gallowses! I speak against my present profit, but my wish hath a preferment in't. [Exeunt. SCENE V. CYMBELINE'S Tent. Enter CYMBELINE, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS, PISANIO, Lords, Officers, and Attendants. Cym. 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, Our grace can make him so. Bel. I never saw Such noble fury in so poor a thing; Such precious deeds in one, that promis'd nought But beggary and poor looks. Cym. No tidings of him? Pis. He hath been search'd among the dead and living, But no trace of him. Cym. To my grief, I am The heir of his reward; which I will add To you, the liver, heart, and brain of Britain, By whom, I grant, she lives. 'Tis now the time Bel. Sir, In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen. Cym. Bow your knees. Arise, my knights o' the battle: I create you Enter CORNELIUS and Ladies. There's business in these faces.-Why so sadly Cor. Hail, great king! To sour your happiness, I must report Cym. Cor. With horror, madly dying, like her life; Cym. Pr'ythee, say. Cor. First, she confess'd she never lov'd you; only Affected greatness got by you, not you: Married your royalty, was wife to your place, Abhorr'd your person. Cym. She alone knew this; And, but she spoke it dying, I would not Believe her lips in opening it. Proceed. Cor. Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to love With such integrity, she did confess Was as a scorpion to her sight; whose life, 8 whom she bore in hand to love] i. e. whom she pretended to love, or led to believe that she loved. In "Measure for Measure," Vol. ii. p. 21, we had the expression, "Bore many gentlemen, myself being one, In hand, and hope of action." But that her flight prevented it, she had Cym. O most delicate fiend! Who is't can read a woman?-Is there more? Cor. 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 Cym. Heard you all this, her women? Lady. We did so, please your highness. Cym. Were not in fault, for she was beautiful; Mine eyes 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 may'st say, And prove it in thy feeling. Heaven mend all! Enter LUCIUS, IACHIMO, the Soothsayer, and other Roman Prisoners, guarded; POSTHUMUS behind, and IMOGEN. Thou com'st not, Caius, now for tribute that Luc. 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. So feat, so nurse-like. Let his virtue join With my request, which, I'll make bold, your highness Cannot deny he hath done no Briton harm, Though he have serv'd a Roman. And spare no blood beside. Cym. Save him, sir, 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, nor wherefore, To say, live, boy: ne'er thank thy master; live, And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt, The noblest ta'en. Imo. I humbly thank your highness. Luc. I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad, And yet I know thou wilt. Imo. No, no; alack! 9 SO FEAT,] So neat, ready, clever, in this instance: it also sometimes means fine or brave, according to Minsheu. See p. 141. 1 His FAVOUR is familiar to me.] Here, as in many other places, "favour" is used for countenance. See Vol. vii. p. 24, &c. 2 I know not why, nor wherefore,] "Nor" was added by Rowe, and is necessary to the sense. There's other work in hand.-I see a thing Bitter to me as death.-Your life, good master, Luc. The boy disdains me, He leaves me, scorns me: briefly die their joys, Cym. What would'st 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? Imo. He is a Roman; no more kin to me, Than I to your highness, who, being born your vassal, Am something nearer. Cym. Wherefore ey'st him so? Imo. I'll tell you, sir, in private, if you please To give me hearing. Cym. Ay, with all my heart, What's thy name? And lend my best attention. Imo. Fidele, sir. Cym. Thou art my good youth, my page; I'll be thy master: walk with me; speak freely. [CYMBELINE and IMOGEN converse apart. Bel. Is not this boy reviv'd from death? Arv. One sand another Not more resembles: that sweet rosy lad, Who died, and was Fidele.-What think you? Bel. Peace, peace! see farther; he eyes us not: forbear. Creatures may be alike: were't he, I am sure He would have spoke to us. Gui. But we saw him dead. It is my mistress! Bel. Be silent; let's see farther. Since she is living, let the time run on, |