Thou com’st not, Caius, now for tribute

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.

Lucius
Consider, sir, the chance of war. The day
Was yours by accident. Had it gone with us,
We should not, when the blood was cool, have threatened
Our prisoners with the sword. But since the gods
Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives
May be called ransom, let it come. Sufficeth
A Roman with a Roman’s heart can suffer.
Augustus lives to think on ’t; and so much
For my peculiar care. This one thing only
I will entreat: my boy, a Briton born,
Let him be ransomed. Never master had
A page so kind, so duteous, diligent,
So tender over his occasions, true,
So feat, so nurselike. Let his virtue join
With my request, which I’ll make bold your Highness
Cannot deny. He hath done no Briton harm,
Though he have served a Roman. Save him, sir,
And spare no blood beside.
Cymbeline
I have surely seen him.
His favor is familiar to me.—Boy,
Thou hast looked thyself into my grace
And art mine own. I know not why, wherefore,
To say “Live, boy.” Ne’er thank thy master. Live,
And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt,
Fitting my bounty and thy state, I’ll give it,
Yea, though thou do demand a prisoner,
The noblest ta’en.
Imogen, as Fidele
I humbly thank your Highness.
Lucius
I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad,
And yet I know thou wilt.
Imogen, as Fidele
No, no, alack,
There’s other work in hand. I see a thing
Bitter to me as death. Your life, good master,
Must shuffle for itself.
Lucius
The boy disdains me,
He leaves me, scorns me. Briefly die their joys
That place them on the truth of girls and boys.