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Th. Now, proud Contemner


of us and of our gods, tremble to think it is not in the Power thou serv'st to save thee. Not all the riches of the sea, increased by violent shipwrecks, nor the unsearched mines, (mammon's unknown exchequer,) shall redeem thee: and, therefore, having first with horror weighed what 'tis to die and to die young: to part with all pleasures and delights: lastly to go where all antipathies to comfort dwell, force behind, about thee, and before thee; and, to add to affliction, the remembrance of the Elysian joys thou might'st have tasted, hadst thou not turned apostate to those gods that so reward their servants; let despair prevent the hangman's sword, and on this scaffold

make thy first entrance into hell. Ant. She smiles,

unmoved, by Mars! as if she were assured
Death, looking on her constancy, would forget

the use of his inevitable hand. Th. Derided too! dispatch, I say. 998 Dor. Thou fool !

that gloriest in having power to ravish
a trifle from me I am weary of.
What is this life to me? not worth a thought:
or, if it be esteem'd, 'tis that I lose it
to win a better: even thy malice serves
to me but as a ladder to mount up
to such a height of happiness, where I shall
look down with scorn on thee and on the world;
where, circled with true pleasures, placed above
the reach of death or time, 'twill be my glory
to think at what an easy price I bought it.
There's a perpetual spring, perpetual youth:
no joint-benumbing cold, or scorching heat,
famine, nor age, have any being there.
Forget, for shame, your Tempe; bury in
oblivion your feign'd Hesperian orchards :-
the golden fruit, kept by the watchful dragon,
which did require a Hercules to get it,

compared with what grows in all plenty there,
deserves not to be named. The Power I serve,
laughs at your happy Araby, or the
Elysian shades; for he hath made his bowers
better in deed, than you can fancy yours.




EICESTER, if gentle words might comfort me,

for kind and loving hast thou always been.
The griefs of private men are soon allay'd;
but not of kings. The forest deer, being struck,
runs to an herb that closeth up the wounds;
but when the imperial lion's flesh is gord,
he rends and tears it with his wrathful paw,
and, highly scorning that the lowly earth
should drink his blood, mounts up to the air.
And so it fares with me, whose dauntless mind
th' ambitious Mortimer would seek to curb;
and that unnatural queen, false Isabel,
that thus hath pent and mur'd me in a prison:
for such outrageous passions cloy my soul,
as with the wings of rancour and disdain,
full oft am I soaring up to heaven,
to plain me to the gods against them both.
But when I call to mind I am a king,
methinks I should revenge me of the wrongs
that Mortimer and Isabel have done.
But what are kings, when regiment is gone,
but perfect shadows in a sunshine day?
my nobles rule; I bear the name of king:
I wear the crown; but am controlld by them,
by Mortimer and my unconstant queen,
who spots my nuptial bed with infamy;
whilst am lodg’d within this cave of care,
where sorrow at my elbow still attends,
to company my heart with sad laments,
that bleeds within me for this strange exchange.


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LOW, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!

you cataracts and hurricanoes, spout
till you have drench'd our steeples, drown’d the cocks !
you sulphurous and thought-executing fires
vaunt-couriers of oak-cleaving thunderbolts
singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,
strike flat the thick rotundity o' the world !
crack nature's moulds, all germens spill at once,
that make ingrateful man!
Rumble thy bellyfull! Spit, fire ! spout, rain!
nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters;
I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness:
I never gave you kingdom, call'd you children,
you owe me no subscription; then let fall
your horrible pleasure: here I stand, your slave,
a poor, infirm, weak, and despis'd old man:-
but yet I call you servile ministers,
that will with two pernicious daughters join
your high-engendered battles 'gainst a head
so old and white as this! O, O 'tis foul!

Let the great Gods that keep the dreadful pother o'er our heads, find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch, that hast within thee undivulgéd crimes, unwhipp'd of justice: hide thee, thou bloody hand; thou perjur'd, and thou simular of virtue that art incestuous: caitiff, to pieces shake, that under covert and convenient seeming hast practis'd on man's life: close pent-up guilts, rive your concealing continents, and cry these dreadful summoners grace.-I am a man more sinned against than sinning.






GOODLY day not to keep house, with such whose roof's as low as ours! Stoop, boys: this

gate instructs you how to adore the heavens, and bows you to morning's holy office: the gates of monarchs are arch'd so high, that giants may jet through

and keep their impious turbans on, without
good morrow to the sun.—Hail, thou fair heaven!
we house i' the rock, yet use thee not so hardly

as prouder livers do. Gui.

Hail, heaven! Aru.

Hail, heaven!
Bel. Now, for our mountain sport: up to yond hill,

your legs are young; I'll tread these flats. Consider,
when you above perceive me like a crow,
that it is place which lessens and sets off:
and you may then revolve what tales I have told you
of courts, of princes, of the tricks in war:
this service is not service, so being done,
but being so allowed: to apprehend thus,
draws us a profit from all things we see:
and often, to our comfort, shall we find
the sharded beetle in a safer hold
than is the full-wing’d eagle. O! this life
is nobler than attending for a check;
richer than doing nothing for a bauble;
prouder, than rustling in unpaid-for silk:
such gain the cap of him that makes 'em fine,

yet keeps his book uncrossed: no life to ours. 1002 Gui. Out of your proof you speak: we, poor unfledg’d,

have never wing'd from view o'the nest, nor know not
what air's from home. Haply this life is blest,
if quiet life be best ; sweeter to you
that have a sharper known; well corresponding
with your stiff age; but unto us it is

a cell of ignorance. Arv.

What should we speak of, when we are old as you? when we shall hear the rain and wind beat dark December, how, in this our pinching cave, shall we discourse the freezing hours away? We have seen nothing; we are beastly; subtle as the fox for prey; our valour is to chase what Aies; our cage we make a quire, as doth the prison'd bird,

and sing our bondage freely. Bel.

How you speak!
did you but know the city's usuries,
and felt them knowingly: the art of the court,
as hard to leave as keep: the toil o' 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 courtsey at the censure:--0 boys, this story the world may read in me: Cymbeline loved me; and when a soldier was the theme, my name was not far off: then was I 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 me bare to weather. Gui.

Uncertain favour! 1003 Bel. My fault being nothing, -as I have told you oft

but that two villains, whose false oaths prevail'd
before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline
I was confederate with the Romans: so,
follow'd 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 hunters' language :-he that strikes
the venison first shall be the lord o’the feast;
to him the other two shall minister ;
and we will fear no poison, which attends
in place of greater state. I'll meet you i' the valleys.
- How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature!
These boys 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

thus meanly
i' 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
beyond the trick of others. This Polydore,—
the heir of Cymbeline and Britain, whom
the king his father calld 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 set my foot on's neck,” even then
the princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats,

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