Think, that you are upon a rock; and now Throw me again.

Post. Hang there like fruit, my soul, Till the tree die!

Cym. How now, my flesh, my child?

What, makest thou me a dullard in this act? Wilt thou not speak to me !

Imo. Your blessing, Sir.

[Kneeling.

Bel. Though you did love this youth, I blame ye

By leave ;-Thou hadst, great king, a subject who Was call'd Belarius.

Cym. What of him? he is

A banish'd traitor.

Bel. He it is, that hath

Assamed this age: indeed, a banish'd man;
I know not how, a traitor.

Cym. Take him hence;

The whole world shall not save him.
Bel. Not too hot:

First pay me for the nursing of thy sons;
And let it be confiscate all, so soon

As I have received it.

Cym. Nursing of my sons?

• Forbid

Then, spare not the old father. Mighty Sir,
These two young gentlemen, that call me father,
And think they are my sons, are none of mine;
They are the issue of your loins, my liege,
And blood of your begetting.

Cym. How! my issue?

Bel. So sure as you your father's. I, old Morgan, Am that Belarius whom you sometime banish'd: Your pleasure was my mere offence, my punish

ment

Itself, and all my treason; that I suffer'd,
Was all the arm I did. These gentle princes
(For such, and so they are), these twenty years
Have I train'd up: those arts they have, as I
Could put into them; my breeding was, Sir, as
Your highness knows. Their nurse, Euriphile,
Whom for the theft I wedded, stole these children
Upon my banishment: I moved her to't ;
Having received the punishment before,
For that which I did then: beaten for loyalty
Excited me to treason: their dear loss,
The more of you 'twas felt, the more it shaped
Unto my end of stealing them. But, gracious Sir,
Here are your sons again; and I must lose
Two of the sweet'st companions in the world-
The benediction of these covering heavens
Fall on their heads like dew! for they are worthy
To inlay heaven with stars.

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 pleased 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; It was a mark of wonder.

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
Rejoiced 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 brother, Have we thus met? O never say hereafter,

But I am truest speaker: you call'd me brother, When I was but your sister; I you brothers,

When you were so indeed.

Cym. Did you e'er meet?

Arv. Ay, my good lord.

Gui. And at first meeting loved;

Continued so, until we thought he died.

Cor. By the queen's dram she swallow'd.

Cym. O rare instinct!

When shall I hear all through? This fierce⚫

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
Each object with a joy; the counterchange
Is severally in all. Let's quit this ground,

640

And smoke the temple with our sacrifices.-
Thou art my brother; so we'll hold thee ever.
[To Belarius.
Imo. You are my father too; and did relieve me,
To see this gracious season.

Cym. Ali o'erjoy'd,

Save these in bonds; let them be joyful too, For they shall taste our comfort.

Imo. My good master,

I will yet do you service.

Luc. Happy be you!

Cym. The forlorn soldier that so nobly fought, He would have well becomed this place, and graced

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, Speak, lachimo; I had you down, and might Have inade you finish.

Iach. I am down again :

[Kneeling.

But now my heavy conscience sinks my knee,
As then your force did. Take that life, 'beseech

The power that I have on you, is to spare you, The inalice towards you, to forgive you: Live, And deal with others better.

Cym. Nobly doom'd:

We'll learn our freeness of a son-in-law;

Pardon's the word to all.

Arv. You holp us, Sir,

As you did mean indeed to be our brother:

Joy'd are we, that you are.

Post. Your servant, princes.-Good my lord of Rome,

Call forth your soothsayer: as I slept, methought, Great Jupiter, upon his eagle back,

Appear'd to me, with other spritely shows

Of mine own kindred: when I waked, I found

This label on my bosom; whose containing
Is so from sense in hardness, that I can
Make no collection of it; let him shew
His skill in the construction.

Luc. Philarmonus,-

Sooth. Here, my good lord.

Luc. 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 stutely 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:
The piece of tender air, thy virtuous daughter,

[To Cymbeline.

Which we call mollis aer; and mollis aer
We term it mulier: which mulier I divine,
Is this most constant wife; who, even now,
Answering the letter of the oracle,
Unknown to you, unsought, were clipp'd about +
With this most tender air.

Cym. Well,

Cym. Laud we the gods;

SONG,

SUNG BY CUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FIDELI, 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
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove ;
But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.
No wither'd witch shall here be seen,

No goblins lead their nightly crew:
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew.
The red-breast oft at evening hours,
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gather'd flowers,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.
When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempest shake the sylvan cell;
Or midst the chace on every plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell.
Each lonely scene shall thee resture,
For thee the tear be duly shed:
Beloved, till life could charm no more;
And mourn'd till pity's self be dead.

SCENE 1-Athens.-A Hall in Timon's House. Exter POET, PAINTER, JEWELLER, MERCHANT, and others, ut several Doors.

Poet. Good day, Sir.

Pain. I am glad you are well.

Poet. I have not seen you long; how goes the world?

Pain. It wears, Sir, as it grows.

Poet. Ay, that's well known:

But what particular rarity? What strange,
Which manifold record not matches? See,
Magic of bounty! all these spirits thy power
Hath conjured to attend. I know the merchant.
Pain. I know them both: t'other's a jeweller.
Mer. O, 'tis a worthy lord!

Jew. Nay, that's most fix'd.

Mer. A most incomparable man; breath'd", as it were,

To an untirable and continuate t goodness:
He passes t.

Jew. I have a jewel here.

Mer. O, pray, let's see't: for the lord Timon, Sir?
Jew. If he will touch the estimate: but, for that-
Poet. When we for recompense have praised the
vile,

It stains the glory in that happy verse
Which aptly sings the good.

Mer. 'Tis a good form. [Looking at the Jewel.
Jew. And rich: here is a water, look you.
Pain. You are rapt, Sir, in some work, some de-
dication

To the great lord.

Poet. A thing slipp'd idly from me.
Our poesy is as a gum, which oozes

From whence 'tis nourish'd: the fire i' the flint
Shews not, till it be struck; our gentle flame
Provokes itself, and, like the current, flies
Each bound it chafes. What have you there?
Pain. A picture, Sir.-And when comes your
book forth?

Poet. Upon the heels of my presentment ), Sir. Let's see your piece.

Pain. 'Tis a good piece.

Pain. It is a pretty mocking of the life. Here is a touch; is't good?

Poet. I'll say of it,

It tutors nature: artificial strife
Lives in these touches, livelier than life.

Enter certain Senators, and pass over.
Pain. How this lord's follow'd!

Poet. The senators of Athens :-Happy men!
Pain. Look, more!

Poet. You see this confluence, this great flood of visitors.

I have, in this rough york, shaped out a man,
Whom this beneath world doth embrace and hug
With amplest entertainment: my free drift
Halts not particularly t, but moves itself
In a wide sea of wax: no levell'd malice
Infects one comma in the course I hold;
But flies an eagle flight, bold, and forth on,
Leaving no track behind.

Pain. How shall I understand you?
Poet. I'll unbolt to you.

You see how all conditions, how all minds
(As well of glib and slippery creatures, as
Of grave and austere quality), tender down
Their services to lord Timon: his large fortune,
Upon his good and gracious nature hanging,
Subdues and properties to his love and tendance
All sorts of hearts; yea, from the glass-faced flat-

terer ý,

Is rank'd with all deserts, all kind of natures,
That labour on the bosom of this sphere.
To propagate their states: amongst them all,
Whose eyes are on this sovereign lady fix'd,
One do I personate of lord Timon's frame,
Whom Fortune with her ivory hand wafts to her;
Whose present grace to present slaves and servants
Translates his rivals.

Pain. 'Tis conceived to scope.

With one man beckon'd from the rest below,
Bowing his head against the steepy mount
To climb his happiness, would be well express'd
In our condition.

Poet. Nay, Sir, but hear me on: All those which were his fellows but of late (Some better than his value), on the moment Follow his strides, his lobbies till with tendance, Rain sacrificial whisperings in his ear,

Make sacred even his stirrup, and through him Drink the free air.

Pain. Ay, marry, what of these?

Poet. When Fortune, in her shift and change of mood,

Spurns down her late beloved, all his dependants, Which labour'd after him to the mountain's top, Even on their knees and hands, let him slip down, Not one accompanying his declining foot.

Pain. 'Tis common:

A thousand moral paintings I can shew,
That shall demonstrate these quick blows of fortune
More pregnantly than words. Yet you do well
To shew tord Timon, that mean eyes have seen
The foot above the head.

Trumpets sound.-Enter TIMON, attended; the
SERVANT of VENTIDIUS talking with him.
Tim. Imprison'd is he, say you?

Ven. Serv. Ay, my good lord: five talents is his

debt;

Luc. Here, at your lordship's service.

Old Ath. This fellow here, lord Timon, this thy creature,

By night frequents my house. I am a man That from my first have been inclined to thrift: And my estate deserves an heir more raised, Than one which holds a trencher.

Tim. Well; what further?

Old Ath. One only daughter have I, no kin else, On whom I may confer what I have got : The maid is fair, o' the youngest for a bride, And I have bred her at my dearest cost, In qualities of the best. This man of thine Attempts her love: I pr'ythee, noble lord, Join with me to forbid him her resort; Myself have spoke in vain.

Luc. Humbly I thank your lordship: never may That state or fortune fall into my keeping, Which is not owed to you!

[Exeunt Lucilius and Old Athenion. Poet. Vouchsafe my labour, and long live your lordship!

Tim. I thank you: you shall hear from me anon: Go not away.-What have you there, my friend! Pain. A piece of painting, which I do beseech Your lordship to accept.

Tim. Painting is welcome.

The painting is almost the natural man;
For since dishonour traffics with man's nature,
He is but outside: these pencil'd figures are
Even such as they give out. I like your work;
And you shall find, I like it: wait attendance
Till you hear further from me.

Pain. The gods preserve you!

Tim. Well fare you, gentlemen: give me your hand;

We must needs dine together.-Sir, your jewel Hath suffer'd under praise.

Jew. What, my lord? Dispraise?

Tim. A meer satiety of commendations. If I should pay you for't as 'tis extoll'd, ' It would unclew me quite.

Jew. My lord, 'tis rated

As those, which sell, would give: but you well

know,

Things of like value, differing in the owners,
Are prized by their masters: believe't, dear lord,
You mend the jewel by wearing it.

Tim. Well mock'd.

Tim. Thou art proud, Äpemantus.

Apem. Of nothing so much, as that I am not like Timon.

Tim. Whither art going?

Apem. To knock out an honest Athenian's brans Tim. That's a deed thou'lt die for.

Apem. Right, if doing nothing be death by the law.

Tim. How likest thou this picture, Apemantus! Apem. The best, for the innocence. Tim. Wrought he not well that painted it! Apcm. He wrought better, that made the painter; and yet he's but a filthy piece of work.

Pain. You are a dog.

Apem. Thy mother's of my generation; what's

she, if I be a dog?

Tim. Wilt dine with me, Apemantus?
Apem. No; I eat not lords."

Tim. An thou shouldst, thou'dst anger ladies. Apem. O, they eat lords; so they come by great bellies.

Tim. That's a lascivious apprehension. Apem. So thou apprehend'st it: take it for thy labour.

• Pictures have no hypocrisy ; they are what they profess to be.

To unclew a man, is to draw out the whole mass of his fortunes.