What air's from home. Haply this life is best,
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, travelling abed,
A prison for a debtor', that not dares
To stride a limit.

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;
Like warlike as the wolf for what we eat :
Our valour is, to chase what flies; 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 o' the court,
As hard to leave, as keep; whose top to climb
Is certain falling, or so slippery, that

The fear'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'sy at the censure.-O, boys! this story
The world may read in me: my body's mark'd
With Roman swords, and my report was once
First with the best of note. Cymbeline lov'd me;
And when a soldier was the theme, my name
Was not far off: then, was I as a tree,

5 A prison for a debtor,] All the old copies read," A prison or a debtor”— Pope's correction.

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!

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 hunter's 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 in the valleys.

[Exeunt GUI. and ARV.

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 call'd 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;

6 I' the cave WHEREIN THEY BOW,] The folios read, whereon the bow. burton amended the text, in consistency with what has gone before.

War

And thus I set my foot on's 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. Hark! the game is rous'd.
O Cymbeline! heaven, and my conscience, knows,
Thou didst unjustly banish me; whereon

At three, and two years old, I stole these babes,
Thinking to bar thee of succession, as

Thou reft'st me of my lands. Euriphile,

Thou wast their nurse; they took thee for their mother, And every day do honour to her grave:

Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call'd,

They take for natural father.-The game is up. [Exit.

SCENE IV.

Near Milford-Haven.

Enter PISANIO and IMOGEN.

Imo. Thou told'st me, when we came from horse, the place

Was near at hand.-Ne'er long'd my mother so

To see me first, as I have now',-Pisanio! Man!
Where is Posthumus?

What is in thy mind,

To see ME first, as I have now,] The folio, 1632, misprints "see me," of the folio, 1623, seeme, and it stands seem in the two later folios. Southern altered his copy of the folio, 1685, thus :

"Ne'er long'd his mother so

To see him first, as I have now ;"

which certainly is more consistent with Imogen's state of mind, and renders the words "as I have now " more relative. It may have been an original misprint in the folio, 1623.

That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that

sigh

From th' inward of thee? One, but painted thus,
Would be interpreted a thing perplex'd

Beyond self-explication: put thyself

Into a haviour of less fear, ere wildness
Vanquish my staider senses. What's the matter?
Why tender'st thou that paper to me, with
A look untender? If it be summer news,
Smile to't before; if winterly, thou need'st

But keep that countenance still.—My husband's hand!
That drug-damn'd Italy hath out-craftied him,

And he's at some hard point.-Speak, man: thy

tongue

May take off some extremity, which to read
Would be even mortal to me.

Pis.
Please you, read;
And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing
The most disdain'd of fortune.

Imo. [Reads.] [Reads.] "Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath played the strumpet in my bed; the testimonies whereof lie bleeding in me. I speak not out of weak surmises, but from proof as strong as my grief, and as certain as I expect my revenge. That part, thou, Pisanio, must act for me, if thy faith be not tainted with the breach of hers. Let thine own hands take away her life; I shall give thee opportunity at Milford-Haven: she hath my letter for the purpose: where, if thou fear to strike, and to make me certain it is done, thou art the pandar to her dishonour, and equally to me disloyal."

Pis. What shall I need to draw my sword? the

paper

Hath cut her throat already.-No; 'tis slander,
Whose edge is sharper than the sword; whose tongue
Outvenoms all the worms of Nile; whose breath
Rides 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.-What cheer, madam?
Imo. 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 nature,

To break it with a fearful dream of him,

And cry myself awake? that's false to his bed:
Is it?

Pis. Alas, good lady!

Imo. I false? Thy conscience witness.-Iachimo, Thou didst accuse him of incontinency;

Thou then look'dst like a villain; now, methinks,
Thy favour's good enough.-Some jay of Italy,
Whose mother was her painting, hath betray'd him :
Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion;
And, for I am richer than to hang by the walls,
I must be ripp'd:-to pieces with me!-O!
Men's vows are women's traitors. All good seeming,
By thy revolt, O husband! shall be thought
Put on for villany; not born where't grows,
But worn a bait for ladies.

Pis.

Good madam, hear me.

Imo. True honest men being heard, like false Æneas, Were in his time thought false; and Sinon's weeping Did scandal many a holy tear; took pity

From most true wretchedness: so thou, Posthumus,
Wilt lay the leaven on all proper men:

Goodly, and gallant, shall be false, and perjur'd,

From thy great fail.-Come, fellow, be thou honest:
Do thou thy master's bidding. When thou seest him,
A little witness my obedience: look!

I draw the sword myself: take it; and hit
The innocent mansion of my love, my heart.
Fear not; 'tis empty of all things, but grief:
Thy master is not there, who was, indeed,
The riches of it. Do his bidding; strike.