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Stand by my side, you whom the gods have made Preservers of my throne. Woe is my heart That the poor soldier that so richly fought, Whose rags shamed gilded arms, whose naked breast Stepp’d before larges of proof, cannot be found: He shall be happy that can find him, if Our grace can make him so.
Stand by my side, you who the gods have made protectors of my throne. My heart grieves that the poor soldier who fought so bravely, whose rags put the finest armor to shame, whose bare chest went before all challenges, cannot be found: He will be lucky who can find him, if our favor can make him so.
I never saw Such noble fury in so poor a thing; Such precious deeds in one that promises nought But beggary and poor looks.
I’ve never seen such noble anger in such a poor man; such amazing actions from one who seems destined for nothing but poverty and misfortune.
No tidings of him?
No news of him?
He hath been search’d among the dead and living, But no trace of him.
He has been searched among the dead and the living, But there’s no sign of him.
To my grief, I am The heir of his reward;
To my sorrow, I am The heir to the reward for his actions;
which I will add To you, the liver, heart and brain of Britain, By whom I grant she lives. ’Tis now the time To ask of whence you are. Report it.
which I will give To you, the heart, soul, and mind of Britain, Through whom I say she survives. Now is the time To ask where you’re from. Tell me.
Sir, In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen: Further to boast were neither true nor modest, Unless I add, we are honest.
Sir, We were born in Wales, and are gentlemen: To say more would be neither true nor modest, Unless I add that we are honest.
Bow your knees. Arise my knights o’ the battle: I create you Companions to our person and will fit you With dignities becoming your estates.
Kneel before me. Rise, my knights of the battle: I make you Companions of my person and will honor you With titles fitting your rank.
There’s business in these faces. Why so sadly Greet you our victory? you look like Romans, And not o’ the court of Britain.
There’s something serious on their faces. Why do you look so sad After our victory? You look like Romans, Not people of the British court.
Hail, great king! To sour your happiness, I must report The queen is dead.
Hail, great king! To spoil your happiness, I must report That the queen is dead.
Who worse than a physician Would this report become? But I consider, By medicine life may be prolong’d, yet death Will seize the doctor too. How ended she?
Who could be worse than a doctor To bring such news? But I consider, That through medicine, life can be extended, yet death Will claim the doctor as well. How did she die?
With horror, madly dying, like her life, Which, being cruel to the world, concluded Most cruel to herself. What she confess’d I will report, so please you: these her women Can trip me, if I err; who with wet cheeks Were present when she finish’d.
In horror, dying madly, just as she lived, Cruel to the world, and most cruel to herself. What she confessed, I will tell you, if it pleases you: these women Can correct me, if I make any mistakes; they were there, With wet cheeks, when she passed away.
Prithee, say.
Please, tell me.
First, she confess’d she never loved you, only Affected greatness got by you, not you: Married your royalty, was wife to your place; Abhorr’d your person.
First, she admitted that she never loved you, only Wanted the power you gave her, not you: She married your royal position, not you yourself; She hated your person.
She alone knew this; And, but she spoke it dying, I would not Believe her lips in opening it. Proceed.
She alone knew this; And if she hadn’t spoken it just before she died, I wouldn’t Have believed it if it came from her lips. Go on.
Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to love With such integrity, she did confess Was as a scorpion to her sight; whose life, But that her flight prevented it, she had Ta’en off by poison.
Your daughter, whom she claimed to love With such sincerity, she confessed Was like a scorpion to her eyes; and her life, If her flight hadn’t stopped it, she would have Taken her life with poison.
O most delicate fiend! Who is ’t can read a woman? Is there more?
Oh, what a delicate devil! Who can understand a woman? Is there more?
More, sir, and worse. She did confess she had For you a mortal mineral; which, being took, Should by the minute feed on life and lingering By inches waste you: in which time she purposed, By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to O’ercome you with her show, and in time, When she had fitted you with her craft, to work Her son into the adoption of the crown: But, failing of her end by his strange absence, Grew shameless-desperate; open’d, in despite Of heaven and men, her purposes; repented The evils she hatch’d were not effected; so Despairing died.
Yes, sir, more, and worse. She admitted that she had A deadly charm for you; which, if taken, Would slowly drain your life, and over time Would wear you down: during this, she planned, By watching, weeping, attending, and kissing, to Overwhelm you with her act, and eventually, Once she had trapped you with her trickery, to make Her son the next king: But when her plan failed because of his strange absence, She became shameless and desperate; openly, against Heaven and men, she revealed her intentions; regretted That the harm she planned didn’t come to pass; and so Died in despair.
Heard you all this, her women?
Did you hear all this, her women?
We did, so please your highness.
We did, if it pleases your highness.
Mine eyes Were not in fault, for she was beautiful; Mine ears, that heard her flattery; nor my heart, That thought her like her seeming; it had been vicious To have mistrusted her: yet, O my daughter! That it was folly in me, thou mayst say, And prove it in thy feeling. Heaven mend all!
My eyes Were not to blame, for she was beautiful; My ears, that heard her flattery; nor my heart, That believed she was what she seemed; it would have been wrong To distrust her: yet, oh my daughter! That it was foolish of me, you may say, And prove it by how you feel. May Heaven fix everything!
Thou comest not, Caius, now for tribute that The Britons have razed out, though with the loss Of many a bold one; whose kinsmen have made suit That their good souls may be appeased with slaughter Of you their captives, which ourself have granted: So think of your estate.
You don’t come now, Caius, to collect tribute That the Britons have erased, even with the loss Of many brave men; whose families have asked That their souls may be at peace with the slaughter Of you, their captives, which I’ve agreed to: So think about your situation.
Consider, sir, the chance of war: the day Was yours by accident; had it gone with us, We should not, when the blood was cool, have threaten’d Our prisoners with the sword. But since the gods Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives May be call’d ransom, let it come: sufficeth A Roman with a Roman’s heart can suffer: Augustus lives to think on’t: and so much For my peculiar care. This one thing only I will entreat; my boy, a Briton born, Let him be ransom’d: never master had A page so kind, so duteous, diligent, So tender over his occasions, true, So feat, so nurse-like: let his virtue join With my request, which I make bold your highness Cannot deny; he hath done no Briton harm, Though he have served a Roman: save him, sir, And spare no blood beside.
Consider, sir, the nature of war: the day Was yours by chance; if it had gone our way, We wouldn’t have threatened Our prisoners with death when the blood had cooled. But since the gods Want it this way, that only our lives Can be called a ransom, let it come: it’s enough For a Roman with a Roman’s heart to endure: Augustus lives to think on it: and that’s enough For my special care. This one thing only I will ask; my boy, a Briton by birth, Let him be freed: no master ever had A servant so kind, so loyal, so hardworking, So caring for his duties, true, So skillful, so nurse-like: let his goodness join With my request, which I’m confident your highness Cannot refuse; he has done no harm to any Briton, Though he has served a Roman: save him, sir, And spare no other blood.
I have surely seen him: His favour is familiar to me. Boy, Thou hast look’d thyself into my grace, And art mine own. I know not why, wherefore, To say ’live, boy:’ ne’er thank thy master; live: And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt, Fitting my bounty and thy state, I’ll give it; Yea, though thou do demand a prisoner, The noblest ta’en.
I’ve certainly seen him: His face is familiar to me. Boy, You’ve earned my favor, And are now mine. I don’t know why, or for what reason, To say ‘live, boy,’ but don’t thank your master; live: And ask whatever you want from Cymbeline, Anything that suits my generosity and your situation, I’ll give it; Yes, even if you ask for a prisoner, The highest-ranking one taken.
I humbly thank your highness.
I humbly thank your highness.
I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad; And yet I know thou wilt.
I don’t tell you to beg for my life, good lad; And yet I know you will.
No, no: alack, There’s other work in hand: I see a thing Bitter to me as death: your life, good master, Must shuffle for itself.
No, no: alas, There’s something else I must do: I see something Worse than death to me: your life, good master, Must fend for itself.
The boy disdains me, He leaves me, scorns me: briefly die their joys That place them on the truth of girls and boys. Why stands he so perplex’d?
The boy disrespects me, He abandons me, scorns me: quickly end their happiness Who place their trust in the truth of girls and boys. Why does he look so troubled?
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?
What do you want, boy? I love you more and more: think carefully About what’s best to ask. Do you know the man you’re looking at? Speak, Do you want him to live? Is he your relative? Your friend?
He is a Roman; no more kin to me Than I to your highness; who, being born your vassal, Am something nearer.
He’s a Roman; no more related to me Than I am to your highness; who, being born your servant, Am a little closer.
Wherefore eyest him so?
Why do you look at him like that?
I’ll tell you, sir, in private, if you please To give me hearing.
I’ll tell you, sir, in private, if you please If you’ll listen to me.
Ay, with all my heart, And lend my best attention. What’s thy name?
Yes, of course, And I’ll pay full attention. What’s your name?
Fidele, sir.
Fidele, sir.
Thou’rt my good youth, my page; I’ll be thy master: walk with me; speak freely.
You’re my good young man, my servant; I’ll be your master: walk with me; speak openly.
Is not this boy revived from death?
Isn’t this boy brought back to life?
One sand another Not more resembles that sweet rosy lad Who died, and was Fidele. What think you?
One grain of sand more Doesn’t look more like that sweet, rosy lad Who died, and was Fidele. What do you think?
The same dead thing alive.
The same dead person, alive.
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.
Quiet, quiet! Let’s watch further; he doesn’t look at us; stop; People can look alike: if it were him, I’m sure He would have spoken to us.
But we saw him dead.
But we saw him dead.
Be silent; let’s see further.
Be quiet; let’s watch more closely.
[Aside] It is my mistress: Since she is living, let the time run on To good or bad.
[Aside] It’s my mistress: Since she’s alive, let time move forward, Whether it’s for good or bad.
Come, stand thou by our side; Make thy demand aloud.
Come, stand by my side; Speak your request loudly.
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.
Sir, step forward; Answer this boy, and do it openly; Or, by our greatness and the power it gives us, Which is our honor, severe torture will Separate truth from lies. Now, speak to him.
My boon is, that this gentleman may render Of whom he had this ring.
My request is that this man may tell us Where he got this ring.
[Aside] What’s that to him?
[Aside] What does that have to do with him?
That diamond upon your finger, say How came it yours?
That diamond on your finger, tell me How did you come by it?
Thou’lt torture me to leave unspoken that Which, to be spoke, would torture thee.
You’ll torture me if I don’t speak of it, But if I speak, I’ll torture you.
How! me?
What! Me?
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?
I’m glad I’m forced to say what I’ve kept silent, Which pains me to reveal. I got this ring by treachery: It was Leonatus’ jewel, The man you banished; and—what might hurt you more, As it does me—a nobler man never lived Between heaven and earth. Would you like to hear more, my lord?
All that belongs to this.
Tell me everything about it.
That paragon, thy daughter,-- For whom my heart drops blood, and my false spirits Quail to remember--Give me leave; I faint.
That perfect woman, your daughter— For whom my heart bleeds, and my false soul Trembles to remember—Give me a moment; I’m faint.
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.
My daughter! What about her? Take a moment: I’d rather you live than die before I hear more: speak, man, and tell me.
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--
Once, at a time—I wish it had never happened! It was in Rome—the cursed place!—at a feast—oh, how I wish The food had been poisoned, or at least The food I had raised to my mouth!—The good Posthumus— What can I say? He was too noble to be Among evil men; and he was the best of all Among the rarest good ones—sitting sadly, Listening to us praise our Italian lovers For their beauty, which made the boast Of even the most skilled speakers seem hollow, for their looks could Outshine Venus or even Minerva. His body was perfect, His personality a mix of everything that a man Would love in a woman, besides just her beauty—
I stand on fire: Come to the matter.
I’m burning with impatience: Get to the point.
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.
I will, soon enough, Unless you want to grieve quickly. This Posthumus, Like a noble lord in love with a royal lover, took the challenge; And, not criticizing who we praised—he was as calm as virtue—he started Describing his mistress. He spoke of her so well, And then, with his mind full of it, either our boasts Were nonsense, or his words proved us fools.
Nay, nay, to the purpose.
No, no, just get to the point.
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--
Your daughter’s purity—that’s where it all starts. He spoke of her as if Diana herself had warm dreams, And she alone was cold. At this, I, wretch, Began to doubt his praise; and I bet him Pieces of gold against the ring he wore On his honored finger, to win The place of his bed and take this ring Through our adulterous affair. He, a true knight, Confident of her honor, staked this ring; And would have, even if it had been a precious stone From Apollo’s chariot, and could have safely done so, If it had been worth all his treasure. I went to Britain With this plan in mind: you may remember me at court, Where I learned from your chaste daughter the great difference Between love and villainy. With hope quenched, Not longing, my Italian mind Began to work in your duller Britain, Most wickedly, for my advantage, very excellently: And to keep it short, my scheme succeeded, And I returned with enough proof To drive noble Leonatus mad, By shaking his belief in her good name With evidence like this—her bracelet, her bedchamber notes— Oh, how cunningly I got it!—and marks Of secret acts on her body, which he couldn’t Help but think ruined her chastity.
[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 stone s, 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!
[Advancing] Yes, just as you do, Italian demon! Oh, I’m a fool, A great fool, a murderer, a thief, anything That fits all the villains who ever were or will be! Give me a rope, or a knife, or poison, Or some just executioner! You, king, send out For torturers: it’s I Who correct the world’s evils by being worse than they. I am Posthumus, The man who killed your daughter—lying like a villain— Who made a lesser villain than myself, A sacrilegious thief, do it. She was the temple Of virtue, and she was virtue itself. Spit on me, throw stones, cover me in filth, set The dogs on me! Call every villain Posthumus Leonatus; and let villainy be less than it was! Oh, Imogen! My queen, my life, my wife! Oh, Imogen, Imogen, Imogen!
Peace, my lord; hear, hear--
Be quiet, my lord; listen, listen--
Shall’s have a play of this? Thou scornful page, There lie thy part.
Shall we make a play out of this? You mocking servant, There’s your role.
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!
Oh, gentlemen, help! My mistress and yours! Oh, my lord Posthumus! You haven’t killed Imogen until now. Help, help! My honored lady!
Does the world go round?
Is the world still spinning?
How come these staggers on me?
Why do I feel so dizzy?
Wake, my mistress!
Wake up, my lady!
If this be so, the gods do mean to strike me To death with mortal joy.
If this is true, the gods must want to strike me Dead with happiness.
How fares thy mistress?
How is your mistress?
O, get thee from my sight; Thou gavest me poison: dangerous fellow, hence! Breathe not where princes are.
Oh, get away from me; You gave me poison: dangerous man, leave! Don’t breathe near royalty.
The tune of Imogen!
That’s Imogen’s voice!
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.
Lady, The gods strike me with lightning if The box I gave you wasn’t something precious: I got it from the queen.
New matter still?
More new information?
It poison’d me.
It poisoned me.
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.’
Oh gods! I missed one thing the queen confessed. It should prove you’re honest: ’If Pisanio Has,’ she said, ’given his mistress that sweet thing That I gave him as a cure, she is treated Like I’d treat a rat.’
What’s this, Comelius?
What’s this, 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?
The queen, sir, often asked me To make poisons for her, always claiming She only wanted to use them for killing vile creatures Like cats and dogs, of no value: I, fearing her purpose Was more dangerous, mixed up a potion for her That, if taken, would stop life for a while, but soon Nature would take its course again. Have you taken any of it?
Most like I did, for I was dead.
I probably did, because I was dead.
My boys, There was our error.
My sons, That was our mistake.
This is, sure, Fidele.
This is definitely Fidele.
Why did you throw your wedded lady from you? Think that you are upon a rock; and now Throw me again.
Why did you throw your wife away? Imagine you’re standing on a rock; now Throw me off again.
Hang there like a fruit, my soul, Till the tree die!
Hang there like a fruit, my soul, Until the tree dies!
How now, my flesh, my child! What, makest thou me a dullard in this act? Wilt thou not speak to me?
What now, my child, my flesh! What, are you making me look foolish with this act? Won’t you speak to me?
[Kneeling] Your blessing, sir.
[Kneeling] Bless me, sir.
[To GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS] Though you did love this youth, I blame ye not: You had a motive for’t.
[To GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS] Though you loved this boy, I don’t blame you: You had a reason for it.
My tears that fall Prove holy water on thee! Imogen, Thy mother’s dead.
My falling tears Are like holy water on you! Imogen, Your mother’s dead.
I am sorry for’t, my lord.
I’m sorry to hear that, my lord.
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.
Oh, she wasn’t worth much; and it was because of her That we meet here so strangely: but her son Is gone, we don’t know how or where.
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; Where, in a frenzy, in my master’s garments, Which he enforced from me, away he posts With unchaste purpose and with oath to violate My lady’s honour: what became of him I further know not.
My lord, Now that I’m not afraid, I’ll tell the truth. Lord Cloten, When my lady went missing, came to me With his sword drawn; foaming at the mouth, and swore, If I didn’t tell him where she had gone, It would mean my instant death. By chance, I had a fake letter from my master In my pocket; which pointed him To search for her on the mountains near Milford; Where, in a frenzy, wearing my master’s clothes, Which he forced from me, he rushed off With impure intentions and an oath to dishonor My lady: what happened to him I don’t know.
Let me end the story: I slew him there.
Let me finish the story: I killed him there.
Marry, the gods forfend! I would not thy good deeds should from my lips Pluck a bard sentence: prithee, valiant youth, Deny’t again.
Good heavens, forbid that! I wouldn’t want your good actions to be taken from my lips And turned into a bad sentence: please, brave young man, Deny it again.
I have spoke it, and I did it.
I’ve said it, and I did it.
He was a prince.
He was a prince.
A most incivil one: the wrongs he did me Were nothing prince-like; for he did provoke me With language that would make me spurn the sea, If it could so roar to me: I cut off’s head; And am right glad he is not standing here To tell this tale of mine.
He was a real jerk: the wrongs he did to me Weren’t at all princely; because he insulted me With words that would make me spit at the sea, If it could respond like him: I cut off his head; And I’m glad he’s not here now To tell my story.
I am sorry for thee: By thine own tongue thou art condemn’d, and must Endure our law: thou’rt dead.
I’m sorry for you: By your own words, you’re guilty, and must Face our law: you’re dead.
That headless man I thought had been my lord.
I thought that headless man Was my husband.
Bind the offender, And take him from our presence.
Bind the criminal, And take him away from here.
Stay, sir king: This man is better than the man he slew, As well descended as thyself; and hath More of thee merited than a band of Clotens Had ever scar for.
Wait, sir king: This man is better than the one he killed, As noble as you are; and he deserves More from you than a whole bunch of Clotens Ever did to earn a wound.
Let his arms alone; They were not born for bondage.
Leave his weapons alone; He wasn’t born to be a slave.
Why, old soldier, Wilt thou undo the worth thou art unpaid for, By tasting of our wrath? How of descent As good as we?
Why, old soldier, Are you going to ruin all the value you’ve earned By angering me? How are you as noble As we are?
In that he spake too far.
Because he spoke too boldly.
And thou shalt die for’t.
And you will die for it.
We will die all three: But I will prove that two on’s are as good As I have given out him. My sons, I must, For mine own part, unfold a dangerous speech, Though, haply, well for you.
We’ll all die together: But I’ll prove that two of us are as good As I’ve said he was. My sons, I must, For my own sake, speak a dangerous truth, Though it might turn out well for you.
Your danger’s ours.
Your danger’s ours.
And our good his.
And our good his.
Have at it then, by leave. Thou hadst, great king, a subject who Was call’d Belarius.
Here it goes, with your permission. You had, great king, a servant who Was called Belarius.
What of him? he is A banish’d traitor.
What about him? He’s A banished traitor.
He it is that hath Assumed this age; indeed a banish’d man; I know not how a traitor.
He’s the one who’s taken on this role; really, a man who’s been banished; I don’t know how he could be a traitor.
Take him hence: The whole world shall not save him.
Take him away: No one in the world can save him.
Not too hot: First pay me for the nursing of thy sons; And let it be confiscate all, so soon As I have received it.
Not too quickly: First, pay me for taking care of your sons; And let it be taken from you all, once I’ve received it.
Nursing of my sons!
Taking care of my sons!
I am too blunt and saucy: here’s my knee: Ere I arise, I will prefer my sons; Then spare not the old father. Mighty sir, These two young gentlemen, that call me father And think they are my sons, are none of mine; They are the issue of your loins, my liege, And blood of your begetting.
I’m being too direct and rude: here’s my knee: Before I get up, I will present my sons; So don’t hold back from the old father. Mighty lord, These two young men, who call me father And think they’re my sons, aren’t mine; They’re your sons, my king, And your blood.
How! my issue!
What! my sons!
So sure as you your father’s. I, old Morgan, Am that Belarius whom you sometime banish’d: Your pleasure was my mere offence, my punishment Itself, and all my treason; that I suffer’d Was all the harm I did. These gentle princes-- For such and so they are--these twenty years Have I train’d up: those arts they have as I Could put into them; my breeding was, sir, as Your highness knows. Their nurse, Euriphile, Whom for the theft I wedded, stole these children Upon my banishment: I moved her to’t, Having received the punishment before, For that which I did then: beaten for loyalty Excited me to treason: their dear loss, The more of you ’twas felt, the more it shaped Unto my end of stealing them. But, gracious sir, Here are your sons again; and I must lose Two of the sweet’st companions in the world. The benediction of these covering heavens Fall on their heads like dew! for they are worthy To inlay heaven with stars.
As sure as you are your father’s. I, old Morgan, Am that Belarius whom you once banished: Your command was my only crime, my punishment And all my treason; the harm I caused was just the suffering I endured. These noble princes-- Because they are noble--I’ve raised them for twenty years: I taught them everything I could; my upbringing was, sir, as Your highness knows. Their nurse, Euriphile, Whom I married for the theft, stole these children During my banishment: I encouraged her to do it, After I’d already been punished for what I’d done before; Beaten for loyalty, Which led me to commit treason. Their great loss, The more you felt it, the more it pushed me To steal them. But, dear lord, Here are your sons again; and I must lose Two of the sweetest companions in the world. May the blessing of these heavens above Fall upon their heads like dew! For they deserve To decorate heaven with stars.
Thou weep’st, and speak’st. The service that you three have done is more Unlike than this thou tell’st. I lost my children: If these be they, I know not how to wish A pair of worthier sons.
You weep and speak. What you three have done is nothing like what you say. I lost my children: If these are they, I don’t know how to wish For a pair of sons more worthy.
Be pleased awhile. This gentleman, whom I call Polydore, Most worthy prince, as yours, is true Guiderius: This gentleman, my Cadwal, Arviragus, Your younger princely son; he, sir, was lapp’d In a most curious mantle, wrought by the hand Of his queen mother, which for more probation I can with ease produce.
Please, be patient. This man, whom I call Polydore, A prince as worthy as yours, is really Guiderius: This man, my Cadwal, Arviragus, Your younger princely son; he, sir, was wrapped In a very fine cloak, made by the hand Of his queen mother, which for further proof I can easily show.
Guiderius had Upon his neck a mole, a sanguine star; It was a mark of wonder.
Guiderius had A mole on his neck, a reddish star; It was a mark of wonder.
This is he; Who hath upon him still that natural stamp: It was wise nature’s end in the donation, To be his evidence now.
This is the one; Who still has that natural mark: It was wise nature’s way of confirming him, To be the proof now.
O, what, am I A mother to the birth of three? Ne’er mother Rejoiced deliverance more. Blest pray you be, That, after this strange starting from your orbs, may reign in them now! O Imogen, Thou hast lost by this a kingdom.
Oh, what, am I A mother to the birth of three? Never did a mother Rejoice in her children’s return more. May you be blessed, That, after being separated from your worlds, May rule them now! Oh Imogen, You’ve lost a kingdom by this.
No, my lord; I have got two worlds by ’t. O my gentle brothers, Have we thus met? O, never say hereafter But I am truest speaker you call’d me brother, When I was but your sister; I you brothers, When ye were so indeed.
No, my lord; I’ve gained two worlds by it. Oh, my dear brothers, Have we really met? Oh, never say again That I’m just your sister; call me your true speaker, When I was just your sister; I, you brothers, When you truly were.
Did you e’er meet?
Did you ever meet?
Ay, my good lord.
Yes, my good lord.
And at first meeting loved; Continued so, until we thought he died.
And from the first meeting, we loved each other; We stayed that way, until we thought he had died.
By the queen’s dram she swallow’d.
She swallowed it as if it were a potion from the queen.
O rare instinct! When shall I hear all through? This fierce abridgement Hath to it circumstantial branches, which Distinction should be rich in. Where? how lived You? And when came you to serve our Roman captive? How parted with your brothers? how first met them? Why fled you from the court? and whither? These, And your three motives to the battle, with I know not how much more, should be demanded; And all the other by-dependencies, From chance to chance: but nor the time nor place Will serve our long inter’gatories. See, Posthumus anchors upon Imogen, And she, like harmless lightning, throws her eye On him, her brother, me, her master, hitting Each object with a joy: the counterchange Is severally in all. Let’s quit this ground, And smoke the temple with our sacrifices.
What an amazing instinct! When will I learn everything? This quick summary Has so many details, which should be clear and significant. Where? How did you live? And when did you come to serve our Roman prisoner? How did you part from your brothers? How did you first meet them? Why did you run away from the court? And where did you go? These, And the reasons for your involvement in the battle, plus I don’t know what else, should all be questioned; And all the other things that happened by chance: But neither the time nor the place Will allow for all these questions. Look, Posthumus is focused on Imogen, And she, like harmless lightning, glances at Him, her brother, me, her master, striking Each one with joy: the change in feelings Is clear in everyone. Let’s leave this place, And honor the temple with our sacrifices.
Thou art my brother; so we’ll hold thee ever.
You are my brother; so we’ll always consider you family.
You are my father too, and did relieve me, To see this gracious season.
You’re like my father too, and you helped me, So I could see this wonderful moment.
All o’erjoy’d, Save these in bonds: let them be joyful too, For they shall taste our comfort.
I’m overjoyed, Except for these prisoners: let them be happy too, For they will share in our joy.
My good master, I will yet do you service.
My good master, I will still serve you.
Happy be you!
Be happy!
The forlorn soldier, that so nobly fought, He would have well becomed this place, and graced The thankings of a king.
The brave soldier who fought so nobly, Would have been well suited for this place, and deserved A king’s gratitude.
I am, sir, The soldier that did company these three In poor beseeming; ’twas a fitment for The purpose I then follow’d. That I was he, Speak, Iachimo: I had you down and might Have made you finish.
I am, sir, The soldier who accompanied these three In a humble state; it was fitting for The purpose I followed at the time. That I was the one, Speak, Iachimo: I had you down and could Have made you finish what you started.
[Kneeling] I am down again: But now my heavy conscience sinks my knee, As then your force did. Take that life, beseech you, Which I so often owe: but your ring first; And here the bracelet of the truest princess That ever swore her faith.
[Kneeling] I am down again: But now my heavy conscience makes my knee bend, Just as your strength once did. Take my life, I beg you, Which I owe you so often: but first, take your ring; And here is the bracelet of the truest princess Who ever swore loyalty.
Kneel not to me: The power that I have on you is, to spare you; The malice towards you to forgive you: live, And deal with others better.
Don’t kneel to me: The power I have over you is only to spare you; The malice I feel is only to forgive you: live, And treat others better.
Nobly doom’d! We’ll learn our freeness of a son-in-law; Pardon’s the word to all.
Nobly judged! We’ll learn the freedom of a son-in-law; Pardon is the word for everyone.
You holp us, sir, As you did mean indeed to be our brother; Joy’d are we that you are.
You helped us, sir, As you truly meant to be our brother; We’re happy that you are.
Your servant, princes. Good my lord of Rome, Call forth your soothsayer: as I slept, methought Great Jupiter, upon his eagle back’d, Appear’d to me, with other spritely shows Of mine own kindred: when I waked, I found This label on my bosom; whose containing Is so from sense in hardness, that I can Make no collection of it: let him show His skill in the construction.
Your servant, princes. Good my lord of Rome, Call forth your soothsayer: as I slept, I thought Great Jupiter, riding on his eagle, Appeared to me, with other vivid visions Of my own family: when I woke, I found This label on my chest; its meaning Is so beyond my understanding, that I can Make no sense of it: let him reveal His expertise in interpreting it.
Philarmonus!
Philarmonus!
Here, my good lord.
Here, my good lord.
Read, and declare the meaning.
Read it, and explain what it means.
[Reads] ’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.’ Thou, Leonatus, art the lion’s whelp; The fit and apt construction of thy name, Being Leonatus, doth import so much.
[Reads] ’When a lion’s cub, unknowingly, without searching, finds and is embraced by a soft breeze; and when branches from a tall cedar, which have been dead for many years, are revived, joined to the old tree, and grow again; then Posthumus will end his suffering, Britain will be lucky and thrive in peace and abundance.’ You, Leonatus, are the lion’s cub; The meaning of your name, Leonatus, suggests this.
The piece of tender air, thy virtuous daughter, Which we call ’mollis aer;’ and ’mollis aer’ We term it ’mulier:’ which ’mulier’ I divine Is this most constant wife; who, even now, Answering the letter of the oracle, Unknown to you, unsought, were clipp’d about With this most tender air.
The soft breeze is your virtuous daughter, We call it ’mollis aer;’ and ’mollis aer’ Is what we call ’mulier:’ which ’mulier’ I predict Is this very loyal wife; who, just now, In line with the oracle’s prophecy, Unknown to you, without being searched for, was embraced By this very gentle breeze.
This hath some seeming.
This seems to be true.
The lofty cedar, royal Cymbeline, Personates thee: and thy lopp’d branches point Thy two sons forth; who, by Belarius stol’n, For many years thought dead, are now revived, To the majestic cedar join’d, whose issue Promises Britain peace and plenty.
The great cedar tree, royal Cymbeline, Represents you: and the branches that were cut off point To your two sons; who, stolen by Belarius, Thought dead for many years, are now revived, And joined to the great cedar, whose offspring Promises peace and prosperity for Britain.
Well My peace we will begin. And, Caius Lucius, Although the victor, we submit to Caesar, And to the Roman empire; promising To pay our wonted tribute, from the which We were dissuaded by our wicked queen; Whom heavens, in justice, both on her and hers, Have laid most heavy hand.
Good. We’ll start with peace. And, Caius Lucius, Though you’ve won, we submit to Caesar, And to the Roman empire; agreeing To pay our usual tribute, from which We were discouraged by our wicked queen; May the heavens, in justice, deal a heavy blow To her and her people.
The fingers of the powers above do tune The harmony of this peace. The vision Which I made known to Lucius, ere the stroke Of this yet scarce-cold battle, at this instant Is full accomplish’d; for the Roman eagle, From south to west on wing soaring aloft, Lessen’d herself, and in the beams o’ the sun So vanish’d: which foreshow’d our princely eagle, The imperial Caesar, should again unite His favour with the radiant Cymbeline, Which shines here in the west.
The powers above are orchestrating The harmony of this peace. The vision I showed to Lucius, before the battle even ended, Is now fully realized; for the Roman eagle, Soaring from the south to the west, rose high, Then shrank and disappeared in the sun’s rays: This foretold that our princely eagle, The imperial Caesar, would reunite His favor with radiant Cymbeline, Who now shines here in the west.
Laud we the gods; And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils From our blest altars. Publish we this peace To all our subjects. Set we forward: let A Roman and a British ensign wave Friendly together: so through Lud’s-town march: And in the temple of great Jupiter Our peace we’ll ratify; seal it with feasts. Set on there! Never was a war did cease, Ere bloody hands were wash’d, with such a peace.
Praise the gods; And let our crooked smoke rise to their nostrils From our blessed altars. Let’s announce this peace To all our people. Let’s march forward: let A Roman and a British flag fly Together in friendship: so march through Lud’s-town: And in the temple of great Jupiter We’ll confirm this peace; seal it with celebrations. Let’s go! Never was a war ended, Before bloody hands were washed, with such a peace.