Hath to it circumstantial branches, which Distinction should be rich in.-Where? how liv'd you? And when came you to serve our Roman captive? How parted with your brothers? how first met Why fled them? you from the court? and whither? These, 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, And she, like harmless lightning, throws her eye [To Belarius. Imo. You are my father too; and did relieve me, To see this gracious season. Cym. My good inaster, Happy be you! Cym. The forlorn soldier that so nobly fought, He would have well becom❜d this place, and grac'd The thankings of a king. Post. I am, sir, The soldier that did company these three In poor beseeming; 'twas a fitment for The purpose I then follow'd-That I was he, (1) i. e. Which ought to be rendered distinct by an ample narrative. Iach. [Kneeling. I am down again: But now my heavy conscience sinks my knee, Post. Kneel not to me : The power that I have on you, is to spare you; Cym. Pardon's the word to all. Arv. You holp us, sir, As you did mean indeed to be our brother: Post. Your servant, princes.-Good my lord of Call forth your soothsayer: As I slept, methought, Appear'd to me, with other spritely shows! His skill in the construction. Luc. Sooth. Here, my good lord. Luc. Philarmonus, Read, and declare the meaning. Sooth. [Reads.] When as a lion's whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking, find, and be embraced by a piece of tender air: and when from a stately cedar shall be lopped branches, which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate, and flourish in peace and plenty. (1) Ghostly appearances. Thou, Leonatus, art the lion's whelp; Unknown to you, unsought, were clipp'd about1 Cym. This hath some seeming. Sooth. The lofty cedar, royal Cymbeline, Personates thee: and thy lopp'd branches point Thy two sons forth: who, by Belarius stolen, For many years thought dead, are now reviv'd, To the majestic cedar join'd; whose issue Promises Britain peace and plenty. Cym. Well, My peace we will begin: -And, Caius Lucius Although the victor, we su 'mit to Cæsar, And to the Roman empire; promising Το pay our wonted tribute, 'om the which We were dissuaded by our w 'cked queen; Whom heavens, in justice (bo h on her and hers,) Have laid most heavy hand. Sooth. The fingers of the powers above do tune The harmony of this peace. The vision Which I made known to Lucius, ere the stroke Of this yet scarce-cold battle, at this instant Is full accomplish'd: For the Roman eagle, From south to west on wing soaring aloft, Lessen'd herself, and in the beams o'the sun So vanish'd: which foreshow'd our princely eagle, The imperial Cæsar, should again unite His favour with the radiant Cymbeline, Which shines here in the west. Cym. Laud we the gods; (1) Embraced. And let our crooked smokes climb to the nostrils From our bless'd altars! Publish we this peace Friendly together: So through Lud's town march: Our peace we'll ratify; seal it with feasts.- Ere bloody hands were wash'd, with such a peace. [Exeunt. This play has many just sentiments, some natural dialogues, and some pleasing scenes, but they are obtained at the expense of much incongruity. To remark the folly of the fiction, the absurdity of the conduct, the confusion of the names and manners of different times, and the impossibility of the events in any system of life, were to waste criticism upon unresisting imbecility, upon faults too evident for detection, and too gross for aggravation. JOHNSON. SONG, SUNG BY GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FIDELE, SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD. BY MR. WILLIAM COLLINS. To fair Fidele's grassy tomb, Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing spring. No wailing ghost shall dare appear And melting virgins own their love. No goblins lead their nightly crew : The red-breast oft at evening hours, When howling winds, and beating rain, The tender thought on thee shail dwell. Each lonely scene shall thee restore; |