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And yet died too? I, in mine own woe charm'd, Could not find death, where I did hear him
groan; Nor feel him, where he struck: Being an ugly monster, 'Tis strange, he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds, Sweet words ; or hath more ministers than we That draw his knives i'the war.-Well, I will find him: For being now a favourer to the Roman, No more a Briton, I have re-sum'd again The part I came in : Fight I will no more, But yield me to the veriest hind, that shall Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is Here made by the Roman ; great the answer be Britons must take; For me, my ransome's death; On either side I come to spend my breath ; Which neither here I'll keep, nor bear again, But end it by some means for Imogen.
Enter Two British Captains, and Soldiers. i Cap. Great Jupiter be prais'd! Lucius is taken: 'Tis thought, the old man and his sons were angels.
2 Cap. There was a fourth man, in a silly habit, That gave the affront? with them. 1 Cap.
So 'tis reported: But none of them can be found.-Stand! who is there?
Post. A Roman; Who had not now been drooping here, if seconds Had answer'd him. 2 Cap.
Lay hands on him; a dog! A leg of Rome shall not return to tell What crows have peck'd them here: He brags his
As if he were of note: bring him to the king. Enter CYMBELINE, attended; BELARIUS, GUIDE
RIUŞ, ARVIRAGUS, Pisanio, and Roman Captives. The Captains present PosTHUMUS to CymBELINE, who delivers him over to a Gaoler : after which, all go out,
Enter POSTHUMUS, and Two Gaolers. 1 Gaol, You shall not now be stolen, you have
locks upon you; So, graze, as you
find pasture. 2 Gaol.
Ay, or a stomach.
[Exeunt Gaolers. Post. Most welcome, bondage! for thou art a way, I think, to liberty : Yet am I better
Than one that's sick o'the gout: since he had rather
Desir'd, more than constraind : to satisfy,
[He sleeps. Solemn Musick. Enter, as an Apparition, SICILIUS
LEONATUS, Father to POSTHUMUS, an old Man,
Thy spite on mortal flies :
Rates and revenges. 5 This Scene is supposed not to be Shakspeare's, but foisted
in by the Players for mere show,
Hath my poor boy done aught but well,
Whose face I never saw ?
Attending Nature's law.
Thou orphans' father art,)
From this earth-vexing smart.
But took me in my throes ;
A thing of pity!
Moulded the stuff so fair,
As great Sicilius' heir.
In Britain where was he
Or fruitful object be
Could deem his dignity ?
To be exil'd and thrown
Slight thing of Italy,
With needless jealousy i
And to become the geck and scorn
O'the other's villainy ?
Our parents, and us twain,
Fell bravely, and were slain ;
With honour to maintain. i Bro. Like hardiment Posthumus hath
To Cymbeline perform’d: Then Jupiter, thou king of gods,
Why hast thou thus adjourn'd The graces
for his merits due ;
No longer exercise,
And potent injuries:
Take off his miseries.
Or we poor ghosts will cry To the shining synod of the rest,
Against thy deity. 2 Bro. Help, Jupiter; or we appeal,
And from thy justice fly.
6 The fool.