They are not conftant, but are changing ftill;
One Vice, but of a minute old, for one
Not half fo old as that. I'll write against them,
Deteft them, curfe them yet 'tis greater Skill
In a true Hate, to pray they have their Will;
The very Devils cannot plague them better.
Enter in State, Cymbeline, Queen, Cloten, and Lords at one Door; and at another, Caius Lucius and Attendants.
OW fay, what would Augustus Cæfar with us?
Luc. When Julius Cafar, whofe remembrance yer
Lives in Mens Eyes, and will to Ears and Tongues
Be Theam, and hearing ever, was in this Britain,
And conquer'd it, Caffibelan thine Uncle,
Famous in Cafar's Praifes, no whit lefs
Than in his Feats deferving it for him
And his Succeffion, granted Rome a Tribute,
Yearly three thoufand Pounds; which by thee lately
Is left untender'd.
Queen. And to kill the marvail,
Clot. There be many Cafars,
Eer fuch another Julins: Britain's a World
By it felf, and we will nothing pay
For wearing our own Nolés.
Queen. That opportunity
Which then they had to take from's, to refume
We have again; remember, Sir, my Liege,
The Kings your Ancestors, together with
The natural Bravery of your lfle, which stands
As Neptune's Park ribb'd, and pal'd in
With Oaks unskaleable, and roaring Waters,
With Sand that will cot bear your Enemies Boats,
But fuck them up to'th' Top-maft. A kind of Conqueft
Cefar made here, but made not here his brag
Of, came, and faw, and overcame; with fhame,
The firft that ever touch'd him, he was carried
From off our Coaft, 'twice beaten; and his Shipping,
Poor ignorant Baubles, on our terrible Seas,
Like Egg-fhells, mov'd upon their Surges, crack'd
As cafily 'gainft our Rocks. For Joy whereof,
The fam'd Caffibelan, who was once at point,
Oh giglet Fortune! to master Cafar's Sword,
Made Lud's-Town with rejoicing Fires bright,
And Britains ftrut with Courage.
Clot. Come, there's no more Tribute to be paid. Our Kingdom is ftronger than it was at that time; and, as I faid, there is no more fuch Cafars, other of them may have crook'd Noses, but to owe fuch ftrait Arms, none.
Cym. Son, let your Mother end.
Clot. We have yet many among us, can gripe as hard as Caffibelan, I do not fay I am one; but I have a hand. Why Tribute? Why should we pay Tribute? If Cafar can hide the Sun from us with a Blanket, or put the Moon in his Pocket, we will pay him Tribute for Light; else, Sir, no more Tribute, pray you now.
Cym. You must know,
'Till the injurious Romans did extort
This Tribute from us, we were free. Cafar's Ambition,
Which fwell'd fo much, that it did almost stretch
The fides o'th' World, against all Colour here,
Did put the Yoak upon's; which to shake off
Becomes a warlike People, whom we reckon
Our felves to be; we do. Say then to Cafar,
Our Ancestor was that Mulmutius, which
Ordain'd our Laws, whose use the Sword of Cafar
Hath too much mangled; whofe repair and franchise,
Shall by the Power we hold be our good deed,
Though Rome be therefore angry. Mulmutius made our Laws,
Who was the first of Britain, which did put
His Brows within a golden Crown, and call'd
Himself a King.
Luc. I am forry, Cymbeline,
That I am to pronounce Auguftus Cafar,
Cafar that hath more Kings his Servants, than
Thy felf Domeftick Officers, thine Enemy.
Receive it from me then. War, and Confufion
In Cafar's Name pronounce I 'gainst thee: Look
For Fury, not to be refifted. Thus defy'd,
I thank thee for my felf.
Gym. Thou art welcome, Caius,
Thy Cafar Knighted me; my Youth I spent
Much under him: Of him, I gather'd Honour,
Which he, to feek of me again, perforce,
Behooves me keep at utterance. I am perfect,
That the Pannonians and Dalmatians, for
Their Liberties, are now in Arms: A Precedent
Which not to read, would fhew the Britains cold:
So Cafar fhall not find them.
Clot. His Majefty bids you Welcome. Make Paftime with us a Day, or two, or longer: If you feek us afterwards in other terms, you fhall find us in our Salt-water Girdle: If you beat us out of it, it is yours: If you fall in the Adventure, our Crows fhall fare the better for you: And there's an end.
Cym. I know your Mafter's Pleasure, and he mine: All the Remain, is welcome.
Enter Pifanio reading a Letter.
Pif. How of Adultery? Wherefore write you not What Monsters her accufe? Leonatus!
Oh Mafter, what a strange Infection
Is fall'n into thy Ear? What falfe Italian,
As poifonous tongu'd, as handed, hath prevail'd
On thy too ready hearing? Difloyal? No,
She's punish'd for her Truth; and undergoes
More Goddefs-like, than Wife-like, fuch Affaults
As would take in fome Virtue. Oh my Mafter,
Thy Mind to her, is now as low, as were
Thy Fortunes. How? That I fhould Murther her,
Upon the Love, and Truth, and Vows, which I
Have made to thy Command!--I her!--Her Blood!
If it be fo, to do good Service, never
Let me be counted ferviceable. How look I,
That I fhould feem to lack Humanity,
So much as this Fat comes to? Do't--the Letter
That I have fent her, by her own Command,
Shall give the Opportunity. Oh damn'd Paper!
Black as the Ink that's on thee: Senfelefs Bauble!
Art thou a Fœdarie for this act; thou look'ft
So Virgin-like without? Lo here fhe comes.
Enter Imogen.
I am ignorant in what I am comman ded.
Imo. How now, Pifanio?
Pif. Madam, here is a Letter from my Lord.
Imo. Who! thy Lord? that is my Lord Leonatus?
Oh, learn'd indeed were that Aftronomer
That knew the Stars, as I his Characters,
He'd lay the Future open. You good Gods,
Let what is here contain'd, relish of Love,
Of my Lord's Health, of his Content, yet not
That we two are afunder, let that grieve him:
Some Griefs are medicinable, that is one of them,
For it doth phyfick Love, of his Content,
All but in that. Good Wax, thy leave: bleft be
You Bees that make thefe Locks of Counfel. Lovers,
And Men in dangerous Bonds pray not alike.
Though Forfeitures you caft in Prifon, yet
You clafp young Cupid's Tables: good News, Gods.
Reading.
Uftice, and your Father's Wrath, should he take me in his Dominion, could not be so cruel to me, as you, oh the deareft of Creatures, would even renew me with your Eyes. Take notice that I am in Cambria at Milford-Haven: What your own Love will out of this advise you, follow. So he wishes you all Happiness, that remains Loyal to his Vow, and your increafing in Love, Leonatus Pofthumus. Oh for a Horfe with Wings! Hear't thou, Pifanio? He is at Milford Haven: Read, and tell me How far 'tis thither. If one of mean Affairs May plod it in a Week, why may not I Glide thither in a day? then, true Pifanio, Who long'ft like me, to fee thy Lord, who long'ft, Oh let me bate, but not like me, yet long'ft But in a fainter kind----Oh not like me; For mine's beyond, beyond-fay, and speak thick Love's Counsellor fhould fill the Bores of Hearing
To th' fmothering of the Senfe, how far it is
To this fame bleffed Milford. And by th' way
Tell me how Wales was made fo happy, as
T'inherit fuch á Haven. But first of all,
How may we fteal from hence: And for the Gap
That we hall make in time, from our hence-going,
And our return, to excufe----but fift, how get hence.
Why should Excufe be born or e'er begot?
We'll talk of that hereafter. Prithee fpeak,
How many Score of Miles ma
Twixt Hour and Hour?
Pif. One Score 'twixt Sun, and Sun,
Madam's enough for you: And too much toc.
Imo. Why, one that rode to's Execution, Man,
Could never go fo flow: I have heard of riding Wagers,
Where Horfes have been nimbler than the Sands
That run i' th' Clocks behalf. But this is Foolery,
Go, bid my Woman feign a Sicknefs, fay
She'll home to her Father, and provide me prefently
A riding Suit: No coftlier than would fit
A Franklin's Housewife.
Pif. Madam, you're beft confider.
Imo. I fee before me, Man, nor here, nor here,
Nor what enfues, but have a Fog in them,
That I cannot look thorough. Away, I pithec,
Do as I bid thee; there's no more to fay;
Acceffible is none but Milford way.
SCENE II. A Foreft with a Cave.
Enter Bellarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus,
Bel. A goodly Day, not to keep Houfe with fuch,
Whofe Roof's as low as ours: See, Boys! this Gate
Inftructs you how t'adore the Heav'ns; and bows you
Toa Morning's holy Office. The Gates of Monarchs
Are Arch'd fo high, that Giants may jet through
And keep their impious Turbands on, without
Good Morrow to the Sun. Hail, thou fair Heav'n,
We house i'th' Rock, yet ufe thee not fo hardly,
As prouder Livers do.
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