Ay, or a stomach.

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 cur’d

By th’ 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 ’tis 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

’Tis not so dear, yet ’tis a life; you coin’d 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 pow’rs,

If you will take this audit, take this life,

And cancel these cold bonds. O Imogen!

I’ll speak to thee in silence.

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.

Lucina lent not me her aid,

But took me in my throes,

That from me was Posthumus ripp’d,

Came crying ’mongst his foes,

A thing of pity.

Great Nature like his ancestry

Moulded the stuff so fair

That he deserv’d the praise o’ th’ world

As great Sicilius’ heir.

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 Imogen, that best

Could deem his dignity?

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?

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’ th’ other’s villainy?

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.

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?

Thy crystal window ope; look out;

No longer exercise

Upon a valiant race thy harsh

And potent injuries.

Since, Jupiter, our son is good,

Take off his miseries.

Peep through thy marble mansion. Help!

Or we poor ghosts will cry

To th’ shining synod of the rest

Against thy deity.

Help, Jupiter! or we appeal,

And from thy justice fly.

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 flow’rs.

Be not with mortal accidents opprest:

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

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 blest fields. His royal bird

Prunes the immortal wing, and cloys his beak,

As when his god is pleas’d.

Thanks, Jupiter!

The marble pavement closes, he is enter’d

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

Let us with care perform his great behest.

[_Waking._] Sleep, thou has 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 embrac’d by a piece of tender air; and when from a

stately cedar shall be lopp’d 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.

Come, sir, are you ready for death?

Over-roasted rather; ready long ago.

Hanging is the word, sir; if you be ready for that, you are well

cook’d.

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

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.

I am merrier to die than thou art to live.

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.

Yes indeed do I, fellow.

Your death has eyes in’s head, then; I have not seen him so pictur’d.

You must either be directed by some that take upon them to know, or to

take upon yourself that which I am sure you do not know, or jump the

after-inquiry on your own peril. And how you shall speed in your

journey’s end, I think you’ll never return to tell one.

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.

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.

Knock off his manacles; bring your prisoner to the King.

Thou bring’st good news: I am call’d to be made free.

I’ll be hang’d then.

Thou shalt be then freer than a gaoler; no bolts for the dead.

Unless a man would marry a gallows and beget young gibbets, I never saw

one so prone. Yet, on my conscience, there are verier knaves desire to

live, for all he be a Roman; and there be some of them too that die

against their wills; so should I, if I were one. I would we were all of

one mind, and one mind good. O, there were desolation of gaolers and

gallowses! I speak against my present profit, but my wish hath a

preferment in’t.