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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)

    394The Tragedy of Cymbeline.
    3105To taint his Nobler hart & braine, with needlesse ielousy,
    And to become the geeke and scorne o'th' others vilany?
    2 Bro. For this, from stiller Seats we came,
    our Parents, and vs twaine,
    That striking in our Countries cause,
    3110 fell brauely, and were slaine,
    Our Fealty, & Tenantius right, with Honor to maintaine.
    1 Bro. Like hardiment Posthumus hath
    to Cymbeline perform'd:
    Then Iupiter, yu King of Gods, why hast yu thus adiourn'd
    3115The Graces for his Merits due, being all to dolors turn'd?
    Sicil. Thy Christall window ope; looke,
    looke out, no longer exercise
    Vpon a valiant Race, thy harsh, and potent iniuries:
    Moth. Since (Iupiter) our Son is good,
    3120 take off his miseries.
    Sicil. Peepe through thy Marble Mansion, helpe,
    or we poore Ghosts will cry
    To'th' shining Synod of the rest, against thy Deity.
    Brothers. Helpe (Iupiter) or we appeale,
    3125 and from thy iustice flye.
    Iupiter descends in Thunder and Lightning, sitting vppon an
    Eagle: hee throwes a Thunder-bolt. The Ghostes fall on
    their knees.
    Iupiter. No more you petty Spirits of Region low
    3130Offend our hearing: hush. How dare you Ghostes
    Accuse the Thunderer, whose Bolt (you know)
    Sky-planted, batters all rebelling Coasts.
    Poore shadowes of Elizium, hence, and rest
    Vpon your neuer-withering bankes of Flowres.
    3135Be not with mortall accidents opprest,
    No care of yours it is, you know 'tis ours.
    Whom best I loue, I crosse; to make my guift
    The more delay'd, delighted. Be content,
    Your low-laide Sonne, our Godhead will vplift:
    3140His Comforts thriue, his Trials well are spent:
    Our Iouiall Starre reign'd at his Birth, and in
    Our Temple was he married: Rise, and fade,
    He shall be Lord of Lady Imogen,
    And happier much by his Affliction made.
    3145This Tablet lay vpon his Brest, wherein
    Our pleasure, his full Fortune, doth confine,
    And so away: no farther with your dinne
    Expresse Impatience, least you stirre vp mine:
    Mount Eagle, to my Palace Christalline. Ascends
    3150Sicil. He came in Thunder, his Celestiall breath
    Was sulphurous to smell: the holy Eagle
    Stoop'd, as to foote vs: his Ascension is
    More sweet then our blest Fields: his Royall Bird
    Prunes the immortall wing, and cloyes his Beake,
    3155As when his God is pleas'd.
    All. Thankes Iupiter.
    Sic. The Marble Pauement clozes, he is enter'd
    His radiant Roofe: Away, and to be blest
    Let vs with care performe his great behest. Vanish
    3160Post. Sleepe, thou hast bin a Grandsire, and begot
    A Father to me: and thou hast created
    A Mother, and two Brothers. But (oh scorne)
    Gone, they went hence so soone as they were borne:
    And so I am awake. Poore Wretches, that depend
    3165On Greatnesse, Fauour; Dreame as I haue done,
    Wake, and finde nothing. But (alas) I swerue:
    Many Dreame not to finde, neither deserue,
    And yet are steep'd in Fauours; so am I
    That haue this Golden chance, and know not why:
    3170What Fayeries haunt this ground? A Book? Oh rare one,
    Be not, as is our fangled world, a Garment
    Nobler then that it couers. Let thy effects
    So follow, to be most vnlike our Courtiers,
    As good, as promise.
    WHen as a Lyons whelpe, shall to himselfe vnknown, with-
    out seeking finde, and bee embrac'd by a peece of tender
    Ayre: And when from a stately Cedar shall be lopt branches,
    which being dead many yeares, shall after reuiue, bee ioynted to
    3180the old Stocke, and freshly grow, then shall Posthumus end his
    miseries, Britaine be fortunate, and flourish in Peace and Plen-
    'Tis still a Dreame: or else such stuffe as Madmen
    Tongue, and braine not: either both, or nothing,
    3185Or senselesse speaking, or a speaking such
    As sense cannot vntye. Be what it is,
    The Action of my life is like it, which Ile keepe
    If but for simpathy.
    Enter Gaoler.
    3190Gao. Come Sir, are you ready for death?
    Post. Ouer-roasted rather: ready long ago.
    Gao. Hanging is the word, Sir, if you bee readie for
    that, you are well Cook'd.
    Post. So if I proue a good repast to the Spectators, the
    3195dish payes the shot.
    Gao. A heauy reckoning for you Sir: But the comfort
    is you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more
    Tauerne Bils, which are often the sadnesse of parting, as
    the procuring of mirth: you come in faint for want of
    3200meate, depart reeling with too much drinke: sorrie that
    you haue payed too much, and sorry that you are payed
    too much: Purse and Braine, both empty: the Brain the
    heauier, for being too light; the Purse too light, being
    drawne of heauinesse. Oh, of this contradiction you shall
    3205now be quit: Oh the charity of a penny Cord, it summes
    vp thousands in a trice: you haue no true Debitor, and
    Creditor but it: of what's past, is, and to come, the dis-
    charge: your necke (Sis) is Pen, Booke, and Counters; so
    the Acquittance followes.
    3210Post. I am merrier to dye, then thou art to liue.
    Gao. Indeed Sir, he that sleepes, feeles not the Tooth-
    Ache: but a man that were to sleepe your sleepe, and a
    Hangman to helpe him to bed, I think he would change
    places with his Officer: for, look you Sir, you know not
    3215which way you shall go.
    Post. Yes indeed do I, fellow.
    Gao. Your death has eyes in's head then: I haue not
    seene him so pictur'd: you must either bee directed by
    some that take vpon them to know, or to take vpon your
    3220selfe that which I am sure you do not know: or iump the
    after-enquiry on your owne perill: and how you shall
    speed in your iournies end, I thinke you'l neuer returne
    to tell one.
    Post. I tell thee, Fellow, there are none want eyes, to
    3225direct them the way I am going, but such as winke, and
    will not vse them.
    Gao. What an infinite mocke is this, that a man shold
    haue the best vse of eyes, to see the way of blindnesse: I
    am sure hanging's the way of winking.
    3230Enter a Messenger.
    Mes. Knocke off his Manacles, bring your Prisoner to
    the King.
    Post. Thou bring'st good newes, I am call'd to bee
    made free.
    3235Gao. Ile be hang'd then.
    Post. Thou shalt be then freer then a Gaoler; no bolts