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  • 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)

    370The Tragedie of Cymbeline.
    That locke vp your restraint. For you Posthumus,
    So soone as I can win th' offended King,
    90I will be knowne your Aduocate: marry yet
    The fire of Rage is in him, and 'twere good
    You lean'd vnto his Sentence, with what patience
    Your wisedome may informe you.
    Post. 'Please your Highnesse,
    95I will from hence to day.
    Qu. You know the perill:
    Ile fetch a turne about the Garden, pittying
    The pangs of barr'd Affections, though the King
    Hath charg'd you should not speake together. Exit
    100Imo. O dissembling Curtesie! How fine this Tyrant
    Can tickle where she wounds? My deerest Husband,
    I something feare my Fathers wrath, but nothing
    (Alwayes reseru'd my holy duty) what
    His rage can do on me. You must be gone,
    105And I shall heere abide the hourely shot
    Of angry eyes: not comforted to liue,
    But that there is this Iewell in the world,
    That I may see againe.
    Post. My Queene, my Mistris:
    110O Lady, weepe no more, least I giue cause
    To be suspected of more tendernesse
    Then doth become a man. I will remaine
    The loyall'st husband, that did ere plight troth.
    My residence in Rome, at one Filorio's,
    115Who, to my Father was a Friend, to me
    Knowne but by Letter; thither write (my Queene)
    And with mine eyes, Ile drinke the words you send,
    Though Inke be made of Gall.
    Enter Queene.
    120Qu. Be briefe, I pray you:
    If the King come, I shall incurre, I know not
    How much of his displeasure: yet Ile moue him
    To walke this way: I neuer do him wrong,
    But he do's buy my Iniuries, to be Friends:
    125Payes deere for my offences.
    Post. Should we be taking leaue
    As long a terme as yet we haue to liue,
    The loathnesse to depart, would grow: Adieu.
    Imo. Nay, stay a little:
    130Were you but riding forth to ayre your selfe,
    Such parting were too petty. Looke heere (Loue)
    This Diamond was my Mothers; take it (Heart)
    But keepe it till you woo another Wife,
    When Imogen is dead.
    135Post. How, how? Another?
    You gentle Gods, giue me but this I haue,
    And seare vp my embracements from a next,
    With bonds of death. Remaine, remaine thou heere,
    While sense can keepe it on: And sweetest, fairest,
    140As I (my poore selfe) did exchange for you
    To your so infinite losse; so in our trifles
    I still winne of you. For my sake weare this,
    It is a Manacle of Loue, Ile place it
    Vpon this fayrest Prisoner.
    145Imo. O the Gods!
    When shall we see againe?
    Enter Cymbeline, and Lords.
    Post. Alacke, the King.
    Cym. Thou basest thing, auoyd hence, from my sight:
    150If after this command thou fraught the Court
    With thy vnworthinesse, thou dyest. Away,
    Thou'rt poyson to my blood.
    Post. The Gods protect you,
    And blesse the good Remainders of the Court:
    155I am gone. Exit.
    Imo. There cannot be a pinch in death
    More sharpe then this is.
    Cym. O disloyall thing,
    That should'st repayre my youth, thou heap'st
    160A yeares age on mee.
    Imo. I beseech you Sir,
    Harme not your selfe with your vexation,
    I am senselesse of your Wrath; a Touch more rare
    Subdues all pangs, all feares.
    165Cym. Past Grace? Obedience?
    Imo. Past hope, and in dispaire, that way past Grace.
    Cym. That might'st haue had
    The sole Sonne of my Queene.
    Imo. O blessed, that I might not: I chose an Eagle,
    170And did auoyd a Puttocke.
    Cym. Thou took'st a Begger, would'st haue made my
    Throne, a Seate for basenesse.
    Imo. No, I rather added a lustre to it.
    Cym. O thou vilde one!
    175Imo. Sir,
    It is your fault that I haue lou'd Posthumus:
    You bred him as my Play-fellow, and he is
    A man, worth any woman: Ouer-buyes mee
    Almost the summe he payes.
    180Cym. What? art thou mad?
    Imo. Almost Sir: Heauen restore me: would I were
    A Neat-heards Daughter, and my Leonatus
    Our Neighbour-Shepheards Sonne.
    Enter Queene.
    185Cym. Thou foolish thing;
    They were againe together: you haue done
    Not after our command. Away with her,
    And pen her vp.
    Qu. Beseech your patience: Peace
    190Deere Lady daughter, peace. Sweet Soueraigne,
    Leaue vs to our selues, and make your self some comfort
    Out of your best aduice.
    Cym. Nay, let her languish
    A drop of blood a day, and being aged
    195Dye of this Folly. Exit.
    Enter Pisanio.
    Qu. Fye, you must giue way:
    Heere is your Seruant. How now Sir? What newes?
    Pisa. My Lord your Sonne, drew on my Master.
    200Qu. Hah?
    No harme I trust is done?
    Pisa. There might haue beene,
    But that my Master rather plaid, then fought,
    And had no helpe of Anger: they were parted
    205By Gentlemen, at hand.
    Qu. I am very glad on't.
    Imo. Your Son's my Fathers friend, he takes his part
    To draw vpon an Exile. O braue Sir,
    I would they were in Affricke both together,
    210My selfe by with a Needle, that I might pricke
    The goer backe. Why came you from your Master?
    Pisa. On his command: he would not suffer mee
    To bring him to the Hauen: left these Notes
    Of what commands I should be subiect too,
    215When't pleas'd you to employ me.
    Qu. This hath beene
    Your faithfull Seruant: I dare lay mine Honour
    He will remaine so.
    Pisa. I humbly thanke your Highnesse.
    Qu.
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