Part 96 (1/2)
PISANIO. One score 'twixt sun and sun, Madam, 's enough for you, and too much too.
IMOGEN. Why, one that rode to's execution, man, Could never go so slow. I have heard of riding wagers Where horses have been nimbler than the sands That run i' th' clock's behalf. But this is fool'ry.
Go bid my woman feign a sickness; say She'll home to her father; and provide me presently A riding suit, no costlier than would fit A franklin's huswife.
PISANIO. Madam, you're best consider.
IMOGEN. I see before me, man. Nor here, nor here, Nor what ensues, but have a fog in them That I cannot look through. Away, I prithee; Do as I bid thee. There's no more to say; Accessible is none but Milford way. Exeunt
SCENE III.
Wales. A mountainous country with a cave
Enter from the cave BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS
BELARIUS. A goodly day not to keep house with such Whose roof's as low as ours! Stoop, boys; this gate Instructs you how t' adore the heavens, and bows you To a morning's holy office. The gates of monarchs Are arch'd so high that giants may jet through And keep their impious turbans on without Good morrow to the sun. Hail, thou fair heaven!
We house i' th' rock, yet use thee not so hardly As prouder livers do.
GUIDERIUS. Hail, heaven!
ARVIRAGUS. Hail, heaven!
BELARIUS. Now for our mountain sport. Up to yond hill, Your legs are young; I'll tread these flats. Consider, When you above perceive me like a crow, That it is place which lessens and sets off; And you may then revolve what tales I have told you Of courts, of princes, of the tricks in war.
This service is not service so being done, But being so allow'd. To apprehend thus Draws us a profit from all things we see, And often to our comfort shall we find The sharded beetle in a safer hold Than is the full-wing'd eagle. O, this life Is n.o.bler than attending for a check, Richer than doing nothing for a bribe, Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk: Such gain the cap of him that makes him fine, Yet keeps his book uncross'd. No life to ours!
GUIDERIUS. Out of your proof you speak. We, poor unfledg'd, Have never wing'd from view o' th' nest, nor know not What air's from home. Haply this life is best, If quiet life be best; sweeter to you That have a sharper known; well corresponding With your stiff age. But unto us it is A cell of ignorance, travelling abed, A prison for a debtor that not dares To stride a limit.
ARVIRAGUS. What should we speak of When we are old as you? When we shall hear The rain and wind beat dark December, how, In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse.
The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing; We are beastly: subtle as the fox for prey, Like warlike as the wolf for what we eat.
Our valour is to chase what flies; our cage We make a choir, as doth the prison'd bird, And sing our bondage freely.
BELARIUS. How you speak!
Did you but know the city's usuries, And felt them knowingly- the art o' th' court, As hard to leave as keep, whose top to climb Is certain falling, or so slipp'ry that The fear's as bad as falling; the toil o' th' war, A pain that only seems to seek out danger I' th'name of fame and honour, which dies i' th'search, And hath as oft a sland'rous epitaph As record of fair act; nay, many times, Doth ill deserve by doing well; what's worse- Must curtsy at the censure. O, boys, this story The world may read in me; my body's mark'd With Roman swords, and my report was once first with the best of note. Cymbeline lov'd me; And when a soldier was the theme, my name Was not far off. Then was I as a tree Whose boughs did bend with fruit; but in one night A storm, or robbery, call it what you will, Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, And left me bare to weather.
GUIDERIUS. Uncertain favour!
BELARIUS. My fault being nothing- as I have told you oft- But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail'd Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline I was confederate with the Romans. So Follow'd my banishment, and this twenty years This rock and these demesnes have been my world, Where I have liv'd at honest freedom, paid More pious debts to heaven than in all The fore-end of my time. But up to th' mountains!
This is not hunters' language. He that strikes The venison first shall be the lord o' th' feast; To him the other two shall minister; And we will fear no poison, which attends In place of greater state. I'll meet you in the valleys.
Exeunt GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature!
These boys know little they are sons to th' King, Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive.
They think they are mine; and though train'd up thus meanly I' th' cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit The roofs of palaces, and nature prompts them In simple and low things to prince it much Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore, The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, who The King his father call'd Guiderius- Jove!
When on my three-foot stool I sit and tell The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out Into my story; say 'Thus mine enemy fell, And thus I set my foot on's neck'; even then The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats, Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture That acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal, Once Arviragus, in as like a figure Strikes life into my speech, and shows much more His own conceiving. Hark, the game is rous'd!
O Cymbeline, heaven and my conscience knows Thou didst unjustly banish me! Whereon, At three and two years old, I stole these babes, Thinking to bar thee of succession as Thou refts me of my lands. Euriphile, Thou wast their nurse; they took thee for their mother, And every day do honour to her grave.
Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call'd, They take for natural father. The game is up. Exit
SCENE IV.
Wales, near Milford Haven
Enter PISANIO and IMOGEN
IMOGEN. Thou told'st me, when we came from horse, the place Was near at hand. Ne'er long'd my mother so To see me first as I have now. Pisanio! Man!
Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that sigh From th' inward of thee? One but painted thus Would be interpreted a thing perplex'd Beyond self-explication. Put thyself Into a haviour of less fear, ere wildness Vanquish my staider senses. What's the matter?
Why tender'st thou that paper to me with A look untender! If't be summer news, Smile to't before; if winterly, thou need'st But keep that count'nance still. My husband's hand?
That drug-d.a.m.n'd Italy hath out-craftied him, And he's at some hard point. Speak, man; thy tongue May take off some extremity, which to read Would be even mortal to me.
PISANIO. Please you read, And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing The most disdain'd of fortune.
IMOGEN. [Reads] 'Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath play'd the strumpet in my bed, the testimonies whereof lie bleeding in me. I speak not out of weak surmises, but from proof as strong as my grief and as certain as I expect my revenge. That part thou, Pisanio, must act for me, if thy faith be not tainted with the breach of hers. Let thine own hands take away her life; I shall give thee opportunity at Milford Haven; she hath my letter for the purpose; where, if thou fear to strike, and to make me certain it is done, thou art the pander to her dishonour, and equally to me disloyal.'
PISANIO. What shall I need to draw my sword? The paper Hath cut her throat already. No, 'tis slander, Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue Outvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath Rides on the posting winds and doth belie All corners of the world. Kings, queens, and states, Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave, This viperous slander enters. What cheer, madam?
IMOGEN. False to his bed? What is it to be false?
To lie in watch there, and to think on him?
To weep twixt clock and clock? If sleep charge nature, To break it with a fearful dream of him, And cry myself awake? That's false to's bed, Is it?
PISANIO. Alas, good lady!
IMOGEN. I false! Thy conscience witness! Iachimo, Thou didst accuse him of incontinency; Thou then look'dst like a villain; now, methinks, Thy favour's good enough. Some jay of Italy, Whose mother was her painting, hath betray'd him.
Poor I am stale, a garment out of fas.h.i.+on, And for I am richer than to hang by th' walls I must be ripp'd. To pieces with me! O, Men's vows are women's traitors! All good seeming, By thy revolt, O husband, shall be thought Put on for villainy; not born where't grows, But worn a bait for ladies.