Most welcome, bondage

Posthumus
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 cured
By th’ sure physician, Death, who is the key
T’ unbar these locks. My conscience, thou art fettered
More than my shanks and wrists. You good gods, give me
The penitent instrument to pick that bolt,
Then free forever. Is ’t enough I am sorry?

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.

So children temporal fathers do appease;
Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent,
I cannot do it better than in gyves,
Desired more than constrained. 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 coined 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 powers,
If you will take this audit, take this life
And cancel these cold bonds. O Imogen,
I’ll speak to thee in silence.  He lies down and sleeps.

(Solemn music. Enter, as in 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, follows the two young
Leonati, brothers to Posthumus, with wounds as they
died in the wars. They circle Posthumus round as he
lies sleeping.)

Sicilius
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 stayed,
 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.
Mother
Lucina lent not me her aid,
 But took me in my throes,
That from me was Posthumus ripped,
 Came crying ’mongst his foes,
 A thing of pity.
Sicilius
Great Nature, like his ancestry,
 Molded the stuff so fair
That he deserved the praise o’ th’ world
 As great Sicilius’ heir.
First Brother
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?
Mother
With marriage wherefore was he mocked,
 To be exiled and thrown
From Leonati seat, and cast
 From her, his dearest one,
 Sweet Imogen?
Sicilius
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?
Second Brother
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 honor to maintain.
First Brother
Like hardiment Posthumus hath
 To Cymbeline performed.
Then, Jupiter, thou king of gods,
 Why hast thou thus adjourned
The graces for his merits due,
 Being all to dolors turned?
Sicilius
Thy crystal window ope; look out.
 No longer exercise
Upon a valiant race thy harsh
 And potent injuries.
Mother
Since, Jupiter, our son is good,
 Take off his miseries.
Sicilius
Peep through thy marble mansion. Help,
 Or we poor ghosts will cry
To th’ shining synod of the rest
 Against thy deity.
Brothers
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.)

Jupiter
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 oppressed.
 No care of yours it is; you know ’tis ours.
Whom best I love I cross, to make my gift,
 The more delayed, delighted. Be content.
Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift.
 His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent.
Our Jovial star reigned 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.

(He hands Sicilius a tablet.)

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.

(Ascends.)

Sicilius
He came in thunder. His celestial breath
Was sulphurous to smell. The holy eagle
Stooped as to foot us. His ascension is
More sweet than our blest fields; his royal bird
Preens the immortal wing and cloys his beak,
As when his god is pleased.
All
Thanks, Jupiter.
Sicilius
The marble pavement closes; he is entered
His radiant roof. Away, and, to be blest,
Let us with care perform his great behest.
He places the tablet on Posthumus’ breast.

(They vanish.)

Posthumus, 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’ favor dream as I have done,
Wake, and find nothing. But, alas, I swerve.
Many dream not to find, neither deserve,
And yet are steeped in favors; so am I
That have this golden chance and know not why.
 Finding the tablet.
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.)

Whenas 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.

’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.