That place them on the truth of girls and boys.
Why stands he so perplex’d?
CYMBELINE 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?
IMOGEN He is a Roman; no more kin to me
Than I to your highness; who, being born your vassal,
Am something nearer.
CYMBELINE Wherefore eyest 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 thy name?
IMOGEN Fidele, sir.
CYMBELINE Thou’rt my good youth, my page;
I’ll be thy master: walk with me; speak freely.
CYMBELINE and IMOGEN converse apart
BELARIUS Is not this boy revived 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 saw him dead.
BELARIUS Be silent; let’s see further.
PISANIO[Aside]
It is my mistress:
Since she is living, let the time run on
To good or bad.
CYMBELINE and IMOGEN come forward
CYMBELINE 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.
IMOGEN My boon is, that this gentleman may render
Of whom he had this ring.
POSTHUMUS LEONATUS [Aside]
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 thee.
CYMBELINE How! me?
IACHIMO 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?
CYMBELINE All that belongs to this.
IACHIMO That paragon, thy 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 thy strength:
I had rather thou shouldst live while nature will
Than die ere I hear more: strive, man, and speak.
IACHIMO Upon a time,–unhappy was the clock
That struck the hour!–it was in Rome,–accursed
The mansion where!–’twas at a feast,–O, would
Our viands had been poison’d, or at least
Those which I heaved 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 rarest 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 thou wouldst 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 praised,–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-trolls, or his description
Proved us unspeaking sots.
CYMBELINE Nay, nay, to the 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 villanous. 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 practise 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; averting 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–
Methinks, I see him now–
POSTHUMUS LEONATUS [Advancing]
Ay, so thou dost,
Italian fiend! Ay me, most credulous fool,
Egregious murderer, thief, any thing
That’s due to all the villains past, in being,
To come! O, give me cord, or knife, or poison,
Some upright justicer! Thou, king, send out
For torturers ingenious: it is I
That all the abhorred things o’ the earth amend
By being worse than they. I am Posthumus,
That kill’d thy daughter:–villain-like, I lie–
That caused 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’ the street to bay me: every villain
Be call’d Posthumus Leonitus; and
Be villany less than ’twas! O Imogen!
My queen, my life, my wife! O Imogen,
Imogen, Imogen!
IMOGEN Peace, my lord; hear, hear–
POSTHUMUS LEONATUS Shall’s have a play of this? Thou scornful page,
There lie thy part.
Striking her: she falls
PISANIO O, gentlemen, help!
Mine and your mistress! O, my lord Posthumus!
You ne’er kill’d Imogen til now. Help, help!
Mine honour’d lady!
CYMBELINE Does the world go round?
POSTHUMUS LEONATUS How come 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 thy mistress?
IMOGEN O, get thee from my sight;
Thou gavest me poison: dangerous fellow, hence!
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 thee honest: ‘If Pisanio
Have,’ said she, ‘given his mistress that confection
Which I gave him for cordial, she is served
As I would serve a rat.’
CYMBELINE What’s this, Comelius?
CORNELIUS The queen, sir, very oft importuned 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 power 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.
Embracing him
POSTHUMUS LEONATUS Hang there like a fruit, my soul,
Till the tree die!
CYMBELINE How now, my flesh, my child!
What, makest thou me a dullard in this act?
Wilt thou not speak to me?
IMOGEN [Kneeling]
Your blessing, sir.
BELARIUS [To GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS]
Though you did love
this youth, I blame ye not:
You had a motive for’t.
CYMBELINE My tears that fall
Prove holy water on thee! Imogen,
Thy mother’s dead.
IMOGEN I am sorry for’t, my lord.
CYMBELINE O, she was nought; 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,
had a feigned letter of my master’s
Then in my pocket; which directed him
To seek her on the mountains near to Milford;