The Oxford Shakespeare: The Complete Works

by William Shakespeare

  BELARIUS

  Stand, stand, we have th’advantage of the ground.

  The lane is guarded. Nothing routs us but

  The villainy of our fears.

  GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS Stand, stand, and fight.

  Enter Posthumus like a poor soldier, and seconds the Britons. They rescue Cymbeline and exeunt

  5.4 ⌈The trumpets sound a retreat,⌉ then enter Lucius, Giacomo, and Innogen

  LUCIUS (to Innogen)

  Away, boy, from the troops, and save thyself;

  For friends kill friends, and the disorder’s such

  As war were hoodwinked.

  GIACOMO

  ’Tis their fresh supplies.

  LUCIUS

  It is a day turned strangely. Or betimes

  Let’s reinforce, or fly.

  Exeunt

  5.5 Enter Posthumus like a poor soldier, and a Briton Lord

  LORD

  Cam’st thou from where they made the stand?

  POSTHUMUS I did,

  Though you, it seems, come from the fliers.

  LORD Ay.

  POSTHUMUS

  No blame be to you, sir, for all was lost,

  But that the heavens fought. The King himself

  Of his wings destitute, the army broken,

  And but the backs of Britons seen, all flying

  Through a strait lane; the enemy full-hearted,

  Lolling the tongue with slaught‘ring, having work

  More plentiful than tools to do’t, struck down

  Some mortally, some slightly touched, some falling

  Merely through fear, that the strait pass was dammed

  With dead men hurt behind, and cowards living

  To die with lengthened shame.

  LORD

  Where was this lane?

  POSTHUMUS

  Close by the battle, ditched, and walled with turf;

  Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier,

  An honest one, I warrant, who deserved

  So long a breeding as his white beard came to,

  In doing this for ’s country. Athwart the lane

  He with two striplings-lads more like to run

  The country base than to commit such slaughter;

  With faces fit for masks, or rather fairer

  Than those for preservation cased, or shame-

  Made good the passage, cried to those that fled

  ‘Our Britain’s harts die flying, not her men.

  To darkness fleet souls that fly backwards. Stand,

  Or we are Romans, and will give you that

  Like beasts which you shun beastly, and may save

  But to look back in frown. Stand, stand.’ These three,

  Three thousand confident, in act as many-

  For three performers are the file when all

  The rest do nothing-with this word ‘Stand, stand’,

  Accommodated by the place, more charming

  With their own nobleness, which could have turned

  A distaff to a lance, gilded pale looks;

  Part shame, part spirit renewed, that some, turned

  coward

  But by example,-O, a sin in war,

  Damned in the first beginnersl-gan to look

  The way that they did and to grin like lions

  Upon the pikes o‘th’ hunters. Then began

  A stop i’th’ chaser, a retire. Anon

  A rout, confusion thick; forthwith they fly

  Chickens the way which they stooped eagles; slaves,

  The strides they victors made; and now our cowards,

  Like fragments in hard voyages, became

  The life o‘th’ need. Having found the back door open

  Of the unguarded hearts, heavens, how they wound!

  Some slain before, some dying, some their friends

  O’erborne i‘th’ former wave, ten chased by one,

  Are now each one the slaughterman of twenty.

  Those that would die or ere resist are grown

  The mortal bugs o’th’ field.

  LORD

  This was strange chance:

  A narrow lane, an old man, and two boys.

  POSTHUMUS

  Nay, do not wonder at it. Yet you are made

  Rather to wonder at the things you hear

  Than to work any. Will you rhyme upon‘t,

  And vent it for a mock’ry? Here is one:

  ‘Two boys, an old man twice a boy, a lane,

  Preserved the Britons, was the Romans’ bane.’

  LORD

  Nay, be not angry, sir.

  POSTHUMUS

  ’Lack, to what end?

  Who dares not stand his foe, I’ll be his friend,

  For if he’ll do as he is made to do,

  I know he’ll quickly fly my friendship too.

  You have put me into rhyme.

  LORD

  Farewell; you’re angry.

  Exit

  POSTHUMUS

  Still going? This a lord? O noble misery,

  To be i‘th’ field and ask ‘What news?’ of me!

  Today how many would have given their honours

  To have saved their carcasses-took heel to do’t,

  And yet died too! I, in mine own woe charmed,

  Could not find death where I did hear him groan,

  Nor feel him where he struck. Being an ugly monster,

  ‘Tis strange he hides him in fresh cups, soft beds,

  Sweet words, or hath more ministers than we

  That draw his knives i’th’ war. Well, I will find him;

  For being now a favourer to the Briton,

  No more a Briton, I have resumed again

  The part I came in. Fight I will no more,

  But yield me to the veriest hind that shall

  Once touch my shoulder. Great the slaughter is

  Here made by th’ Roman; great the answer be

  Britons must take. For me, my ransom’s death,

  On either side I come to spend my breath,

  Which neither here I’ll keep nor bear again,

  But end it by some means for Innogen.

  Enter two Briton Captains, and soldiers

  FIRST CAPTAIN

  Great Jupiter be praised, Lucius is taken.

  ’Tis thought the old man and his sons were angels.

  SECOND CAPTAIN

  There was a fourth man, in a seely habit,

  That gave th’affront with them.

  FIRST CAPTAIN So ’tis reported,

  But none of ’em can be found. Stand, who’s there?

  POSTHUMUS A Roman,

  Who had not now been drooping here if seconds

  Had answered him.

  SECOND CAPTAIN (to soldiers) Lay hands on him, a dog!

  A leg of Rome shall not return to tell

  What crows have pecked them here. He brags his

  service

  As if he were of note. Bring him to th’ King.

  ⌈Flourish.⌉ Enter Cymbeline ⌈and his train⌉, Belarius, Guiderius, Arviragus, Pisanio, and Roman captives. The Captains present Posthumus to Cymbeline, who delivers him over to a Jailer. Exeunt all but Posthumus and two Jailers, ⌈who lock gyves on his legs⌉

  FIRST JAILER

  You shall not now be stol’n. You have locks upon you,

  So graze as you find pasture.

  SECOND JAILER

  Ay, or a stomach.

  Exeunt Jailers

  POSTHUMUS

  Most welcome, bondage, for thou art a way,

  I think, to liberty. Yet am I better

  Than one that’s sick o‘th’ gout, since he had rather

  Groan so in perpetuity than be cured

  By th’ sure physician, death, who is the key

  T’unbar these locks. My conscience, thou art fettered

  More than my shanks and wrists. You good gods give

  me

  The penitent instrument to pick that bolt,

  Then fre
e for ever. Is’t enough I am sorry?

  So children temporal fathers do appease;

  Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent,

  I cannot do it better than in gyves

  Desired more than constrained. To satisfy,

  If of my freedom ‘tis the main part, take no

  No stricter render of me than my all.

  I know you are more clement than vile men

  Who of their broken debtors take a third,

  A sixth, a tenth, letting them thrive again

  On their abatement. That’s not my desire.

  For Innogen’s dear life take mine, and though

  ’Tis not so dear, yet ‘tis a life; you coined it.

  ’Tween man and man they weigh not every stamp;

  Though light, take pieces for the figure’s sake;

  You rather mine, being yours. And so, great powers,

  If you will make this audit, take this life,

  And cancel these cold bonds. O Innogen,

  I’ll speak to thee in silence!

  He sleeps. Solemn music. Enter, as in an apparition, Sicilius Leonatus (father to Posthumus, an old man), attired like a warrior, leading in his hand an ancient matron, his wife, and mother to Posthumus, with music before them.

  Then, after other music, follows the two young Leonati, brothers to Posthumus, with wounds as they died in the wars. They circle Posthumus round as he lies sleeping

  SICILIUS

  No more, thou thunder-master, show

  Thy spite on mortal flies.

  With Mars fall out, with Juno chide,

  That thy adulteries

  Rates and revenges.

  Hath my poor boy done aught but well,

  Whose face I never saw?

  I died whilst in the womb he stayed,

  Attending nature’s law,

  Whose father then-as men report

  Thou orphans’ father art-

  Thou shouldst have been, and shielded him

  From this earth-vexing smart.

  MOTHER

  Lucina lent not me her aid,

  But took me in my throes,

  That from me was Posthumus ripped,

  Came crying ’mongst his foes,

  A thing of pity.

  SICILIUS

  Great nature like his ancestry

  Moulded the stuff so fair

  That he deserved the praise o’th’ world

  As great Sicilius’ heir.

  FIRST BROTHER

  When once he was mature for man,

  In Britain where was he

  That could stand up his parallel,

  Or fruitful object be

  In eye of Innogen, that best

  Could deem his dignity?

  MOTHER

  With marriage wherefore was he mocked,

  To be exiled, and thrown

  From Leonati seat and cast

  From her his dearest one,

  Sweet Innogen?

  SICILIUS

  Why did you suffer Giacomo,

  Slight thing of Italy,

  To taint his nobler heart and brain

  With needless jealousy,

  And to become the geck and scorn

  O’th’ other’s villainy?

  SECOND BROTHER

  For this from stiller seats we come,

  Our parents and us twain,

  That striking in our country’s cause

  Fell bravely and were slain,

  Our fealty and Tenantius’ right

  With honour to maintain.

  FIRST BROTHER

  Like hardiment Posthumus hath

  To Cymbeline Performed.

  Then, Jupiter, thou king of gods,

  Why hast thou thus adjourned

  The graces for his merits due,

  Being all to dolours turned?

  SICILIUS

  Thy crystal window ope; look out;

  No longer exercise

  Upon a valiant race thy harsh

  And potent injuries.

  MOTHER

  Since, Jupiter, our son is good,

  Take off his miseries.

  SICILIUS

  Peep through thy marble mansion. Help,

  Or we poor ghosts will cry

  To th’ shining synod of the rest

  Against thy deity.

  BROTHERS

  Help, Jupiter, or we appeal,

  And from thy justice fly.

  Jupiter descends in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an eagle. He throws a thunderbolt. The ghosts fall on their knees

  JUPITER

  No more, you petty spirits of region low,

  Offend our hearing. Hush! How dare you ghosts

  Accuse the thunderer, whose bolt, you know,

  Sky-planted, batters all rebelling coasts?

  Poor shadows of Elysium, hence, and rest

  Upon your never-withering banks of flowers.

  Be not with mortal accidents oppressed;

  No care of yours it is; you know ’tis ours.

  Whom best I love, I cross, to make my gift,

  The more delayed, delighted. Be content.

  Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift.

  His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent.

  Our Jovial star reigned at his birth, and in

  Our temple was he married. Rise, and fade.

  He shall be lord of Lady Innogen,

  And happier much by his affliction made.

  This tablet lay upon his breast, wherein

  Our pleasure his full fortune doth confine.

  He gives the ghosts a tablet which they lay upon Posthumus’ breast

  And so away. No farther with your din

  Express impatience, lest you stir up mine.

  Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline.

  He ascends into the heavens

  SICILIUS

  He came in thunder. His celestial breath

  Was sulphurous to smell. The holy eagle

  Stooped, as to foot us. His ascension is

  More sweet than our blest fields. His royal bird

  Preens the immortal wing and claws his beak

  As when his god is pleased.

  ALL THE GHOSTS Thanks, Jupiter.

  SICILIUS

  The marble pavement closes, he is entered

  His radiant roof. Away, and, to be blest,

  Let us with care perform his great behest.

  The ghosts vanish

  Posthumus awakes

  POSTHUMUS

  Sleep, thou hast been a grandsire, and begot

  A father to me; and thou hast created

  A mother and two brothers. But, O scorn,

  Gone! They went hence so soon as they were born,

  And so I am awake. Poor wretches that depend

  On greatness’ favour dream as I have done,

  Wake and find nothing. But, alas, I swerve.

  Many dream not to find, neither deserve,

  And yet are steeped in favours; so am I,

  That have this golden chance and know not why.

  What fairies haunt this ground? A book? O rare one,

  Be not, as is our fangled world, a garment

  Nobler than that it covers. Let thy effects

  So follow to be most unlike our courtiers,

  As good as promise.

  He reads

  ‘Whenas 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.’

  ’Tis still a dream, or else such stuff as madmen

  Tongue, and brain not; either both, or nothing,

  Or senseless speaking, or a speaking such

  As sense cannot untie. Be what it is,

  The action of my life is like it, which I’ll keep,

>   If but for sympathy.

  Enter Jailer

  JAILER Come, sir, are you ready for death?

  POSTHUMUS Over-roasted rather; ready long ago.

  JAILER Hanging is the word, sir. If you be ready for that, you are well cooked.

  POSTHUMUS So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators, the dish pays the shot.

  JAILER A heavy reckoning for you, sir. But the comfort is, you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more tavern bills, which are as often the sadness of parting as the procuring of mirth. You come in faint for want of meat, depart reeling with too much drink, sorry that you have paid too much and sorry that you are paid too much; purse and brain both empty: the brain the heavier for being too light, the purse too light, being drawn of heaviness. Of this contradiction you shall now be quit. O, the charity of a penny cord! It sums up thousands in a trice. You have no true debitor and creditor but it: of what’s past, is, and to come the discharge. Your neck, sir, is pen, book, and counters; so the acquittance follows.

  POSTHUMUS I am merrier to die than thou art to live.

  JAILER Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the toothache; but a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would change places with his officer; for look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go.

  POSTHUMUS Yes, indeed do I, fellow.

  JAILER Your death has eyes in ’s head, then. I have not seen him so pictured. You must either be directed by some that take upon them to know, or take upon yourself that which I am sure you do not know, or jump the after-enquiry on your own peril; and how you shall speed in your journey’s end I think you’ll never return to tell on.

  POSTHUMUS I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes to direct them the way I am going but such as wink and will not use them.

  JAILER What an infinite mock is this, that a man should have the best use of eyes to see the way of blindness! I am sure hanging’s the way of winking.

  Enter a Messenger

  MESSENGER Knock off his manacles, bring your prisoner to the King.

  POSTHUMUS Thou bring’st good news, I am called to be made free.

  JAILER I’ll be hanged then.