Shakespeare's First Folio Part 689

Gui. But we see him dead

Bel. Be silent: let's see further

Pisa. It is my Mistris: Since she is liuing, let the time run on, To good, or bad

Cym. Come, stand thou by our side, Make thy demand alowd. Sir, step you forth, Giue answer to this Boy, and do it freely, Or by our Greatnesse, and the grace of it (Which is our Honor) bitter torture shall Winnow the truth from falshood. One speake to him

Imo. My boone is, that this Gentleman may render Of whom he had this Ring

Post. What's that to him?

Cym. That Diamond vpon your Finger, say How came it yours?

Iach. Thou'lt torture me to leaue vnspoken, that Which to be spoke, wou'd torture thee

Cym. How? me?

Iach. I am glad to be constrain'd to vtter that Which torments me to conceale. By Villany I got this Ring: 'twas Leonatus Iewell, Whom thou did'st banish: and which more may greeue thee, As it doth me: a n.o.bler Sir, ne're liu'd 'Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou heare more my Lord?

Cym. All that belongs to this

Iach. That Paragon, thy daughter, For whom my heart drops blood, and my false spirits Quaile to remember. Giue me leaue, I faint

Cym. My Daughter? what of hir? Renew thy strength I had rather thou should'st liue, while Nature will, Then dye ere I heare more: striue man, and speake

Iach. Vpon a time, vnhappy was the clocke That strooke the houre: it was in Rome, accurst The Mansion where: 'twas at a Feast, oh would Our Viands had bin poyson'd (or at least Those which I heau'd to head:) the good Posthumus, (What should I say? he was too good to be Where ill men were, and was the best of all Among'st the rar'st of good ones) sitting sadly, Hearing vs praise our Loues of Italy For Beauty, that made barren the swell'd boast Of him that best could speake: for Feature, laming The Shrine of Venus, or straight-pight Minerua, Postures, beyond breefe Nature. For Condition, A shop of all the qualities, that man Loues woman for, besides that hooke of Wiuing, Fairenesse, which strikes the eye

Cym. I stand on fire. Come to the matter

Iach. All too soone I shall, Vnlesse thou would'st greeue quickly. This Posthumus, Most like a n.o.ble Lord, in loue, and one That had a Royall Louer, tooke his hint, And (not dispraising whom we prais'd, therein He was as calme as vertue) he began His Mistris picture, which, by his tongue, being made, And then a minde put in't, either our bragges Were crak'd of Kitchin-Trulles, or his description Prou'd vs vnspeaking sottes

Cym. Nay, nay, to'th' purpose

Iach. Your daughters Chast.i.ty, (there it beginnes) He spake of her, as Dian had hot dreames, And she alone, were cold: Whereat, I wretch Made scruple of his praise, and wager'd with him Peeces of Gold, 'gainst this, which then he wore Vpon his honour'd finger) to attaine In suite the place of's bed, and winne this Ring By hers, and mine Adultery: he (true Knight) No lesser of her Honour confident Then I did truly finde her, stakes this Ring, And would so, had it beene a Carbuncle Of Phoebus Wheele; and might so safely, had it Bin all the worth of's Carre. Away to Britaine Poste I in this designe: Well may you (Sir) Remember me at Court, where I was taught Of your chaste Daughter, the wide difference 'Twixt Amorous, and Villanous. Being thus quench'd Of hope, not longing; mine Italian braine, Gan in your duller Britaine operate Most vildely: for my vantage excellent.

And to be breefe, my practise so preuayl'd That I return'd with simular proofe enough, To make the n.o.ble Leonatus mad, By wounding his beleefe in her Renowne, With Tokens thus, and thus: auerring notes Of Chamber-hanging, Pictures, this her Bracelet (Oh cunning how I got) nay some markes Of secret on her person, that he could not But thinke her bond of Chast.i.ty quite crack'd, I hauing 'tane the forfeyt. Whereupon, Me thinkes I see him now

Post. I so thou do'st, Italian Fiend. Aye me, most credulous Foole, Egregious murtherer, Theefe, any thing That's due to all the Villaines past, in being To come. Oh giue me Cord, or knife, or poyson, Some vpright Iusticer. Thou King, send out For Torturors ingenious: it is I That all th' abhorred things o'th' earth amend By being worse then they. I am Posthumus, That kill'd thy Daughter: Villain-like, I lye, That caus'd a lesser villaine then my selfe, A sacrilegious Theefe to doo't. The Temple Of Vertue was she; yea, and she her selfe.

Spit, and throw stones, cast myre vpon me, set The dogges o'th' street to bay me: euery villaine Be call'd Posthumus Leonatus, and Be villany lesse then 'twas. Oh Imogen!

My Queene, my life, my wife: oh Imogen, Imogen, Imogen

Imo. Peace my Lord, heare, heare

Post. Shall's haue a play of this?

Thou scornfull Page, there lye thy part

Pis. Oh Gentlemen, helpe, Mine and your Mistris: Oh my Lord Posthumus, You ne're kill'd Imogen till now: helpe, helpe, Mine honour'd Lady

Cym. Does the world go round?

Posth. How comes these staggers on mee?

Pisa. Wake my Mistris

Cym. If this be so, the G.o.ds do meane to strike me To death, with mortall ioy

Pisa. How fares my Mistris?

Imo. Oh get thee from my sight, Thou gau'st me poyson: dangerous Fellow hence, Breath not where Princes are

Cym. The tune of Imogen

Pisa. Lady, the G.o.ds throw stones of sulpher on me, if That box I gaue you, was not thought by mee A precious thing, I had it from the Queene

Cym. New matter still

Imo. It poyson'd me

Corn. Oh G.o.ds!

I left out one thing which the Queene confest, Which must approue thee honest. If Pasanio Haue (said she) giuen his Mistris that Confection Which I gaue him for Cordiall, she is seru'd, As I would serue a Rat

Cym. What's this, Cornelius?

Corn. The Queene (Sir) very oft importun'd me To temper poysons for her, still pretending The satisfaction of her knowledge, onely In killing Creatures vilde, as Cats and Dogges Of no esteeme. I dreading, that her purpose Was of more danger, did compound for her A certaine stuffe, which being tane, would cease The present powre of life, but in short time, All Offices of Nature, should againe Do their due Functions. Haue you tane of it?

Imo. Most like I did, for I was dead

Bel. My Boyes, there was our error

Gui. This is sure Fidele

Imo. Why did you throw your wedded Lady fro[m] you?

Thinke that you are vpon a Rocke, and now Throw me againe

Post. Hang there like fruite, my soule, Till the Tree dye

Cym. How now, my Flesh? my Childe?

What, mak'st thou me a dullard in this Act?

Wilt thou not speake to me?

Imo. Your blessing, Sir

Bel. Though you did loue this youth, I blame ye not, You had a motiue for't

Cym. My teares that fall Proue holy-water on thee; Imogen, Thy Mothers dead

Imo. I am sorry for't, my Lord

Cym. Oh, she was naught; and long of her it was That we meet heere so strangely: but her Sonne Is gone, we know not how, nor where

Pisa. My Lord, Now feare is from me, Ile speake troth. Lord Cloten Vpon my Ladies missing, came to me With his Sword drawne, foam'd at the mouth, and swore If I discouer'd not which way she was gone, It was my instant death. By accident, I had a feigned Letter of my Masters Then in my pocket, which directed him To seeke her on the Mountaines neere to Milford, Where in a frenzie, in my Masters Garments (Which he inforc'd from me) away he postes With vnchaste purpose, and with oath to violate My Ladies honor, what became of him, I further know not

Gui. Let me end the Story: I slew him there

Cym. Marry, the G.o.ds forefend.

I would not thy good deeds, should from my lips Plucke a hard sentence: Prythee valiant youth Deny't againe

Gui. I haue spoke it, and I did it