Cym. No tydings of him?

Pif. He hath been fearch'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 Britaine ;)

[To Bel. Guid. and Arvirag. 'Tis now the time Report it,

By whom, I grant, fhe lives.
To ask of whence you are.

Bel. Sir,

In Cambria are we born, and Gentlemen:
Farther to boast, were neither true nor modeft,
Unless I add, we're honeft.

Cym. Bow your knees;

Arife my Knights o'th' battle; I create you
Companions to our person, and will fit you
With dignities becoming your eftates.

Enter Cornelius, and Ladies.

There's business in thefe faces: why fo fadly
Greet you our victory? you look like Romans,
And not o'th' Court of Britaine.

Cor. Hail, great King!

To four your happiness, I muft report
The Queen is dead.

Cym Whom worse than a physician
Would this report become? but I confider,
By med'cine life may be prolong'd, yet death
Will feize the Doctor too. How ended fhe?

Cor. With horror, madly dying, like herself;
Who, being cruel to the world, concluded
Moft cruel to her felf. What fhe confeft,
I will report, fo please you: These her women
Can trip me, if I err; who, with wet cheeks,
Were prefent when the finish'd,

Cym. Pr'ythee, fay,

Cor.

Cor. First, fhe confefs'd, fhe 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 the spoke it dying, I would not
Believe her lips in opening it. Proceed.

Cor. Your Daughter, whom the bore in hand to love

With fuch integrity, she did confefs,

Was as a scorpion to her fight; whofe life,
But that her flight prevented it, she had
Ta'en off by poifon.

Cym. O moft 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 lingring
By inches wafte you. In which time the purpos'd,
By watching, weeping, tendance, kiffing, to
O'ercome you with her fhew: yes, and in time,
(When she had fitted you with her craft,) to work
Her fon into th' adoption of the Crown:
But failing of her end by his ftrange absence,
Grew fhameless, defperate; open'd, in despight
Of heaven and men, her purposes: repented,
The ills fhe hatch'd were not effected: fo,
Defpairing, dy'd.

Cym. Heard you all this, her Women?
Lady. We did, fo please your Highness.

Cym. Mine eyes

Were not in fault, for fhe was beautiful:

Mine ears, that heard her flattery; nor my heart,
That thought her like her Seeming. It had been vicious
To have miftrufted her. Yet, oh my daughter!
That it was folly in me, thou may'st say,

And prove

it in thy feeling. Heav'n mend all!

SCENE

Enter Lucius, Iachimo, and other Roman prisoners;
Leonatus behind, and Imogen.

Thou com'ft not, Caius, now for Tribute; That
The Britons have raz'd out, though with the lofs
Of many a bold one; whose kinfmen have made fuit,
That their good fouls may be appeas'd with flaughter
Of you their Captives, which our felf have granted.
So, think of your eftate.

Luc. Confider, Sir, the chance of war; the day Was yours by accident: had it gone with us,

We should not, when the blood was cold, have threatned

Our Prisoners with the fword. But fince the Gods
Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives
May be call'd ranfome, let it come. Sufficeth,
A Roman with a Roman's heart can fuffer.
Auguftus lives to think on't-And fo much
For my peculiar care. This one thing only
I will intreat my boy, a Briton born,
Let him be ranfom'd; never mafter had
A page fo kind, fo duteous, diligent,
So tender over his occafions, true,

So feat, fo nurfe-like; let his virtue join

With my requeft, which, I'll make bold, your Highness
Cannot deny: he hath done no Briton harm,

Though he hath ferv'd a Roman. Save him, Sir,
And fpare no blood befide.

Cym. I've furely feen him;

His favour is familiar to me.

Boy,

Thou haft look'd thy felf into my grace,

And art mine own. I know not why, nor wherefore, To fay, live, boy: ne'er thank thy mafter, live; And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt,

Fitting

Fitting my bounty, and thy ftate, I'll give it :
Yea, though thou do demand a prisoner,
The nobleft 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,

There's other work in hand; I fee a thing
Bitter to me, as death; your life, good master,
Muft fhuffle for it felf.

Luc. The boy disdains me,

He leaves me, fcorns me: briefly die their joys,
That place them on the truth of girls and boys!
Why ftands he fo perplext?

Cym. What would'st thou, boy?

I love thee more and more: think more and more, What's best to ask. Know'ft 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 vaffal, Am fomething nearer.

Cym. Wherefore eye'ft him fo?

Imo. I'll tell you, Sir, in private, if you please To give me hearing.

Cym. Ay, with all my heart,

And lend my best attention.

best attention. What's thy name?

Imo. Fidele, Sir.

Cym. Thou art my good youth, my page; I'll be thy mafter: walk with me, fpeak freely.

[Cymbel. and Imo. walk afide.

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

Arv.

One fand another

1 One fand another

Not more resembles THAT fweet rofie lad,] A flight corrup tion has made nonfenfe of this paffage.

another, but none a human form.

One grain might resemble

We fhould read,

Not more resembles, THAN HE

TH' fweet rofie lad.

Not

Not more resembles, than He th' fweet rofie lad, Who dy'd and was Fidele. What think you? Guid. The fame dead thing alive.

Bel. Peace, peace, fee more; he eyes us not; for-
bear,

Creatures may be alike: were't he, I'm fure,
He would have spoke t'us.

Guid. But we faw him dead.

Bel. Be filent: let's fee further.

Pif. 'Tis

my mistress

Since he is living, let the time run on,

[Afide.

To good, or bad. [Cymb. and Imog. come forward.
Cym. Come, ftand thou by our fide.
Make thy demand aloud.

Sir, Step you forth,

[To lachimo.

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 falfhood-On; fpeak to

him.

Imo. My boon is, that this Gentleman may render Of whom he had this ring.

Poft. What's that to him?

Cym. That diamond upon your finger, fay, How came it yours?

Iach. Thou'lt torture me to leave unspoken That, Which to be spoke would torture thee.

Cym. How? me?

Iach. I am glad to be conftrain'd to utter what Torments me to conceal. By villany

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. Will you hear more, my

lord?

Cym. All that belongs to this.

Jack.