We will die all three

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, as Polydor
And our good his.
Belarius, as Morgan
Have at it, then.—By leave,
Thou hadst, great king, a subject who
Was called Belarius.

The benediction of these covering heavens
Fall on their heads like dew, for they are worthy
To inlay heaven with stars.

Cymbeline
What of him? He is
A banished traitor.
Belarius
He it is that hath
Assumed this age; indeed a banished man,
I know not how a traitor.
Cymbeline
Take him hence.
The whole world shall not save him.
Belarius
Not too hot.
First pay me for the nursing of thy sons
And let it be confiscate all, so soon
As I have received it.
Cymbeline
Nursing of my sons?
Belarius
I am too blunt and saucy. Here’s my knee.
 He kneels.
Ere I arise I will prefer my sons,
Then spare not the old father. Mighty sir,
These two young gentlemen that call me father
And think they are my sons are none of mine.
They are the issue of your loins, my liege,
And blood of your begetting.
Cymbeline
How? My issue?
Belarius
So sure as you your father’s. I, old Morgan,
Am that Belarius whom you sometime banished.
Your pleasure was my mere offense, my punishment
Itself, and all my treason. That I suffered
Was all the harm I did. These gentle princes—
For such and so they are—these twenty years
Have I trained up; those arts they have as I
Could put into them. My breeding was, sir, as
Your Highness knows. Their nurse Euriphile,
Whom for the theft I wedded, stole these children
Upon my banishment. I moved her to ’t,
Having received the punishment before
For that which I did then. Beaten for loyalty
Excited me to treason. Their dear loss,
The more of you ’twas felt, the more it shaped
Unto my end of stealing them. But, gracious sir,
Here are your sons again, and I must lose
Two of the sweet’st companions in the world.
The benediction of these covering heavens
Fall on their heads like dew, for they are worthy
To inlay heaven with stars.  He weeps.
Cymbeline
Thou weep’st and speak’st.
The service that you three have done is more
Unlike than this thou tell’st. I lost my children.
If these be they, I know not how to wish
A pair of worthier sons.
Belarius
Be pleased awhile.
This gentleman whom I call Polydor,
Most worthy prince, as yours is true Guiderius;
This gentleman, my Cadwal, Arviragus,
Your younger princely son. He, sir, was lapped
In a most curious mantle, wrought by th’ hand
Of his queen mother, which for more probation
I can with ease produce.
Cymbeline
Guiderius had
Upon his neck a mole, a sanguine star.
It was a mark of wonder.
Belarius
This is he,
Who hath upon him still that natural stamp.
It was wise Nature’s end in the donation
To be his evidence now.
Cymbeline
O, what am I,
A mother to the birth of three? Ne’er mother
Rejoiced deliverance more.—Blest pray you be,
That after this strange starting from your orbs,
You may reign in them now.—O Imogen,
Thou hast lost by this a kingdom!
Imogen
No, my lord.
I have got two worlds by ’t.—O my gentle brothers,
Have we thus met? O, never say hereafter
But I am truest speaker. You called me “brother”
When I was but your sister; I you “brothers”
When we were so indeed.