Groan so in perpetuity, than be cur'd

By the sure physician, death, who is the key

T'unbar these locks. My conscience, thou art fetter'd
More than my shanks, and wrists: you good gods, give me
The penitent instrument to pick that bolt,

Then, free 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,

Desir'd, more than constrain'd: to satisfy,
If of my freedom 't is the main part, take
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 Imogen's dear life, take mine; and though
'T is not so dear, yet 't is a life; you coin'd it
'Tween man and man they weigh not every stamp,
Through light, take pieces for the figure's sake:
You rather mine, being yours; and so, great powers,
If you will take this audit, take this life,

And cancel these cold bonds.

I'll speak to thee in silence.

O Imogen!

[He sleeps.

Solemn Music. Enter, as 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 follow the Two young Leonati, Brothers to PosтHUMUS, with Wounds as they died in the Wars. They circle POSTHUMUS round, as he lies sleeping.

Sici. 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 stay'd
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.

Moth. Lucina lent not me her aid,
But took me in my throes;
That from me was Posthumus ript,
Came crying 'mongst his foes,
A thing of pity!

Sici. Great nature, like his ancestry,
Moulded the stuff so fair,

That he deserv'd the praise o' the world,
As great Sicilius' heir.

1 Bro. When once he was mature for man,
In Britain where was he,

That could stand up his parallel,

In

Or fruitful object be

eye of Imogen, that best Could deem his dignity?

Moth. With marriage wherefore was he mock'd

To be exil'd, and thrown

From Leonati' seat, and cast
From her his dearest one,

Sweet Imogen?

Sici. Why did you suffer Iachimo,

Slight thing of Italy,

To taint his nobler heart and brain

With needless jealousy;

And to become the geck and scorn
O' the other's villainy?

2 Bro. For this from stiller seats we came,
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.

1 Bro. Like hardiment Posthumus hath

To Cymbeline perform'd:
Then, Jupiter, thou king of gods,

Why hast thou thus adjourn'd

The graces for his merits due,

Being all to dolours turn'd?

Sici. Thy crystal window ope; look, look out:

No longer exercise,

Upon a valiant race, thy harsh

And potent injuries.

Moth. Since, Jupiter, our son is good,

Take off his miseries.

Sici. Peep through thy marble mansion; help!

Or we poor ghosts will cry,

To the shining synod of the rest,
Against thy deity.

2 Bro. 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.

Jup. 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 opprest;

No care of yours it is; you know, 't is ours.

Whom best I love, I cross; to make my gift,
The more delay'd, delighted. Be content;
Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift:
His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent.
Our Jovial star reign'd at his birth, and in
Our temple was he married. Rise, and fade!
He shall be lord of lady Imogen,

And happier much by his affliction made.
This tablet lay upon his breast, wherein
Our pleasure his full fortune doth confine;
And so, away: no farther with your din
Express impatience, lest you stir up mine.
Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline.

Sici. He came in thunder; his celestial breath
Was sulphurous to smell: the holy eagle

Stoop'd, as to foot us: his ascension is

More sweet than our bless'd fields. His royal bird
Prunes the immortal wing, and cloys his beak,
As when his god is pleas'd.

Sici. The marble pavement closes; he is enter'd His radiant roof. - Away! and, to be blest,

Let us with care perform his great behest.

[Ascends.

[Ghosts vanish.

Post. [Waking.] 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 steep'd 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.

[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."

'T is 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.

Jail.

Re-enter Jailers.

Come, Sir, are you ready for death?

Post. Over-roasted, rather; ready long ago.

Jail. Hanging is the word, Sir: if you be ready for that, you are well cooked.

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

Jail. 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 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. O! 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.

Post. I am merrier to die, than thou art to live.

Jail. Indeed, Sir, he that sleeps feels not the tooth-ache; but a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help