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You shall not now be stol’n, you have locks upon you; So graze as you find pasture.
You won’t be stolen now, you have locks on you; So rest as you find food.
Ay, or a stomach.
Or a stomach.
Most welcome, bondage! for thou art away, 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.
Welcome, prison! For you are a step away, Think, from freedom: still, I am better Than one suffering from gout; for he’d rather Groan forever than be cured By the sure doctor, death, who holds the key To unlock these chains. My conscience, you are chained More than my legs and wrists: you good gods, give me The tool to pick this lock, And then, I’ll be free forever! Is it enough that I’m sorry? So children appease their earthly fathers; Gods are more merciful. Must I repent? I can’t do it better than in chains, Desiring it more than forced: to satisfy, If freedom is my main goal, take No more from me than my life. I know you are kinder than wicked men, Who take a third, a sixth, a tenth from their debtors, Letting them live again On their remaining balance: that’s not my wish: For Imogen’s dear life, take mine; and though It’s not as valuable, it’s still a life; you gave it to me: Between men, they don’t weigh every coin; Though light, take the pieces for the image’s sake: You’d rather have mine, since it’s yours: and so, great gods, If you will take this count, take my life, And cancel these cold chains. Oh Imogen! I’ll speak to you in silence.
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.
No more, you thunder god, stop Your wrath on helpless mortals: Argue with Mars, quarrel with Juno, Let your affairs of infidelity Be settled and revenged. Has my poor son done anything wrong, Whose face I never saw? I died while he was still in the womb, Awaiting nature’s plan: Whose father then, as the stories say, You are the father of orphans, You should have been there, protecting him From this earthly pain.
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!
Lucina did not help me, But took me in my labor; From me Posthumus was torn, Crying as he came among his enemies, A pitiful sight!
Great nature, like his ancestry, Moulded the stuff so fair, That he deserved the praise o’ the world, As great Sicilius’ heir.
Great nature, like his noble lineage, Shaped him so perfectly, That he deserved all the world’s praise, As the heir of great Sicilius.
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?
When he grew to manhood, In Britain, where was he That could match him? Or who could stand as his equal In Imogen’s eyes, who best Could see his true worth?
With marriage wherefore was he mock’d, To be exiled, and thrown From Leonati seat, and cast From her his dearest one, Sweet Imogen?
Why was he mocked with marriage, Exiled, and cast out From the Leonati seat, and thrown From her, his dearest one, Sweet Imogen?
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?
Why did you let Iachimo, That worthless Italian, Poison his noble heart and mind With unnecessary jealousy, And make him a fool, scorned for The villainy of another?
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.
For this, we came from quieter places, Our parents and we two, That, fighting for our country’s cause, We fell bravely and were slain, To uphold our loyalty and Tenantius’ right, With honor.
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?
Like courage Posthumus showed To fulfill his duty to Cymbeline: Then, Jupiter, king of gods, Why have you delayed The rewards he deserves, When all his efforts have turned to sorrow?
Thy crystal window ope; look out; No longer exercise Upon a valiant race thy harsh And potent injuries.
Open your crystal window; look out; No longer unleash Your harsh and powerful wrath On a brave family.
Since, Jupiter, our son is good, Take off his miseries.
Since our son is virtuous, Jupiter, Relieve him of his suffering.
Peep through thy marble mansion; help; Or we poor ghosts will cry To the shining synod of the rest Against thy deity.
Look through your marble palace; help us; Or we, poor spirits, will cry To the council of other gods Against you.
Help, Jupiter; or we appeal, And from thy justice fly.
Help, Jupiter; or we will appeal, And flee from your justice.
No more, you petty spirits of region low, Offend our hearing; hush! How dare you ghosts Accuse the thunderer, whose bolt, you know, Sky-planted batters all rebelling coasts? Poor shadows of Elysium, hence, and rest Upon your never-withering banks of flowers: Be not with mortal accidents opprest; No care of yours it is; you know ’tis ours. Whom best I love I cross; to make my gift, The more delay’d, delighted. Be content; Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift: His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent. Our Jovial star reign’d at his birth, and in Our temple was he married. Rise, and fade. He shall be lord of lady Imogen, And happier much by his affliction made. This tablet lay upon his breast, wherein Our pleasure his full fortune doth confine: and so, away: no further with your din Express impatience, lest you stir up mine. Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline.
Enough, you petty spirits of low places, Stop bothering us; hush! How dare you ghosts Accuse the thunder god, whose bolt, you know, Strikes rebellious lands from the sky? Poor shades of the afterlife, go, and rest On your endless fields of flowers: It’s none of your concern; you know it’s ours. Whom I love most, I test; to make my gift, The more delayed, the more delightful. Be content; Your lowly son will be lifted by us, His trials will prove worth it. Our Jovial star shone when he was born, and in Our temple was he wed. Rise, and fade. He shall be lord of Imogen, And much happier for his struggles. This tablet lies on his chest, where Our will has determined his fate: Now go: no more complaining, Or you’ll anger me. Rise, eagle, to my heavenly home.
He came in thunder; his celestial breath Was sulphurous to smell: the holy eagle Stoop’d as to foot us: his ascension is More sweet than our blest fields: his royal bird Prunes the immortal wing and cloys his beak, As when his god is pleased.
He arrived with a storm; his divine breath Smelled like sulfur: the holy eagle Dove down as if to land on us: his rise is Sweeter than our blessed fields: his royal bird Tends his immortal wing and cleans his beak, Just like when his god is pleased.
Thanks, Jupiter!
Thanks, Jupiter!
The marble pavement closes, he is enter’d His radiant root. Away! and, to be blest, Let us with care perform his great behest.
The stone floor closes, he has entered His shining root. Let’s go! And, to be blessed, Let’s carefully do what he has commanded.
[Waking] Sleep, thou hast been a grandsire, and begot A father to me; and thou hast created A mother and two brothers: but, O scorn! Gone! they went hence so soon as they were born: And so I am awake. Poor wretches that depend On greatness’ favour dream as I have done, Wake and find nothing. But, alas, I swerve: Many dream not to find, neither deserve, And yet are steep’d in favours: so am I, That have this golden chance and know not why. What fairies haunt this ground? A book? O rare one! Be not, as is our fangled world, a garment Nobler than that it covers: let thy effects So follow, to be most unlike our courtiers, As good as promise.
[Waking] Sleep, you’ve been a grandfather, and created A father for me; and you’ve made A mother and two brothers: but, oh, what a disgrace! Gone! they left as soon as they were born: And so now I’m awake. Poor fools who depend On the favor of greatness dream like I did, Wake up, and find nothing. But, oh, I’m wrong: Many dream without finding, don’t deserve it, And yet are drowned in favors: so am I, Who have this golden opportunity and don’t know why. What fairies haunt this place? A book? Oh, a rare one! Don’t be like our fake world, a coat More noble than what it covers: let your actions Follow so differently, to be as good as promised.
’When as a lion’s whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embraced by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopped branches, which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate and flourish in peace and plenty.’ ’Tis still a dream, or else such stuff as madmen Tongue and brain not; either both or nothing; Or senseless speaking or a speaking such As sense cannot untie. Be what it is, The action of my life is like it, which I’ll keep, if but for sympathy.
’When a lion’s cub shall, not knowing who he is, Without searching find, and be embraced by a soft breeze; And when branches from a grand cedar are cut off, Which, having been dead for many years, Shall come back to life, joined to the old trunk and Grow fresh again; then Posthumus will end his sufferings, Britain will prosper and live in peace and abundance.’ It’s still a dream, or something madmen Talk about but can’t make sense of; either both or nothing; Or senseless talk, or talk that makes no sense. Whatever it is, My life’s actions are like it, which I’ll follow, if only for sympathy.
Come, sir, are you ready for death?
Come on, sir, are you ready to die?
Over-roasted rather; ready long ago.
More like overcooked; I’ve been ready for a while.
Hanging is the word, sir: if you be ready for that, you are well cooked.
Hanging’s the method, sir: if you’re ready for that, you’re well done.
So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators, the dish pays the shot.
So, if I’m a good meal for the spectators, the dish pays the price.
A heavy reckoning for you, sir. But the comfort is, you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more tavern-bills; which are often the sadness of parting, as the procuring of mirth: you come in flint for want of meat, depart reeling with too much drink; sorry that you have paid too much, and sorry that you are paid too much; purse and brain both empty; the brain the heavier for being too light, the purse too light, being drawn of heaviness: of this contradiction you shall now be quit. O, the charity of a penny cord! It sums up thousands in a trice: you have no true debitor and creditor but it; of what’s past, is, and to come, the discharge: your neck, sir, is pen, book and counters; so the acquittance follows.
A heavy bill for you, sir. But the good news is, you won’t owe anything more, no more tavern bills; which are often the saddest part of leaving, but also the cause of fun: you come in hungry, leave stumbling from too much drink; regretting you paid too much, and regretting you were overpaid; both your purse and mind are empty; your brain heavier because it’s too light, and the purse too light, drained of weight: you’ll be free from this contradiction now. Oh, the kindness of a little rope! It settles everything in an instant: you have no true debtor or creditor but it; for what’s past, what is, and what’s to come, it’s all cleared up: your neck, sir, is the pen, the book, and the calculator; so the settlement is made.
I am merrier to die than thou art to live.
I’m happier to die than you are to live.
Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the tooth-ache: but a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would change places with his officer; for, look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go.
Indeed, sir, he who sleeps doesn’t feel the toothache: but a man who were to sleep your sleep, with a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would switch places with his executioner; because, look here, sir, you don’t know which way you’ll go.
Yes, indeed do I, fellow.
Yes, I really do, my friend.
Your death has eyes in ’s head then; I have not seen him so pictured: you must either be directed by some that take upon them to know, or do take upon yourself that which I am sure you do not know, or jump the after inquiry on your own peril: and how you shall speed in your journey’s end, I think you’ll never return to tell one.
Then your death must have vision; I’ve never seen him so described: you must either be guided by those who claim to know, or take on something that I’m sure you don’t understand, or risk finding out on your own, at your own risk: and how you’ll fare at the end of your journey, I don’t think you’ll ever come back to tell anyone.
I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes to direct them the way I am going, but such as wink and will not use them.
I’m telling you, friend, there’s no need for eyes to show the way I’m going, except for those who shut them and refuse to use them.
What an infinite mock is this, that a man should have the best use of eyes to see the way of blindness! I am sure hanging’s the way of winking.
What an endless joke this is, that a man should have the best use of his eyes to find the way to blindness! I’m sure hanging’s the way of shutting your eyes.
Knock off his manacles; bring your prisoner to the king.
Take off his shackles; bring your prisoner to the king.
Thou bring’st good news; I am called to be made free.
You bring good news; they’re calling me to be set free.
I’ll be hang’d then.
I’ll be damned then.
Thou shalt be then freer than a gaoler; no bolts for the dead.
You’ll be freer than a jailer; no chains for the dead.
Unless a man would marry a gallows and beget young gibbets, I never saw one so prone. Yet, on my conscience, there are verier knaves desire to live, for all he be a Roman: and there be some of them too that die against their wills; so should I, if I were one. I would we were all of one mind, and one mind good; O, there were desolation of gaolers and gallowses! I speak against my present profit, but my wish hath a preferment in ’t.
Unless a man wants to marry a gallows and have kids who are gallowses, I’ve never seen anyone so eager. Still, in my heart, I know there are worse criminals who want to live, even if he is Roman: and some of them die against their will; so would I, if I were one of them. I wish we all thought the same, and thought good; oh, then there would be no need for jailers or gallows! I’m speaking against my own interest, but my wish outweighs that.