumus to Cymbeline, who delivers him over to a Gaoler: then exeunt omnes.

Scene IV

A British prison.

	Enter Posthumus and two Gaolers.
First Gaoler	You shall not now be stol’n, you have locks upon you; So graze as you find pasture.
Second Gaoler	Ay, or a stomach. Exeunt Gaolers.
Posthumus	Most welcome, bondage! for thou art a way, I think, to liberty: yet am I better Than one that’s sick o’ the gout; since he had rather Groan so in perpetuity than be cured By the sure physician, death, who is the key To unbar these locks. My conscience, thou art fetter’d More than my shanks and wrists: you good gods, give me The penitent instrument to pick that bolt, Then, free for ever! Is’t enough I am sorry? So children temporal fathers do appease; Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent? I cannot do it better than in gyves, Desired more than constrain’d: to satisfy, If of my freedom ’tis the main part, take No stricter render of me than my all. I know you are more clement than vile men, Who of their broken debtors take a third, A sixth, a tenth, letting them thrive again On their abatement: that’s not my desire: For Imogen’s dear life take mine; and though ’Tis not so dear, yet ’tis a life; you coin’d it: ’Tween man and man they weigh not every stamp; Though light, take pieces for the figure’s sake: You rather mine, being yours: and so, great powers, If you will take this audit, take this life, And cancel these cold bonds. O Imogen! I’ll speak to thee in silence. Sleeps.
	Solemn music. Enter, as in an apparition, Sicilius Leonatus, father to Posthumus, an old man, attired like a warrior; leading in his hand an ancient Matron, his wife, and mother to Posthumus, with music before them: then, after other music, follow the two young Leonati, brothers to Posthumus, with wounds as they died in the wars. They circle Posthumus round, as he lies sleeping.
Sicilius	No more, thou thunder-master, show Thy spite on mortal flies: With Mars fall out, with Juno chide, That thy adulteries Rates and revenges. Hath my poor boy done aught but well, Whose face I never saw? I died whilst in the womb he stay’d Attending nature’s law: Whose father then, as men report Thou orphans’ father art, Thou shouldst have been, and shielded him From this earth-vexing smart.
Mother	Lucina lent not me her aid, But took me in my throes; That from me was Posthumus ript, Came crying ’mongst his foes, A thing of pity!
Sicilius	Great nature, like his ancestry, Moulded the stuff so fair, That he deserved the praise o’ the world, As great Sicilius’ heir.
First Brother	When once he was mature for man, In Britain where was he That could stand up his parallel; Or fruitful object be In eye of Imogen, that best Could deem his dignity?
Mother	With marriage wherefore was he mock’d, To be exiled, and thrown From Leonati seat, and cast From her his dearest one, Sweet Imogen?
Sicilius	Why did you suffer Iachimo, Slight thing of Italy, To taint his nobler heart and brain With needless jealosy; And to become the geck and scorn O’ th’ other’s villany?
Second Brother	For this from stiller seats we came, Our parents and us twain, That striking in our country’s cause Fell bravely and were slain, Our fealty and Tenantius’ right With honour to maintain.
First Brother	Like hardiment Posthumus hath To Cymbeline perform’d: Then, Jupiter, thou king of gods, Why hast thou thus adjourn’d The graces for his merits due, Being all to dolours turn’d?
Sicilius	Thy crystal window ope; look out; No longer exercise Upon a valiant race thy harsh And potent injuries.
Mother	Since, Jupiter, our son is good, Take off his miseries.
Sicilius	Peep through thy marble mansion; help; Or we poor ghosts will cry To the shining synod of the rest Against thy deity.
Both Brothers	Help, Jupiter; or we appeal, And from thy justice fly.
	Jupiter descends in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an eagle: he throws a thunderbolt. The Ghosts fall on their knees.
Jupiter	No more, you petty spirits of region low, Offend our hearing; hush! How dare you ghosts Accuse the thunderer, whose