What's best to ask. Know'st thou him thou look'ft on ? fpeak, 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 val fal, Am fomething nearer. Cym. Wherefore eye'st him so ? 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. Imo. Fidele, Sir. What's thy name? Cym. Thou art my good youth, my page; I'll be thy master: walk with me, speak freely. [Cymbel. and Imo, walk afide. Bel. Is not this boy reviv'd from death? Arv. One fand another (29) Not more resembles, than He th' fweet rofie lad, Bel. Peace, peace, fee more; he eyes us not; for- 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 furrher. Pif. 'Tis my miftrefs Since the 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, (29) Sir, ftep you forth, [To Lachimo. A flight corruption has made stark Nonsense of this Paffage. One Grain of Sand certainly might refemble another; but it could never resemble a human Form. I believe, I have restor'd the Poet's Meaning; The Verse is none of the smootheft: but, resembles must be pronounc'd as a disyllable. Give answer to this boy, and do it freely; 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 unfpoken That, Which to be fpoke would torture thee. Cym. How? me? lach. I'm glad to be contrain'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. lach. That paragon, thy daughter, For whom my heart drops blood, and my falfe fpirits Cym My daughter, what of her? renew thy firength; Those which I heav'd to head :) the good Pofthumus Hearing us praise our Loves of Italy (30) -fitting fadly, For (30) Hearing us praise our Loves of Italy For Beauty, that made barren the fell'd Boaft Of him that beft could speak; for Feature, laming The For Beauty, that made barren the fwell'd Boaft Loves woman for; befides that hook of wiving, Come to the matter. lach. All too foon I fhall, Unless thou wouldst grieve quickly.-This Pofthumus, (Most like a noble lord in love, and one That had a royal lover) took his hint ; And, not difpraifing whom we prais'd, (therein His mistress' picture; which by his tongue being made, Were crack'd-of kitchen trulls, or his description Cym, Nay, nay, to th' purpose. Tach. Your daughter's chastity; there it begins: He spake of her, as Dian had hot dreams, And he alone were cold; whereat, I, wretch !. In fuit the place of's bed, and win this ring The fhrine of Venus, or firait-pight Minerva, 1 As plaufible as this Reading may appear at firft View, I dare fay, it is flightly corrupted. What! did they praise their Miftreffes for Beauty, and for Feature too? The Symmetry of Features is always one main part of Beauty. Then why fhould Features be faid to lame a Statue, or the Poftures of a well-built Goddefs; We must certainly restore for Stature laming The Shrine of Venus, &c, This agrees perfectly well with, laming, Arait-pight, and Pof tures: and fo the Lady is prais'd for her Beauty, her Shape, and her Tempeof M nd. By By hers and mine adultery. He, true Knight, Than I did truly find her, ftakes this ring; Of Phoebus' wheel; and might fo fafely, had it By wounding his belief in her renown, Poft. Ay, fo thou doft, [Coming forward. Italian fiend! ah me, most credulous fool, That's due to all the villains paft, in Being, To come- -oh, give me cord, or knife, or poison, That all th' abhorred things o'th' earth amend, Be Be villany less than 'twas! Oh Imogen? My Queen, my life, my wife! oh Imogen, Imo. Peace, my lord, hear, hear- Pif. Oh, gentlemen, help, Mine, and your mistress [Striking her, he falls. Oh, my lord Pofthumus! -help, help, You ne'er kill'd Imogen 'till now——— Mine honour'd lady Cym. Does the world go round ? Poft. How come thefe ftaggers on me? Pif. Wake, my miftrefs! Cym. If this be fo, the Gods do mean to ftrike me To death with mortal joy. Pif. How fares my mistress? Imo. O, get thee from my fight; Thou gav'ft me poifon dang'rous fellow, hence! Breathe not, where Princes are. Cym. The tune of Imogen! Pif. Lady, the Gods throw ftones of fulphur on me, If what I gave you was not thought by me A precious thing: I had it from the Queen. Imo. It poifon'd me. Cor. Oh Gods! I left out one thing which the Queen confefs'd, Cym. What's this, Cornelius? Cor. The Queen, Sir, very oft importun'd me The |