The arden shakespeare co.., p.119
The Arden Shakespeare Complete Works, page 119
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To give me hearing.
CYMBELINE Ay, with all my heart,
And lend my best attention. What’s thy name?
IMOGEN Fidele, sir.
CYMBELINE Thou’rt my good youth: my page
I’ll be thy master: walk with me: speak freely.
[Cymbeline and Imogen walk aside.]
BELARIUS Is not this boy reviv’d from death?
ARVIRAGUS One sand another
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Not more resembles that sweet rosy lad,
Who died, and was Fidele! What think you?
GUIDERIUS The same dead thing alive.
BELARIUS
Peace, peace, see further: he eyes us not, forbear;
Creatures may be alike: were’t he, I am sure
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He would have spoke to us.
GUIDERIUS But we see him dead.
BELARIUS Be silent: let’s see further.
PISANIO [aside] It is my mistress:
Since she is living, let the time run on,
To good, or bad.
[Cymbeline and Imogen come forward.]
CYMBELINE Come, stand thou by our side,
Make thy demand aloud.
[to Iachimo] Sir, step you forth,
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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.
IMOGEN My boon is, that this gentleman may render
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Of whom he had this ring.
POSTHUMUS [aside] What’s that to him?
CYMBELINE That diamond upon your finger, say
How came it yours?
IACHIMO Thou’lt torture me to leave unspoken that
Which, to be spoke, would torture thee.
CYMBELINE How? me?
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IACHIMO I am glad to be constrain’d to utter that
Which torments me to conceal. By villainy
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
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’Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou hear more, my
lord?
CYMBELINE All that belongs to this.
IACHIMO That paragon, thy daughter,
For whom my heart drops blood, and my false spirits
Quail to remember – Give me leave; I faint.
CYMBELINE
My daughter? what of her? Renew thy strength:
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I had rather thou shouldst live, while Nature will,
Than die ere I hear more: strive, man, and speak.
IACHIMO Upon a time, unhappy was the clock
That struck the hour: it was in Rome, accurst
The mansion where: ’twas at a feast, O, would
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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 rar’st of good ones) sitting sadly,
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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,
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A shop of all the qualities that man
Loves woman for, besides that hook of wiving,
Fairness, which strikes the eye.
CYMBELINE I stand on fire.
Come to the matter.
IACHIMO All too soon I shall,
Unless thou wouldst grieve quickly. This Posthumus,
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Most like a noble lord in love and one
That had a royal lover, took his hint,
And (not dispraising whom we prais’d, therein
He was as calm as virtue) he began
His mistress’ picture, which, by his tongue, being
made,
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And then a mind put in’t, either our brags
Were crak’d of kitchen-trulls, or his description
Prov’d us unspeaking sots.
CYMBELINE Nay, nay, to th’ purpose.
IACHIMO Your daughter’s chastity (there it begins) –
He spoke of her, as Dian had hot dreams,
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And she alone were cold: whereat I, wretch,
Made scruple of his praise, and wager’d with him
Pieces of gold, ’gainst this (which he then wore
Upon his honour’d finger) to attain
In suit the place of’s bed, and win this ring
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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
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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 villainous. Being thus quench’d
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Of hope, not longing, mine Italian brain
Gan in your duller Britain operate
Most vilely: for my vantage, excellent.
And to be brief, my practice so prevail’d,
That I return’d with simular proof enough
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To make the noble Leonatus mad,
By wounding his belief in her renown,
With tokens thus, and thus: averring notes
Of chamber-hanging, pictures, this her bracelet
(O cunning, how I got it!) nay, some marks
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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 –
POSTHUMUS [advancing] Ay, so thou dost
Italian fiend! Ay me, most credulous fool,
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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
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That all th’ abhorred things o’th’ earth amend
By being worse than they. I am Posthumus,
That kill’d thy daughter: villain-like, I lie;
That caus’d a lesser villain than myself,
A sacrilegious thief, to do’t. The temple
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Of Virtue was she; yea, and she herself.
Spit, and throw stones, cast mire upon me, set
The dogs o’th’ street to bay me: every villain
Be call’d Posthumus Leonatus, and
Be villainy less than ’twas. O Imogen!
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My queen, my life, my wife, O Imogen,
Imogen, Imogen!
IMOGEN Peace, my lord, hear, hear –
POSTHUMUS
Shall’s have a play of this? Thou scornful page,
There lie thy part. [Striking her: she falls.]
PISANIO O, gentlemen, help!
Mine and your mistress: O, my lord Posthumus!
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You ne’er kill’d Imogen till now. Help, help!
Mine honour’d lady!
CYMBELINE Does the world go round?
POSTHUMUS How comes these staggers on me?
PISANIO Wake, my mistress!
CYMBELINE
If this be so, the gods do mean to strike me
To death with mortal joy.
PISANIO How fares my mistress?
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IMOGEN O, get thee from my sight,
Thou gav’st me poison: dangerous fellow, hence!
Breathe not where princes are.
CYMBELINE The tune of Imogen!
PISANIO Lady,
The gods throw stones of sulphur on me, if
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That box I gave you was not thought by me
A precious thing: I had it from the queen.
CYMBELINE New matter still.
IMOGEN It poison’d me.
CORNELIUS O gods!
I left out one thing which the queen confess’d,
Which must approve thee honest. ‘If Pisanio
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Have,’ said she, ‘given his mistress that confection
Which I gave him for cordial, she is serv’d
As I would serve a rat.’
CYMBELINE What’s this, Cornelius?
CORNELIUS The queen, sir, very oft importun’d me
To temper poisons for her, still pretending
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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
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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?
IMOGEN Most like I did, for I was dead.
BELARIUS My boys,
There was our error.
GUIDERIUS This is sure Fidele.
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IMOGEN
Why did you throw your wedded lady from you?
Think that you are upon a rock, and now
Throw me again. [embracing him]
POSTHUMUS Hang there like fruit, my soul,
Till the tree die.
CYMBELINE How now, my flesh, my child?
What, mak’st thou me a dullard in this act?
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Wilt thou not speak to me?
IMOGEN [kneeling] Your blessing, sir.
BELARIUS [to Guiderius and Arviragus]
Though you did love this youth, I blame ye not,
You had a motive for’t.
CYMBELINE My tears that fall
Prove holy water on thee; Imogen,
Thy mother’s dead.
IMOGEN I am sorry for’t, my lord.
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CYMBELINE O, she was naught; and long of her it was
That we meet here so strangely: but her son
Is gone, we know not how, nor where.
PISANIO My lord,
Now fear is from me, I’ll speak troth. Lord Cloten,
Upon my lady’s missing, came to me
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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,
I had a feigned letter of my master’s
Then in my pocket, which directed him
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To seek her on the mountains near to Milford;
Where, in a frenzy, in my master’s garments,
(Which he enforc’d from me) away he posts
With unchaste purpose, and with oath to violate
My lady’s honour: what became of him
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I further know not.
GUIDERIUS Let me end the story:
I slew him there.
CYMBELINE Marry, the gods forfend!
I would not thy good deeds should from my lips
Pluck a hard sentence: prithee, valiant youth,
Deny’t again.
GUIDERIUS I have spoke it, and I did it.
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CYMBELINE He was a prince.
GUIDERIUS 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,
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And am right glad he is not standing here
To tell this tale of mine.
CYMBELINE I am sorrow for thee:
By thine own tongue thou art condemn’d, and must
Endure our law: thou’rt dead.
IMOGEN That headless man
