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but at court :
I could not stir him :
Arviragus. Thus did he answer me: yet said, hereafter I might know more.
With fairest flowers, Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, I'll sweeten thy sad grave : Thou shalt not lack The flower, that 's like thy face, pale primrose ; nor The azur'd hare-bell, like thy veins; no, nor The leaf of eglantine, whom not to slander, Out-sweeten'd not thy breath : the ruddock would, With charitable bill (O bill, sore-shaming Those rich-left heirs, that let their fathers lie Without a monument !) bring thee all this; Yea, and furr'd moss besides, when flowers are none, To winter-ground thy corse.
Act V. SCENE I.
Posthumus. Yea, bloody cloth, I'll keep thee; for I
Every good servant does not all commands :
-Gods ! if you Should have ta’en vengeance on my faults, I never Had livd to put on this : so had you
saved The noble Imogen to repent; and struck Me, wretch, more worth your vengeance. But, alack, You snatch some hence for little faults; that's love, To have them fall no more: You some permit To second ills with ills, each elder worse ; And make them dread it to the doer's thrift. But Imogen is your own: Do your best wills, And make me bless'd to obey !-I am brought hither Among the Italian gentry, and to fight Against my lady's kingdom : 'Tis enough That, Britain, I have kill'd thy mistress; peace ! I'll give no wound to thee. Therefore, good heavens, Hear patiently my purpose: I'll disrobe me Of these Italian weeds, and suit myself As does a Briton peasant : so I'll fight Against the part I come with ; so I'll die For thee, O Imogen, even for whom my life Is, every breath, a death ; and thus, unknown, Pitied nor hated, to the face of peril Myself I'll dedicate. Let me make men know More valour in me, than my habits show. Gods, put the strength o’the Leonati in me ! To shame the guise o' the world, I will begin The fashion, less without, and more within.
Iachimo. The heaviness and guilt within my bosom Takes off my manhood: I have belied a lady,
The princess of this country, and the air on 't
That paragon, thy daughter, For whom my heart drops blood, and my false spirits Quail to remember,—Give me leave; I faint. Cymbeline. My daughter! what of her? Renew thy
strength : I had rather thou should'st live while nature will, Than die ere I hear more: strive man, and speak.
Iachimo. Upon a time (unhappy was the clock That struck the hour !) it was in Rome (accurs’d The mansion where !) 't was at a feast, (O ’would Our viands had been poison'd! or, at least, Those which I heav'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 Amongst the rar'st of good ones), sitting sadly, Hearing us praise our loves of Italy For beauty that made barren the swell’d boast Of him that best could speak : for feature, laming The shrine of Venus, or straight-pight Minerva, Postures beyond brief nature; for condition, A shop of all the qualities that man
Loves woman for; besides, that hook of wiving,
Ay, so thou dost,
Peace, my lord; hear, hearPosthumus. Shall's have a play of this ? Thou scornful
page, There lie thy part.
[Striking her ; she falls. Pisanio.
O, gentlemen, help, help,
Imogen. Why did you throw your wedded lady from
Think, that you are upon a rock ;
[Embracing him. Posthumus. Hang there like fruit, my soul, Till the tree die !
Cymbeline. The forlorn soldier, that so nobly fought,
I am, sir,
purpose I then follow'd ;-That I was he, Speak, Iachimo; I had you down, and might Have made
I am down again : [Kneeling But now my heavy conscience sinks my knee, As then your force did. Take that life, 'beseech
you, Which I so often owe: but, your ring first; And here the bracelet of the truest princess, That ever swore her faith. Posthumus.
Kneel not to me; The power that I have on you, is to spare you ; The malice towards you, to forgive you : Live, And deal with others better.