For that which I did then: Beaten for loyalty The more of you 'twas felt, the more it shap'd Cym. Thou weep'st, and speak'st. The service, that you three have done, is more Unlike than this thou tell'st: I lost my children; If these be they, I know not how to wish A pair of worthier sons. Bel. Be pleas'd a-while.— This gentleman, whom I call Polydore, Most worthy prince, as yours, is true Guiderius: This gentleman, my Cadwal, Arvirágus, Your younger princely son; he, sir, was lapp'd In a most curious mantle, wrought by the hand Of his queen mother, which, for more probation, I can with ease produce. Cym. Guiderius had Upon his neck a mole, a sanguine star; Bel. This is he; Who hath upon him still that natural stamp: It was wise nature's end in the donation, To be his evidence now. Cym. O, what am I A mother to the birth of three? Ne'er mother Rejoic'd deliverance more:-Bless'd may you be, That, after this strange starting from your orbs, You may reign in them now!-O Imogen, Thou hast lost by this a kingdom. Imo. No, my lord; I have got two worlds by't.-O my gentle brothers, O rare instinct! Cor. By the queen's dram she swallow'd. Cym. When shall I hear all through? This fierce abridge ment 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 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-dependancies, From chance to chance; but nor the time, nor place, Will serve our long intergatories. See, Posthumus anchors upon Imogen ; And she, like harmless lightning, throws her eye On him, her brothers, me, her master; hitting Imo. You are my father too; To see this gracious season. Cym. [To Belarius. and did relieve me, All o'erjoy'd, Save these in bonds; let them be joyful too, For they shall taste our comfort. Imo. I will yet do you service. Luc. My good master, 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. The soldier that did company these three Iach. 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, Post. Kneel not to me; The power that I have on you, is to spare you; Сут. We'll learn our freeness of a son-in-law; Pardon's the word to all. Aro. Nobly doom'd: 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, Great Jupiter, upon his eagle back'd, 1 Appear'd to me, with other spritely shows Luc. Philarmonus, Sooth. Here, my good lord. 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. Thou, Leonatus, art the lion's whelp; The fit and apt construction of thy name, Being Leo-natus, doth import so much: I The piece of tender air, thy virtuous daughter, 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 majestick cedar join'd; whose issue Promises Britain peace and plenty. Cym. Well, My peace we will begin;-And, Caius Lucius, To pay our wonted tribute, from the which Whom heavens, in justice, (both on her, and hers,) 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 fore-show'd our princely eagle, The imperial Cæsar, should again unite |