Cymbeline

Posthumus
Should we be taking leave
As long a term as yet we have to live,
The loathness to depart would grow. Adieu.

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

Imogen
Nay, stay a little!
Were you but riding forth to air yourself,
Such parting were too petty.
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Cloten
I would this music would come. I am advised
to give her music a-mornings; they say it will
penetrate.

And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes.
With everything that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise,

 Enter Musicians.
Come on,
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Lucius
I am sorry, Cymbeline,
That I am to pronounce Augustus Caesar—
Caesar, that hath more kings his servants than
Thyself domestic officers—thine enemy.
Receive it from me, then: war and confusion
In Caesar’s name pronounce I ’gainst thee. Look
For fury not to be resisted. Thus defied,
I thank thee for myself.

Receive it from me,
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Cymbeline, to Morgan, Polydor, and Cadwal
Stand by my side, you whom the gods have made
Preservers of my throne. Woe is my heart
That the poor soldier that so richly fought,
Whose rags shamed gilded arms, whose naked breast
Stepped before targes of proof,
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Cymbeline
Thou com’st not, Caius, now for tribute. That
The Britons have razed out, though with the loss
Of many a bold one, whose kinsmen have made suit
That their good souls may be appeased with slaughter
Of you their captives, which ourself have granted.
So think of your estate.

Briefly die their joys
That place them on the truth of girls and boys.
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Cymbeline, to Imogen
Come, stand thou by our side.
Make thy demand aloud. (To Iachimo.) 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.—On. Speak to him.
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Pisanio
Wake, my mistress.
Cymbeline
If this be so, the gods do mean to strike me
To death with mortal joy.
Pisanio
How fares my mistress?

If this be so, the gods do mean to strike me
To death with mortal joy.

Imogen
O, get thee from my sight!
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Imogen, to Posthumus
Why did you throw your wedded lady from you?
Think that you are upon a rock, and now
Throw me again.
 She embraces him.

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

Posthumus
Hang there like fruit, my soul,
Till the tree die.
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Belarius, as Morgan
We will die all three
But I will prove that two on ’s are as good
As I have given out him.—My sons, I must
For mine own part unfold a dangerous speech,
Though haply well for you.
Arviragus, as Cadwal
Your danger’s ours.
Guiderius,
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Cymbeline, to Imogen
O, rare instinct!
When shall I hear all through? This fierce abridgment
Hath to it circumstantial branches which
Distinction should be rich in. Where, how lived you?
And when came you to serve our Roman captive?
How parted with your brothers? How first met them?
Why fled you from the court?
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