Cymbeline

Cymbeline
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 sham’d gilded arms, whose naked breast
Stepp’d before targes of proof, cannot be found.
He shall be happy that can find him, if
Our grace can make him so.
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By med’cine life may be prolong’d, yet death
Will seize the doctor too. How ended she?
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O most delicate fiend!
Who is’t can read a woman?
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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. It had been vicious
To have mistrusted her; yet, O my daughter,
That it was folly in me, thou mayst say,
And prove it in thy feeling. Heaven mend all!
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Jachimo
Upon a time—unhappy was the clock
That strook the hour!—it was in Rome—accurs’d
The mansion where!—’twas at a feast—O would
Our viands had been poison’d, or at least
Those which I heav’d to head!—the good Posthumus
(What should I say? He was too good to be
Where ill men were, and was the best of all
Amongst the rar’st of good ones),
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Jachimo
Methinks I see him now—
Posthumus Leonatus
Advancing.
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! O, give me cord, or knife, or poison,
Some upright justicer! Thou, King, send out
For torturers ingenious;
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Soothsayer
The fingers of the powers above do tune
The harmony of this peace.Synecdoche and Metaphor The vision
Which I made known to Lucius ere the stroke
Of this yet scarce-cold battle at this instant
Is full accomplished. For the Roman eagle,Metonymy
From south to west on wing soaring aloft,
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