For you a mortal mineral; which, being took, Were not in fault, for she was beautiful; To have mistrusted her: yet, O my daughter! Thou com'st not, Caius, now for tribute; that suit That their good souls may be appeased with slaughter Of you their captives, which ourself have granted: Our prisoners with the sword. But since the gods His favor is familiar to me. To say live, boy: ne'er thank thy master; live: Cym. Thou art, my good youth, my page; Not more resembles that sweet rosy lad Who died, and was Fidele. What think you? Gui. The same dead thing alive. Cym. My daughter! what of her? Renew thy strength: I had rather thou shouldst live while nature will, The mansion where !) —'t was at a feast (O'would Bel. Peace, peace! see further; he eyes us not; Our viands had been poisoned! or, at least, What's that to him? [Aside. Iach. Thou 'It torture me to leave unspoken that Cym. How! me? For beauty that made barren the swelled boast Cym. Come to the matter. Iach. All too soon I shall, Unless thou wouldst grieve quickly. - This Post- (Most like a noble lord in love, and one His mistress' picture; which by his tongue being made, And then a mind put in 't, either our brags Iach. I am glad to be constrained to utter that Proved us unspeaking sots. which Torments me to conceal. By villainy I got this ring: 't was Leonatus' jewel; Cym. Nay, nay, to the purpose. Iach. Your daughter's chastity—there it begins! Whom thou didst banish; and (which more may He spake of her as Dian had hot dreams, grieve thee, As it doth me) a nobler sir ne'er lived And she alone were cold: whereat, I, wretch! 'Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou hear more, my Pieces of gold 'gainst this, which then he wore And would so had it been a carbuncle Of Phoebus' wheel; and might so safely, had it 'T wixt amorous and villanous. Being thus quenched Of hope, not longing, mine Italian brain. 'Gan in your duller Britain operate Post. Italian fiend! Ay, so thou dost, [Coming forward. That all the abhorréd things o' the earth amend, There lie thy part. [Striking her: she falls. O, gentlemen, help Cym. What's this, Cornelius? Cor. The queen, sir, very oft importuned me To temper poisons for her; still pretending The satisfaction of her knowledge only In killing creatures vile, as cats and dogs Of no esteem: I, dreading that her purpose Was of more danger, did compound for her A certain stuff, which, being ta'en, would cease The present power of life; but, in short time, All offices of nature should again Do their due functions. - Have you ta'en of it? Imo. Most like I did, for I was dead. Bel. My boys, There was our error. Gui. This is, sure, Fidele. Imo. Why did you throw your wedded lady from you? Think that you are upon a rock; and now Throw me again. Post. Hang there like fruit, my soul, [Embracing POSTHUMUS. How now, my flesh, my child? Till the tree die! Cym. Pisa. What mak'st thou me a dullard in this act? ) Cym. O, she was naught; and 'long of her They were not born for bondage. [To the Guard. Cym. By tasting of our wrath? As good as we? Arv. In that he spake too far. Cym. And thou shalt die for 't. But I will prove that two of us are as good Your danger's ours. Bel. then. thou hadst, great king, a subject who Was called Belarius. Cym. What of him? he is A banished traitor. Bel. He it is that hath Assumed this age: indeed, a banished man; I know not how a traitor. Cym. Take him hence; Ere I arise, I will prefer my sons; By thy own tongue thou art condemned, and They are the issue of your loins, my liege, Your pleasure was my mere offense, my punish- I have got two worlds by 't.-O, my gentle ment Itself, and all my treason; that I suffered, For that which I did then: beaten for loyalty Fall on their heads like dew! for they are How parted with your brothers? how first met them? Why fled you from the court; and whither? These, And your three motives to the battle, with I know not how much more, should be demanded; And all the other by-dependencies, From chance to chance; but nor the time, nor place, Will serve our long inter'gatories. See, And she, like harmless lightning, throws her eye Cym. The forlorn soldier that so nobly fought, He would have well becomed this place, and graced The thankings of a king. I am, sir, Post. |