Cymbeline

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.

And shall do. But when to my good lord I prove untrue, I’ll choke myself. There’s all I’ll do for you.

As I am mad, I do. If you’ll be patient, I’ll no more be mad; That cures us both. I am much sorry, sir, You put me to forget a lady’s manners By being so verbal;

Away to Britain Post I in this design. Well may you, sir, Remember me at court, where I was taught Of your chaste daughter the wide difference ’Twixt amorous and villainous.

Ay, so thou dost, Italian fiend! Ay me, most credulous fool, Egregious murderer, thief, any thing That’s due to all the villains past, in being, To come!

Be not angry, Most mighty Princess, that I have adventur’d To try your taking of a false report, which hath Honor’d with confirmation your great judgment In the election of a sir so rare, Which you know cannot err.

Blessed live you long, A lady to the worthiest sir that ever Country call’d his; and you his mistress, only For the most worthiest fit.

Boldness be my friend; Arm me audacity from head to foot, Or like the Parthian I shall flying fight— Rather, directly fly

Boy, he’s preferr’d By thee to us, and he shall be interr’d As soldiers can. Be cheerful; wipe thine eyes: Some falls are means the happier to arise.

But I beseech your Grace, without offense (My conscience bids me ask), wherefore you have Commanded of me these most poisonous compounds, Which are the movers of a languishing death, But though slow, deadly.

But even the very middle of my heart Is warm’d by th’ rest—and take it thankfully. You are as welcome, worthy sir, as I Have words to bid you, and shall find it so In all that I can do.

But first, how get hence. Why should excuse be born or ere begot? We’ll talk of that hereafter. Prithee speak, How many score of miles may we well rid ’Twixt hour and hour?

But not a courtier, Although they wear their faces to the bent Of the King’s looks, hath a heart that is not Glad at the thing they scowl at.

But to win time To lose so bad employment, in the which I have consider’d of a course. Good lady, Hear me with patience.

But, alas, I swerve. Many dream not to find, neither deserve, And yet are steep’d in favors; so am I, That have this golden chance and know not why.

Do thou thy master’s bidding. When thou seest him, A little witness my obedience. Look I draw the sword myself, take it, and hit The innocent mansion of my love, my heart. Fear not, ’tis empty of all things but grief.

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.

Exceeding pleasant; none a stranger there So merry and so gamesome. He is call’d The Britain reveller.

Fear no more the heat o’ th’ sun, Nor the furious winter’s rages, Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages. Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

First, a very excellent good conceited thing; after, a wonderful sweet air, with admirable rich words to it—and then let her consider.

First, make yourself but like one. Forethinking this, I have already fit (’Tis in my cloak-bag) doublet, hat, hose, all That answer to them.

For idiots in this case of favor would Be wisely definite; nor i’ th’ appetite: Sluttery, to such neat excellence oppos’d, Should make desire vomit emptiness, Not so allur’d to feed.

for so long As he could make me with this eye or ear Distinguish him from others, he did keep The deck, with glove or hat or handkerchief Still waving, as the fits and stirs of ’s mind Could best express how slow his soul sail’d on, How swift his ship.

GUI. Fear no more the lightning-flash. ARV. Nor th’ all-dreaded thunder-stone. GUI. Fear not slander, censure rash. ARV. Thou hast finish’d joy and moan.

GUI. I do note That grief and patience, rooted in them both, Mingle their spurs together. ARV. Grow patience, And let the stinking elder, grief, untwine His perishing root with the increasing vine.

Good faith, I tremble still with fear; but if there be Yet left in heaven as small a drop of pity As a wren’s eye, fear’d gods, a part of it!

Good morrow, sir. You lay out too much pains For purchasing but trouble. The thanks I give Is telling you that I am poor of thanks, And scarce can spare them.

Good my liege, Your preparation can affront no less Than what you hear of. Come more, for more you’re ready; The want is but to put those pow’rs in motion That long to move.

Great the slaughter is Here made by th’ Roman; great the answer be Britains must take. For me, my ransom’s death. On either side I come to spend my breath;

Hail, thou fair heaven! We house i’ th’ rock, yet use thee not so hardly As prouder livers do.

Haply despair hath seiz’d her; Or wing’d with fervor of her love, she’s flown To her desir’d Posthumus. Gone she is To death or to dishonor, and my end Can make good use of either. She being down, I have the placing of the British crown.

Happ’ly this life is best, If quiet life be best; sweeter to you That have a sharper known; well corresponding With your stiff age;

He was then of a crescent note, expected to prove so worthy as since he hath been allow’d the name of. But I could then have look’d on him without the help of admiration, though the catalogue of his endowments had been tabled by his side, and I to peruse him by items.

Here is a path to’t; ’tis some savage hold. I were best not call; I dare not call; yet famine, Ere clean it o’erthrow nature, makes it valiant. Plenty and peace breeds cowards; hardness ever Of hardiness is mother.

How, how? Another? You gentle gods, give me but this I have, And cere up my embracements from a next With bonds of death!

Howsoe’er ’tis strange, Or that the negligence may well be laugh’d at, Yet is it true, sir.

I am nothing; or if not, Nothing to be were better. This was my master, A very valiant Britain, and a good, That here by mountaineers lies slain.

I beseech you all be better known to this gentleman, whom I commend to you as a noble friend of mine. How worthy he is I will leave to appear hereafter, rather than story him in his own hearing.

I do extend him, sir, within himself, Crush him together rather than unfold His measure duly.

I have enough; To th’ trunk again, and shut the spring of it. Swift, swift, you dragons of the night, that dawning May bare the raven’s eye! I lodge in fear; Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here.

I hope the briefness of your answer made The speediness of your return.

I love and hate her; for she’s fair and royal, And that she hath all courtly parts more exquisite Than lady, ladies, woman, from every one The best she hath, and she, of all compounded, Outsells them all.

I see before me, man; nor here, nor here, Nor what ensues, but have a fog in them That I cannot look through.

I see her yet: Her pretty action did outsell her gift, And yet enrich’d it too. She gave it me, and said She priz’d it once.

I would thou grew’st unto the shores o’ th’ haven, And questionedst every sail. If he should write And I not have it, ’twere a paper lost As offer’d mercy is.

If he shall think it fit A saucy stranger in his court to mart As in a Romish stew, and to expound His beastly mind to us, he hath a court He little cares for and a daughter who He not respects at all.

If it be so to do good service, never Let me be counted serviceable. How look I That I should seem to lack humanity So much as this fact comes to?

If she went before others I have seen, as that diamond of yours outlustres many I have beheld, I could not but believe she excell’d many. But I have not seen the most precious diamond that is, nor you the lady.

If you are sick at sea, Or stomach-qualm’d at land, a dram of this Will drive away distemper. To some shade, And fit you to your manhood. May the gods Direct you to the best!

If’t be summer news, Smile to’t before; if winterly, thou need’st But keep that count’nance still.

Let him be so entertain’d amongst you as suits with gentlemen of your knowing to a stranger of his quality.

Let his virtue join With my request, which I’ll make bold your Highness Cannot deny. He hath done no Britain harm, Though he have serv’d a Roman. Save him, sir, And spare no blood beside.

Let me make men know More valor in me than my habits show. Gods, put the strength o’ th’ Leonati in me! To shame the guise o’ th’ world, I will begin The fashion: less without and more within.

Mine eyes Were not in fault, for she was beautiful; Mine ears, that heard her flattery, nor my heart, That thought her like her seeming.

Mulmutius made our laws, Who was the first of Britain which did put His brows within a golden crown and call’d Himself a king.

Must I repent, I cannot do it better than in gyves, Desir’d more than constrain’d. To satisfy, If of my freedom ’tis the main part, take No stricter render of me than my all.

My queen, my mistress! O lady, weep no more, lest I give cause To be suspected of more tenderness Than doth become a man. I will remain The loyall’st husband that did e’er plight troth.

Nay, do not wonder at it; 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?

No reason I, since of your lives you set So slight a valuation, should reserve My crack’d one to more care. Have with you, boys!

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.

Nobly doom’d! We’ll learn our freeness of a son-in-law: Pardon’s the word to all.

Not I Inclin’d to this intelligence pronounce The beggary of his change; but ’tis your graces That from my mutest conscience to my tongue Charms this report out.

Not any; but abide the change of time, Quake in the present winter’s state, and wish That warmer days would come. In these fear’d hopes I barely gratify your love; they failing, I must die much your debtor.

O noble strain! O worthiness of nature! Breed of greatness! Cowards father cowards and base things sire base: Nature hath meal and bran, contempt and grace.

O rare instinct! When shall I hear all through? This fierce abridgment Hath to it circumstantial branches, which Distinction should be rich in.

O, Can my sides hold, to think that man, who knows By history, report, or his own proof, What woman is, yea, what she cannot choose But must be, will ’s free hours languish for Assured bondage?

O, she was naught; and long of her it was That we meet here so strangely; but her son Is gone, we know not how, nor where.”

O, this life Is nobler than attending for a check; Richer than doing nothing for a bable; 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.

O, what, am I A mother to the birth of three? Ne’er mother Rejoic’d deliverance more. Blest pray you be, That after this strange starting from your orbs, You may reign in them now!

On her left breast A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops I’ th’ bottom of a cowslip. Here’s a voucher, Stronger than ever law could make; this secret Will force him think I have pick’d the lock and ta’en The treasure of her honor. No more: to what end?

One vice but of a minute old, for one Not half so old as that. I’ll write against them, Detest them, curse them; yet ’tis greater skill In a true hate, to pray they have their will: The very devils cannot plague them better.

or ere I could Give him that parting kiss which I had set Betwixt two charming words, comes in my father, And like the tyrannous breathing of the north Shakes all our buds from growing.

pray you— Since doubting things go ill often hurts more Than to be sure they do; for certainties Either are past remedies, or, timely knowing, The remedy then born—discover to me What both you spur and stop.

Read, and tell me How far ’tis thither. If one of mean affairs May plod it in a week, why may not I Glide thither in a day?

Return he cannot, nor Continue where he is. To shift his being Is to exchange one misery with another, And every day that comes comes to decay A day’s work in him.

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.

She hath not appear’d Before the Roman, nor to us hath tender’d The duty of the day. She looks us like A thing more made of malice than of duty, We have noted it.

She is fool’d With a most false effect; and I the truer, So to be false with her.

Sir, I would advise you to shift a shirt; the violence of action hath made you reek as a sacrifice. Where air comes out, air comes in; there’s none abroad so wholesome as that you vent.

Sir, In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen. Further to boast were neither true nor modest, Unless I add, we are honest.

Sir, step you forth; Give answer to this boy, and do it freely, Or by our greatness, and the grace of it (Which is our honor), bitter torture shall Winnow the truth from falsehood.

So Followed 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.

so I’ll die For thee, O Imogen, even for whom my life Is every breath a death; and thus, unknown, Pitied nor hated, to the face of peril Myself I’ll dedicate.

So please you, leave me, Stick to your journal course: the breach of custom Is breach of all. I am ill, but your being by me Cannot amend me; society is no comfort To one not sociable.

So through Lud’s-Town march, And in the temple of great Jupiter Our peace we’ll ratify; seal it with feasts. Set on there! Never was a war did cease (Ere bloody hands were wash’d) with such a peace.

The benediction of these covering heavens Fall on their heads like dew! For they are worthy To inlay heaven with stars.

The bird is dead That we have made so much on. I had rather Have skipp’d from sixteen years of age to sixty, To have turn’d my leaping time into a crutch, Than have seen this.

The dream’s here still; even when I wake, it is Without me, as within me; not imagin’d, felt.

the eldest of them at three years old, I’ th’ swathing clothes the other, from their nursery Were stol’n, and to this hour no guess in knowledge Which way they went.

The flame o’ th’ taper Bows toward her, and would under-peep her lids, To see th’ enclosed lights, now canopied Under these windows, white and azure lac’d With blue of heaven’s own tinct.

The gates of monarchs Are arch’d so high that giants may jet through And keep their impious turbands on without Good morrow to the sun.

The heavens hold firm The walls of thy dear honor; keep unshak’d That temple, thy fair mind, that thou mayst stand T’ enjoy thy banish’d lord and this great land!

The heavens still must work. Wherein I am false, I am honest; not true, to be true.

the toil o’ th’ war, A pain that only seems to seek out danger I’ th’ name of fame and honor which dies i’ th’ search, And hath as oft a sland’rous epitaph As record of fair act;

Their discipline (Now wing-led with their courages) will make known To their approvers they are people such That mend upon the world.

There cannot be a pinch in death More sharp than this is.

therein He was as calm as virtue) he began His mistress’ picture, which by his tongue being made, And then a mind put in’t, either our brags Were crak’d of kitchen trulls, or his description Prov’d us unspeaking sots.

These are kind creatures. Gods, what lies I have heard! Our courtiers say all’s savage but at court. Experience, O, thou disprov’st report! Th’ imperious seas breeds monsters; for the dish, Poor tributary rivers as sweet fish.

These present wars shall find I love my country, Even to the note o’ th’ King, or I’ll fall in them. All other doubts, by time let them be clear’d, Fortune brings in some boats that are not steer’d.

This is Pisanio’s deed, and Cloten. O! Give color to my pale cheek with thy blood, That we the horrider may seem to those Which chance to find us.

This is a thing Which you might from relation likewise reap, Being, as it is, much spoke of.

This matter of marrying his king’s daughter, wherein he must be weigh’d rather by her value than his own, words him, I doubt not, a great deal from the matter.

This service is not service, so being done, But being so allowed. 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.

Tis gold Which buys admittance (oft it doth), yea, and makes Diana’s rangers false themselves, yield up Their deer to th’ stand o’ th’ stealer; and ’tis gold Which makes the true man kill’d and saves the thief; Nay, sometime hangs both thief and true man. What Can it not do, and undo?

Tis wonder That an invisible instinct should frame them To royalty unlearn’d, honor untaught, Civility not seen from other, valor That wildly grows in them but yields a crop As if it had been sow’d.

To Milford go, And find not her whom thou pursuest. Flow, flow, You heavenly blessings, on her! This fool’s speed Be cross’d with slowness; labor be his meed.

To his mistress (For whom he now is banish’d), her own price Proclaims how she esteem’d him; and his virtue By her election may be truly read, What kind of man he is.

which mulier I divine Is this most constant wife, who, even now, Answering the letter of the oracle, Unknown to you, unsought, were clipt about With this most tender air.

Why, worthy father, what have we to lose, But that he swore to take, our lives? The law Protects not us; then why should we be tender To let an arrogant piece of flesh threat us, Play judge and executioner all himself, For we do fear the law?

With those legions Which I have spoke of, whereunto your levy Must be supplyant. The words of your commission Will tie you to the numbers and the time Of their dispatch.

Yes, I beseech; or I shall short my word By length’ning my return. From Gallia I cross’d the seas on purpose and on promise To see your Grace.

You speak of him when he was less furnish’d than now he is with that which makes him both without and within.

You were as flow’rs, now wither’d; even so These herblets shall, which we upon you strew. Come on, away, apart upon our knees. The ground that gave them first has them again: Their pleasures here are past, so is their pain.

Your son’s my father’s friend, he takes his part To draw upon an exile. O brave sir! I would they were in Afric both together, Myself by with a needle, that I might prick The goer-back.