William Shakespeare - William Shakespeare - Complete Works

Than I to your Highness; who, being born your vassal,

Am something nearer.

CYMBELINE. Wherefore ey'st him so?

IMOGEN. I'll tell you, sir, in private, if you please

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 converse apart]

BELARIUS. Is not this boy reviv'd from death?

ARVIRAGUS. One sand another

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

He would have spoke to us.

GUIDERIUS. But we saw 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 advance]

CYMBELINE. Come, stand thou by our side;

Make thy demand aloud. [To IACHIMO] 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.

IMOGEN. My boon is that this gentleman may render

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?

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 liv'd

'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;

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!- was in Rome- accurs'd

The mansion where!- 'twas at a feast- O, would

Our viands had been poison'd, or at least

Those which I heav'd 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

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-

CYMBELINE. I stand on fire.

Come to the matter.

IACHIMO. 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 prais'd- 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 trulls, or his description

Prov'd us unspeaking sots.

CYMBELINE. Nay, nay, to th' purpose.

IACHIMO. 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 villainous. 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 practice 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; averring 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-

POSTHUMUS. [Coming forward] Ay, so thou dost,

Italian fiend! Ay me, most credulous fool,

Egregious murderer, thief, anything

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 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

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!

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 lies thy part. [Strikes her. She falls]

PISANIO. O gentlemen, help!

Mine and your mistress! O, my lord Posthumus!

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?

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

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

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

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 pow'r 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.