O, rare instinct! When shall I hear all through?

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? And whither?

Posthumus anchors upon Imogen;
And she, like harmless lightning, throws her eye
On him, her brothers, me, her master

 To Belarius. These,
And your three motives to the battle, with
I know not how much more, should be demanded,
And all the other by-dependences
From chance to chance; but nor the time nor place
Will serve our long interrogatories. See,
Posthumus anchors upon Imogen;
And she, like harmless lightning, throws her eye
On him, her brothers, me, her master, hitting
Each object with a joy; the counterchange
Is severally in all. Let’s quit this ground,
And smoke the temple with our sacrifices.
Thou art my brother, so we’ll hold thee ever.