The lines from Cymbeline, explained

He that hath miss’d the princess is a thing Too bad for bad report: and he that hath her-- I mean, that married her, alack, good man! And therefore banish’d--is a creature such As, to seek through the regions of the earth For one his like, there would be something failing In him that should compare. I do not think So fair an outward and such stuff within Endows a man but he.

Whoever missed out on marrying the princess is someone Too pathetic for even bad gossip: and the man who married her-- I mean, the one who’s now banished--is a person so rare That if you searched the entire world for someone like him, You’d find that something would be missing in anyone who could compare. I don’t believe Anyone else could have such an outward appearance and such qualities inside.

First Gentleman · Act 1, Scene 1

Two gentlemen open the play by discussing the scandal of Imogen's secret marriage to the low-born Posthumus instead of the royal Cloten. The First Gentleman insists that any man who lost her has lost something irreplaceable, and any man who won her has won a treasure no comparison could match. His praise establishes Imogen not as a prize to be judged but as a person of such rarity that she remakes the value of anything near her.

Is she sole child to the king?

Is she the only child of the king?

Second Gentleman · Act 1, Scene 1

The First Gentleman has just introduced Imogen as the heir to Britain, and the Second Gentleman asks this innocent question that unlocks the play's central mystery. The answer—no, the king had two sons who were stolen twenty years ago—sets in motion the question of identity and legitimacy that haunts every character. What seems like a casual aside is the thread that will unravel the entire plot.

O disloyal thing, That shouldst repair my youth, thou heap'st A year's age on me.

Oh, treacherous woman, You were supposed to make my youth better, but instead You've added a year to my age.

Cymbeline · Act 1, Scene 1

Cymbeline has just learned that his daughter married in secret, and his rage explodes into this accusation that she has betrayed not just his will but his life itself. The image of her aging him shows how fully a father's sense of authority and continuity has been shattered. This sets up the king's vulnerability to the Queen and Cloten throughout the play.

I have seen him in France: we had very many there could behold the sun with as firm eyes as he.

I’ve seen him in France: we had many there who could look at the sun with as steady eyes as he.

A Frenchman · Act 1, Scene 4

The Frenchman, speaking in Rome about Posthumus, testifies that he has seen men in France stare directly at the sun without flinching, and Posthumus has eyes as steady as those bold men. The line lands because it begins the wager scene by establishing Posthumus's reputation as extraordinary. It shows how a man's worth spreads through the world by reputation before his character is truly tested.

Let us leave here, gentlemen.

Let’s leave here, gentlemen.

Philario · Act 1, Scene 4

Philario speaks this line as the gentlemen in Rome prepare to leave the house where the wager over Imogen has just been made between Posthumus and Iachimo. The moment is brief but crucial—a man of authority directing others to move on from a scene where a moral line has been crossed. It shows how easily witnesses to corruption simply walk away.

Signior Iachimo will not from it. Pray, let us follow ’em.

Mr. Iachimo won’t back out. Let’s follow them.

Philario · Act 1, Scene 4

Philario assures the others that Iachimo will not back away from the wager he has made with Posthumus, and urges them all to follow him to complete the arrangements. The line lands because it confirms that the bet will proceed—that no one present will stop the scheme. It reveals how easily a lie becomes official once witnesses accept it.

A sly and constant knave, Not to be shaked; the agent for his master And the remembrancer of her to hold The hand-fast to her lord. I have given him that Which, if he take, shall quite unpeople her Of liegers for her sweet, and which she after, Except she bend her humour, shall be assured To taste of too.

A sneaky and loyal villain, Not easily shaken; the agent for his master And the reminder to her to keep Her promise to her husband. I’ve given him that Which, if he accepts, will completely ruin her Of suitors who seek her love, and which she, later, Unless she changes her mind, will be certain To suffer from too.

The Queen · Act 1, Scene 5

The Queen, having given Pisanio the poisoned box to deliver to Imogen, reflects on him in soliloquy as a servant she can trust precisely because he is disloyal to everyone but his master. The line lands because it reveals the Queen's own blindness—she believes Pisanio will follow orders from her when his entire nature is devoted elsewhere. It shows how those who deal in deception mistake loyalty for corruptibility.

[Aside] I do not like her. She doth think she has Strange lingering poisons: I do know her spirit, And will not trust one of her malice with A drug of such damn’d nature. Those she has Will stupefy and dull the sense awhile; Which first, perchance, she’ll prove on cats and dogs, Then afterward up higher: but there is No danger in what show of death it makes, More than the locking-up the spirits a time, To be more fresh, reviving. She is fool’d With a most false effect; and I the truer, So to be false with her.

[Aside] I don’t trust her. She thinks she has Strange slow-acting poisons: I know her nature, And I won’t trust her with A drug of such a dangerous kind. The ones she has Will dull the senses for a while; She may first test it on cats and dogs, And then move to something higher: but there’s No real danger in the death it appears to cause, More than just locking the spirit away for a while, To refresh and revive it. She’s fooled By a very false result; and I am the wiser, So I will deceive her in return.

Cornelius · Act 1, Scene 5

Cornelius the doctor has just given the Queen what she believes are deadly poisons, but he has secretly substituted harmless sleeping draughts that will only mimic death. He speaks these words to himself, knowing her malice and doubting her claims about needing them for animals. His moral defiance in this moment saves Imogen's life and ensures the Queen's own treachery will not succeed as planned.

[Aside] If his wit had been like him that broke it, it would have run all out.

[Aside] If his brain had been as thick as the guy who broke it, it would’ve spilled out completely.

Second Lord · Act 2, Scene 1

The Second Lord, hidden in an aside, responds to Cloten's boasting by suggesting that if Cloten's brain had been as easily broken as the bowl, all his brains would have spilled out. The line lands because it claims Cloten has no wit worth damaging. It uses the logic of cruelty to suggest some people are so empty that harm to them is merely theatrical.

What got he by that? You have broke his pate with your bowl.

What did he gain from that? You cracked his head with your bowl.

First Lord · Act 2, Scene 1

Cloten has just boasted about fighting and losing at bowls, and the First Lord mocks him by noting he cracked his opponent's head with the bowl, yet gained nothing. The line lands because it deflates Cloten's sense of his own importance with a single factual observation. It shows how the best insult is often just the truth, plainly stated.

I would this music would come: I am advised to give her music o’ mornings; they say it will penetrate.

I wish this music would hurry up: I’ve been told to play her music in the mornings; they say it’ll get through to her.

Cloten · Act 2, Scene 3

Cloten, rejected by Imogen the night before, has hired musicians to serenade her window at dawn, believing music will soften her resistance. The line lands because it shows a man still clinging to the fiction that persistence can buy affection. It reveals how shallow Cloten's courtship is—he mistakes performance for persuasion.

You are most bound to the king, Who lets go by no vantages that may Prefer you to his daughter. Frame yourself To orderly soliciting, and be friended With aptness of the season; make denials Increase your services; so seem as if You were inspired to do those duties which You tender to her; that you in all obey her, Save when command to your dismission tends, And therein you are senseless.

You owe the king a lot, Who takes every opportunity to Bring you closer to his daughter. Prepare yourself to ask for her properly, and make sure you’re acting in line with the season; let refusals only make your efforts seem greater; act as if you were inspired to do everything you offer her; obey her in everything, except when she orders you to leave her, and in that case, you’ll be acting thoughtlessly.

The Queen · Act 2, Scene 3

The Queen instructs Cloten on how to win Imogen's favor by seeming to obey her in all things while secretly managing her emotions like a servant manages a household. The line lands because it lays bare the mechanics of courtship as manipulation—a man performing devotion while planning to control. It shows how the Queen understands power as theater.

Not a whit, Your lady is so easy.

Not at all, Your lady is so easy.

Iachimo · Act 2, Scene 4

Iachimo has just lost his wager with Posthumus and returns from Britain with a claim of victory, uttering this callous reduction of Imogen to an easy conquest. The line is brief because its contempt needs no elaboration, and it crystallizes the way masculine honor is built on the devaluation of women. This single line poisons Posthumus's imagination into murderous jealousy.

In an hour,--wast not?-- Or less,--at first?--perchance he spoke not, but, Like a full-acorn'd boar, a German one, Cried 'O!' and mounted; found no opposition But what he look'd for should oppose and she Should from encounter guard.

In an hour, wasn't it? Or maybe less—at first? Maybe he didn't even speak, but, Like a fully grown boar, a German one, Made a sound and mounted her; met no resistance Except what he expected to face, and she Was protecting herself.

Posthumus Leonatus · Act 2, Scene 5

Posthumus has just seen the bracelet stolen from his wife's wrist, and Iachimo's lie is poisoning his mind into absolute conviction of her infidelity. The crude, animalistic language—the boar, the mount—shows how jealousy turns a man away from reason into graphic fantasy. This moment of poisoned imagination is the hinge on which the entire tragedy turns.

Let proof speak.

Let’s see the evidence.

Caius Lucius · Act 3, Scene 1

Lucius, having heard Cymbeline's defiant refusal, cuts through further debate with this demand for evidence rather than argument. The line lands because it signals an end to negotiation and the start of warfare. It reveals how proof and force become the only language between nations at war.

So, sir.

Very well.

Caius Lucius · Act 3, Scene 1

Caius Lucius has just declared war on Britain in the king's own tent, and Cymbeline has refused to pay tribute to Rome. This two-word acceptance marks the moment diplomacy ends and Lucius commits to conquest. It shows how quickly men of power move from words to action when their will is crossed.

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.

How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature! These boys have no idea they are sons of the king; Nor does Cymbeline know they are alive. They think they are mine; and though raised So simply In this cave where they bow, their thoughts aim At the roofs of palaces, and nature urges them In simple, humble things to act much More princely than others.

Belarius · Act 3, Scene 3

Belarius reflects on his two adopted sons, the true princes whom he has raised in exile without their knowledge of their own rank. The paradox of the speech—that natural nobility cannot be hidden despite humble circumstances—is the thematic heart of the entire play. Birth, nurture, and identity are shown to be not fixed categories but forces in tension with each other.

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 's bed, is it?

False to his bed! What does it mean to be false? To lie there thinking of him? To cry between hours of sleep? if sleep Calls nature, To break it with a terrible dream of him And wake myself crying? That's being false to his bed, is it?

Imogen · Act 3, Scene 4

Imogen has just read Pisanio's letter claiming she was unfaithful, and she responds with a torrent of rhetorical questions that show her absolute bewilderment and innocence. The accumulation of intimate details—lying awake, broken sleep, tears—creates a portrait of loyalty so intense it becomes almost painful. This is the moment the audience fully understands her purity and the magnitude of the lie about to destroy her.

Pisanio, thou that stand’st so for Posthumus! He hath a drug of mine; I pray his absence Proceed by swallowing that, for he believes It is a thing most precious. But for her, Where is she gone? Haply, despair hath seized her, Or, wing’d with fervor of her love, she’s flown To her desired Posthumus: gone she is To death or to dishonour; and my end Can make good use of either: she being down, I have the placing of the British crown.

Pisanio, you who are so loyal to Posthumus! He has a potion of mine; I hope his absence Is because he took it, thinking it’s something valuable. But what about her, Where has she gone? Maybe despair has taken her, Or maybe, driven by her love, she’s flown To be with Posthumus: gone she is To death or disgrace; and my own fate Can make good use of either: with her out of the way, I can claim the British throne.

The Queen · Act 3, Scene 5

The Queen, alone, addresses Pisanio in his absence, musing that he has a poison she has given him and that perhaps he will use it on himself, leaving her free to frame Posthumus. She then contemplates Imogen's likely death or dishonor with satisfaction, knowing that either outcome clears the path to the throne for herself. The soliloquy reveals how completely the Queen has abandoned moral reckoning in favor of naked ambition.

Ay, good youth! And rather father thee than master thee. My friends, The boy hath taught us manly duties: let us Find out the prettiest daisied plot we can, And make him with our pikes and partisans A grave: come, arm him. Boy, he is preferr’d By thee to us, and he shall be interr’d As soldiers can. Be cheerful; wipe thine eyes Some falls are means the happier to arise.

Yes, good youth! And I’ll treat you more like a father than a master. My friends, This boy has taught us what it means to be a man: let’s Find the most beautiful spot with daisies we can, And with our spears and pikes, Make him a grave: come, help him. Boy, you’re preferred By you to us, and we’ll bury him As soldiers do. Be cheerful; wipe your tears. Some falls are the very means for rising higher.

Caius Lucius · Act 4, Scene 2

Lucius has just found the boy Fidele mourning over what he believes is his master's headless body on the battlefield. He offers to honor the servant's devotion by burying him with military rites and raising him like a son. The moment captures how war strips away rank and teaches victors to recognize virtue in the lowest places.

Fear no more the heat o' the sun, Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hath done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages: Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Don't be afraid of the sun's heat, Or the furious winter storms; You've done your work on earth, You've gone home, and earned your rest: Young men and women, like chimney-sweepers, Will all eventually return to dust.

Guiderius · Act 4, Scene 2

The brothers sing this dirge over what they believe is Fidele's corpse, and the song's beauty lies in its acceptance of mortality as a universal leveler. The image of chimney-sweepers and princes coming to the same dust is Shakespeare's most eloquent meditation on the equality of death. The song's calm inevitability stands in stark contrast to the play's tumultuous action.

I am nothing: or if not, Nothing to be were better.

I am nobody: or if not, Being nobody would be better.

Imogen · Act 4, Scene 2

Imogen wakes beside what she believes is her husband's headless corpse and is overcome with the annihilation of her identity and purpose. The paradox—being nothing, or wishing she were nothing—captures her absolute loss: she has been slandered, abandoned, and now believes the one person who gave her meaning is dead. This is the play's darkest moment, from which all recovery must begin.

Last night the very gods show’d me a vision-- I fast and pray’d for their intelligence--thus: I saw Jove’s bird, the Roman eagle, wing’d From the spongy south to this part of the west, There vanish’d in the sunbeams: which portends-- Unless my sins abuse my divination-- Success to the Roman host.

Last night the gods showed me a vision-- I fasted and prayed for their guidance--thus: I saw Jove’s bird, the Roman eagle, flying From the damp south to this western part, And then disappearing in the sunlight: which suggests-- Unless my sins have clouded my foresight-- Success for the Roman army.

Soothsayer · Act 4, Scene 2

The Soothsayer recounts a vision he had before the battle in which he saw Jupiter's eagle fly from south to west and then vanish in the sun's rays. The line lands because it foretells the outcome of the war and the reconciliation between Rome and Britain before it has happened. It suggests that providence has already woven the ending into the fabric of the sky.

O noble strain! O worthiness of nature! breed of greatness! Cowards father cowards and base things sire base: Nature hath meal and bran, contempt and grace.

Oh, noble heart! Oh, worthiness of nature! breed of greatness! Cowards breed cowards, and lowly things breed lowly: Nature has both flour and chaff, contempt and grace.

Belarius · Act 4, Scene 2

Belarius watches Guiderius and Arviragus declare their love for Fidele (Imogen in disguise), and his observation crystallizes the play's central preoccupation with nature versus nurture. The image of meal and bran, contempt and grace, suggests that nobility is not pure but mixed, and that nature works through the roughest and most unlikely vessels. The play's resolution depends on this understanding.

Thou art a robber, A law-breaker, a villain: yield thee, thief.

You're a robber, A law-breaker, a villain: surrender, thief.

Cloten · Act 4, Scene 2

Cloten confronts Guiderius in the Welsh mountains, attempting to use his status as the king's stepson to assert authority over a stranger. The rapid accumulation of accusations—robber, law-breaker, villain, thief—shows his desperation to dominate through language when he has no real power. His death a moment later proves that titles mean nothing in the wilderness where true nobility resides.

Thy name well fits thy faith, thy faith thy name.

Your name suits your faith, and your faith suits your name.

Caius Lucius · Act 4, Scene 2

Caius Lucius recognizes Imogen (still disguised as Fidele) for her loyalty to her master's memory and comments on the perfect fit between her name and her actions. The line captures the play's deep concern with the alignment between inner truth and outer form, and suggests that true identity is revealed not through birth but through virtue. In a play full of stolen identities, this moment affirms what is really real.

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.

First Gaoler · Act 5, Scene 4

The Gaoler, preparing Posthumus for execution, delivers a sermon on debt and death disguised as dark comedy about tavern bills and hangman's ropes. The speech lands because it uses the language of accounting to make mortality absurd and almost bearable. It shows how language itself becomes a way to transform despair into something that can be spoken aloud.

I’ll be hang’d then.

I’ll be damned then.

First Gaoler · Act 5, Scene 4

Posthumus, on the way to be executed, has just been told he is being pardoned and freed instead. The Gaoler responds with this four-word curse, realizing his moment of dark authority has vanished. It captures how quickly power shifts and how those who serve it must accept their powerlessness.

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.

Sicilius Leonatus · Act 5, Scene 4

The ghost of Posthumus's father Sicilius appears in a dream and condemns Jupiter for allowing his innocent son to suffer while he himself died without ever seeing his child's face. The line lands because it accuses God himself of injustice—a dead father speaks against divine authority on behalf of his wronged heir. It shows how love persists beyond death and demands accountability from heaven.

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?

Sicilius Leonatus · Act 5, Scene 4

Sicilius's ghost continues his accusation by asking why Jupiter allowed Iachimo, a worthless Italian, to poison Posthumus's mind with false jealousy and turn a noble heart toward murder. The line lands because it names the real crime—not seduction but the corruption of judgment through deception. It reveals how a single lie can do more damage than a thousand truths.

Hang there like a fruit, my soul, Till the tree die!

Hang there like a fruit, my soul, Until the tree dies!

Posthumus Leonatus · Act 5, Scene 5

Posthumus embraces Imogen after learning she is alive and that his suspicion of her infidelity was a poisonous lie planted by Iachimo. His declaration—that she is his soul and he will cling to her until death—is his redemption from the jealous rage that nearly destroyed them both. The image of hanging like fruit on a tree suggests organic union and growth, a healing of the fractured bonds of trust.

Pardon's the word to all.

Pardon is the word for everyone.

Cymbeline · Act 5, Scene 5

Cymbeline speaks this line at the moment of final reconciliation, when all the separated parties have been restored and all deceptions revealed. The simplicity of the statement—one word, repeated—makes it the play's ultimate judgment on how justice works in a world where innocent people have been harmed by lies and masculine pride. Forgiveness, not punishment, is the only remedy.

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.

Soothsayer · Act 5, Scene 5

The Soothsayer, at the play's end, interprets the vision he had earlier, explaining that the powers above orchestrated this peace and that his prophecy has now been fulfilled exactly. The line lands because it transforms the chaos of war, betrayal, and suffering into a pattern that was always meant to resolve this way. It tells us that in Cymbeline, fate moves invisibly but surely toward reconciliation and renewal.

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?

Cornelius · Act 5, Scene 5

At the play's end, Cornelius reveals to the king that the Queen repeatedly begged him to make poisons, claiming she only wanted them to test on worthless creatures. He explains that he mixed something that would only seem to kill, not truly murder, because he knew her real intent was darker. The confession vindicates both his loyalty and his earlier act of merciful deception.

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.

Cymbeline · Act 5, Scene 5

Cymbeline, having just learned that Belarius is his lost subject and that the two young men beside him are his own sons stolen in infancy, addresses Belarius with this exclamation while tears fall. The line lands because it captures the moment a king realizes his entire understanding of his own family and succession has been false. It shows how identity itself can be recovered, and with it, the shape of a whole life remade.

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.

Imogen · Act 5, Scene 5

Imogen addresses Belarius at the moment when all the separated family members are reunited and all truths revealed. Her acknowledgment of him as a second father completes the play's meditation on the nature of family—that blood alone does not make a father, but love and protection sustained through exile and hardship do. The line affirms that the family remade through suffering and forgiveness is stronger than the one biology alone could provide.