Internet Shakespeare Editions

About this text

  • Title: Cymbeline (Folio 1, 1623)
  • Editor: Jennifer Forsyth
  • ISBN: 1-55058-300-X

    Copyright Jennifer Forsyth. This text may be freely used for educational, non-profit purposes; for all other uses contact the Editor.
    Author: William Shakespeare
    Editor: Jennifer Forsyth
    Peer Reviewed

    Cymbeline (Folio 1, 1623)

    The Tragedy of Cymbeline.
    Alacke no remedy) to the greedy touch
    Of common-kissing Titan: and forget
    Your laboursome and dainty Trimmes, wherein
    1855You made great Iuno angry.
    Imo. Nay be breefe?
    I see into thy end, and am almost
    A man already.
    Pis. First, make your selfe but like one,
    1860Fore-thinking this. I haue already fit
    ('Tis in my Cloake-bagge) Doublet, Hat, Hose, all
    That answer to them: Would you in their seruing,
    (And with what imitation you can borrow
    From youth of such a season) 'fore Noble Lucius
    1865Present your selfe, desire his seruice: tell him
    Wherein you're happy; which will make him know,
    If that his head haue eare in Musicke, doubtlesse
    With ioy he will imbrace you: for hee's Honourable,
    And doubling that, most holy. Your meanes abroad:
    1870You haue me rich, and I will neuer faile
    Beginning, nor supplyment.
    Imo. Thou art all the comfort
    The Gods will diet me with. Prythee away,
    There's more to be consider'd: but wee'l euen
    1875All that good time will giue vs. This attempt,
    I am Souldier too, and will abide it with
    A Princes Courage. Away, I prythee.
    Pis. Well Madam, we must take a short farewell,
    Least being mist, I be suspected of
    1880Your carriage from the Court. My Noble Mistris,
    Heere is a boxe, I had it from the Queene,
    What's in't is precious: If you are sicke at Sea,
    Or Stomacke-qualm'd at Land, a Dramme of this
    Will driue away distemper. To some shade,
    1885And fit you to your Manhood: may the Gods
    Direct you to the best.
    Imo. Amen: I thanke thee.

    Scena Quinta.

    Enter Cymbeline, Queene, Cloten, Lucius,
    and Lords.
    Cym. Thus farre, and so farewell.
    Luc. Thankes, Royall Sir:
    My Emperor hath wrote, I must from hence,
    And am right sorry, that I must report ye
    1895My Masters Enemy.
    Cym. Our Subiects (Sir)
    Will not endure his yoake; and for our selfe
    To shew lesse Soueraignty then they, must needs
    Appeare vn-Kinglike.
    1900Luc. So Sir: I desire of you
    A Conduct ouer Land, to Milford-Hauen.
    Madam, all ioy befall your Grace, and you.
    Cym. My Lords, you are appointed for that Office:
    The due of Honor, in no point omit:
    1905So farewell Noble Lucius.
    Luc. Your hand, my Lord.
    Clot. Receiue it friendly: but from this time forth
    I weare it as your Enemy.
    Luc. Sir, the Euent
    1910Is yet to name the winner. Fare you well.
    Cym. Leaue not the worthy Lucius, good my Lords
    Till he haue crost the Seuern. Happines.
    Exit Lucius, &c
    Qu. He goes hence frowning: but it honours vs
    That we haue giuen him cause.
    1915Clot. 'Tis all the better,
    Your valiant Britaines haue their wishes in it.
    Cym. Lucius hath wrote already to the Emperor
    How it goes heere. It fits vs therefore ripely
    Our Chariots, and our Horsemen be in readinesse:
    1920The Powres that he already hath in Gallia
    Will soone be drawne to head, from whence he moues
    His warre for Britaine.
    Qu. 'Tis not sleepy businesse,
    But must be look'd too speedily, and strongly.
    1925Cym. Our expectation that it would be thus
    Hath made vs forward. But my gentle Queene,
    Where is our Daughter? She hath not appear'd
    Before the Roman, nor to vs hath tender'd
    The duty of the day. She looke vs like
    1930A thing more made of malice, then of duty,
    We haue noted it. Call her before vs, for
    We haue beene too slight in sufferance.
    Qu. Royall Sir,
    Since the exile of Posthumus, most retyr'd
    1935Hath her life bin: the Cure whereof, my Lord,
    'Tis time must do. Beseech your Maiesty,
    Forbeare sharpe speeches to her. Shee's a Lady
    So tender of rebukes, that words are stroke;,
    And strokes death to her.
    Enter a Messenger.
    Cym. Where is she Sir? How
    Can her contempt be answer'd?
    Mes. Please you Sir,
    Her Chambers are all lock'd, and there's no answer
    1945That will be giuen to'th' lowd of noise, we make.
    Qu. My Lord, when last I went to visit her,
    She pray'd me to excuse her keeping close,
    Whereto constrain'd by her infirmitie,
    She should that dutie leaue vnpaide to you
    1950Which dayly she was bound to proffer: this
    She wish'd me to make knowne: but our great Court
    Made me too blame in memory.
    Cym. Her doores lock'd?
    Not seene of late? Grant Heauens, that which I
    1955Feare, proue false.
    Qu. Sonne, I say, follow the King.
    Clot. That man of hers, Pisanio, her old Seruant
    I haue not seene these two dayes.
    Qu. Go, looke after:
    1960Pisanio, thou that stand'st so for Posthumus,
    He hath a Drugge of mine: I pray, his absence
    Proceed by swallowing that. For he beleeues
    It is a thing most precious. But for her,
    Where is she gone? Haply dispaire hath seiz'd her:
    1965Or wing'd with feruour of her loue, she's flowne
    To her desir'd Posthumus: gone she is,
    To death, or to dishonor, and my end
    Can make good vse of either. Shee being downe,
    I haue the placing of the Brittish Crowne.
    Enter Cloten.
    How now, my Sonne?
    Clot. 'Tis certaine she is fled:
    Go in and cheere the King, he rages, none
    Dare come about him.
    1975Qu. All the better: may
    This night fore-stall him of the comming day.
    Exit Qu.
    Clo. I loue, and hate her: for she's Faire and Royall,
    And that she hath all courtly parts more exquisite