BELARIUS

A goodly day, not to keep house with such, Whose Roof's as low as ours: Sleep Boys, this gate Instructs you how t'adore the Heavens; and bows you To a morning's holy office. The Gates of Monarchs Are Arched so high, that Giants may et through And keep their impious Turbonds on, without Good morrow to the Sun. Hail thou fair Heaven, We house in the Rock, yet use thee not so hardly As prouder livers do. How you speak. Did you but know the Cities Usuries, And felt them knowingly: the Art of the Court, As hard to leave, as keep: whose top to climb Is certain falling: or so slippery, that The fear's as bade as falling. The toil of the War, A pain that only seems to seek out danger In the name of Fame and Honour, which die in the search, And hath as oft a slanderous Epitaph, As Record of fair Act. Nay, many times Does ill deserve, by doing well: what's worse Must curtsy at the Censure. O Boys, this Story The World may read in me: My body's marked With Roman Swords; and my report, was once First, with the best of Note. Cymbeline loved me, And when a Soldier was the Theme, my name Was not far off: then was I as a Tree Whose boughs did bend with fruit. But in one night, A Storm, or Robbery (call it what you will) Shook down my mellow hangings: nay my Leaves, And left me bore to weather. My fault being nothing (as I have told you oft) But that two Villains, whose false Oaths prevailed Before my perfect Honour, swore to Cymbeline, I was Confederate with the Romans: so Followed my Banishment, and this twenty years, This Rock, and these Demesnes, have be my World, Where I have lived at honest freedom, paid More pious debts to Heaven, then in all The fore-end of my time. But, up to the Mountains, This is not Hunter's Language; he that strikes The Venison first, shall be the Lord of the Feast, To him the other two shall minister, And we will fear no poison, which attends In place of greater State: I'll meet you in the Valleys. How hard it is to hide the sparks of Nature? These Boys know little they are Sons to the King, Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive. They think they are mine, And though trained up thus meanly In the Cave, whereon the Bow their thoughts do hit, The Roofs of Palaces, and Nature prompts them In simple and low things, to Prince it, much Beyond the trick of others. This Paladour, The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, who The King his Father called Guiderius. Jove, When on my three-foot stool I fit, and tell The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out Into my Story: say thus mine Enemy fell, And thus I set my foot on's neck, even then The Princely blood flows in his Cheek, he sweats, Strains his young Nerves, and puts himself in posture That acts my words. The younger Brother Cadwall, Once Arviragus, in as Like a figure Strikes life into my speech, and shows much more His own conceiving. Hark, the Game is roused, O Cymbeline, Heaven and my Conscience knows Thou didst unjustly banish me: whereon At three, and two years old, I stole these Babes, Thinking to bar thee of Succession, as Thou refts me of my Lands. Euriphile, Thou was't their Nurse, they took thee for their mother, And every day do honour to her graven: My self Belarius, that am Mergan called They take for Natural Father. The Game is up. You Polidore have proved best Woodman, and Are Master of the Feast: Cadwall, and I Will play the Cook, and Servant, it's our match: The sweat of industry would dry, and die But for the end it works too. Come, our stomachs Will make what's homely, savoury: Weariness Can snore upon the Flint, when resty Sloth Finds the Down-pillow hard. Now peace be here, Poor house, that keepest thy self. Stay, come not in: But that it eats our victuals, I should think Here were a Fairy. By Jupiter and Angel: or if not And earthly Paragon. Behold Divineness No elder then a Boy. Whither bound? What's your name? Prithee (fair youth) Think us no Churls: nor measure our good minds By this rude place we live in. Well encountered, It's almost night, you shall have better cheer Ere you depart; and thanks to stay, and eat it. Boys, bid him welcome. He wrings at some distress. Hark Boys. It shall be so: Boys we'll go dress our Hunt. Fair youth come in; Discourse is heavy, fasting: when we have supped We'll mannerly demand thee of thy Story, So far as thou wilt speak it. You are not well: Remain here in the Cave, We'll come to you after Hunting. What? How? how? O noble strain! Oh worthiness of Nature, breed of Greatness! "Cowards father Cowards, & Base things Sire Base; "Nature hath Meal, and Bran; Contempt, and Grace. I'm not their Father, yet who this should be, Does miracle it self, loved before me. It's the ninth hour of the Morn. To the Field, to the Field: We'll leave you for this time, go in, and rest. Pray be not sick, For you must be our Huswife. And shalt be ever. This youth, how ere distressed, appears he hath had Good Ancestors. It is great morning. Come away: Who's there? Those Runagates? Means he not us? I partly know him, it's Cloten, the Son of the Queen. I fear some Ambush: I saw him not these many years, and yet I know it's he: We are held as Outlaws: Hence. No Company's abroad? I cannot tell: Long is it since I saw him, But Time hath nothing blurred those lines of Favour Which then he wore: the snatches in his voice, And burst of speaking were as his: I am absolute 'Twas very Cloten. Being scarce made up, I mean to man; he had not apprehension Of roaring terrors: For defect of judgement Is oft the cause of Fear. But see thy Brother. What hast thou done? We are all undone. No single soul Can we set eye on: but in all safe reason He must have some Attendants. Though his Honour Was nothing but mutation, I, and that From one bade thing to worse: Not Frenzy, Not absolute madness could so far have raved To bring him here alone: although perhaps It may be herd at Court, that such as we Cave here, hunt here, are Outlaws, and in time May make some stronger head, the which he hearing, (As it is Like him) might break out, and swear Heeled fetch us in, yet is't not probable To come alone, either he so undertaking, Or they so suffering: then on good ground we fear, If we do fear this Body hath a tail More perilous then the head. I had no mind To hunt this day: The Boy Fideles sickness Did make my way long forth. I fear it'll be revenged: Would (Polidore) thou hadst not done it: though valour Becomes thee well enough. Well, it's done: We'll hunt no more to day, nor seek for danger Where there's no profit. I prithee to our Rock, You and Fidele play the Cooks: I'll stay Till hasty Polidore return, and bring him To dinner presently. O thou Goddess, Thou divine Nature; thou thy self thou blazonest In these two Princely Boys: they are as gentle As Zephires blowing below the Violet, Not wagging his sweet head; and yet, as rough (Their Royal blood enchafed) as the rudest wind, That by the top does take the Mountain Pine, And make him stoop to the Vale. It's wonder That and invisible instinct should frame them To Royalty unlearned, Honour untaught, Civility not seen from other: valour That wildly grows in them, but yields a crop As if it had been fow'd: yet still it's strange What Clotens being here to us portends, Or what his death will bring us. My ingenuous Instrument, (Hark Polidore ) it sounds: but what occasion Hath Cadwal now to give it motion? Hark. He went hence even now. Look, here he comes, And brings the dire occasion in his Arms, Of what we blame him for. O Melancholy, Who ever yet could found thy bottom? Find The Ooze, to show what Coast thy sluggish care Mightest easilest harbour in. Thou blessed thing, Jove knows what man thou mightest have made: but I, Thou dyed'st a most rare Boy, of Melancholy. How found you him? Great griefs I see medicine the less: For Cloten Is quite forgotten. He was a Queens Son, Boys, And though he came our Enemy remember He was paid for that: though mean, and mighty rotting Together have one dust, yet Reverence (That Angel of the world) does make distinction Of place between high, and low. Our Foe was Princely, And though you took his life, as being our Foe, Yet bury him, as a Prince. Here's a few Flowers, but about midnight more: The herbs that have on them cold Due of the night Are strewings firest for Graves: upon their Faces. You were as Flowers, now withered: even so These Herbelets shall, which we upon you strew. Come on, away, apart upon our knees: The ground that gave them first, ha them again: Their pleasures here are passed, so are their pain. Yes Sir, to Milfordhaven, which is the way? I thank you: by yond bush? pray how far thither? God-save pittikins: can it be six mile yet? I have gone all night: In-faith, I'll lie down, and sleep. But soft; no Bedfellow? O Gods, and Goddesses! These Flowers are Like the pleasures of the World; This bloody man the care on't. I hope I dream: For so I thought I was a Caue-keeper, And Cook to honest Creatures. But it's not so: 'Twas but a bolt of nothing, shot at nothing, Which the Brain makes of Fumes. Our very eyes, Are sometime Like our Judgements, blind. Good faith I tremble still with fear: but if there be Yet left in Heaven, as small a drop of pity As a Wrens eye; feared Gods, a partly of it. The Dream's here still: even when I wake it is Without me, as within me: not imagined, felt. A headless man? The Garments of Posthumus ? I know the shape of is Leg: this is his Hand: His Foot Mercurial: his martial Thigh The brawns of Hercules : but his Jovial face— Murder in heaven? How? it's gone. Pisanio, All Curses madded Hecuba gave the Greeks, All mine to boot, be darted on thee: thou Conspired with that Irregulous devil Cloten, Hath here cut off my Lord. To write, and read, Be henceforth treacherous. Damned Pisanio, Hath with his forged Letters (damned Pisanio ) From this most bravest vessel of the world Struck the main top! O Posthumus, alas, Where is thy head? where's that? Aye me! where's that? Pisanio might have killed thee at the heart, And left this head on. How should this be, Pisanio ? It's he, and Cloten : Malice, and Lucre in them Have laid this Woe here. O it's pregnant, pregnant! The Drug he gave me, which he said was precious And Cordial to me, have I not found it Murderous to the Senses? That confirms it home: This is Pisanio is deed, and Cloten : O! Give colour to my pale cheek with thy blood, That we the horrider may seem to those Which chance to find us. O, my Lord! my Lord! Let us from it. Sons, We'll higher to the Mountains, there secure v To the Kings party there's no going: newness Of Clotens death (we being not known, not mustered Among the Bans) may driven us to a render Where we have lived; and so extort from's that Which we have done, whose answer would be death Drawn on with Torture. O, I am known Of many in the Army: Many years (Though Cloten then but young) you see, not wore him From my remembrance. And beside, the King Hath not deserved my Service, nor your Loves, Who find in my Exile, the want of Breeding; The certainty of this herd life, aye hopeless To have the courtesy your Cradle promised, But to be still hight Summer's Tanlings, and The shrinking Slaves of Winter. No reason I (since of your lives you set So slight a valewation) should reserve My cracked one to more care. Have with you Boys: If in your Country wars you chance to die, That is my Bed too (Lads) and there I'll lie. Led, led; the time seems long, their blood thinks scorn Till it fly out, and show them Princes born. Stand, stand, we have the advantage of the ground, The Lane is guarded: Nothing routs us, but The villainy of our fears. I never saw Such Noble fury in so poor a Thing; Such precious deeds, in one that promised nought But beggary, and poor looks. Sir, In Cambria are we born, and Gentlemen: Further to boast, were neither true, nor modest, Unless I add, we are honest. Is not this Boy revived from death? Peace, peace, see further: he eyes us not, forbear Creatures may be alike: were it he, I am sure He would have spoke to us. Be silent: let's see further. My Boys, there was our error. Though you did love this youth, I blame you not, You had a motive for't. Stay, Sir King. This man is better then the man he slew, As well descended as thy self, and hath More of thee merited, then a Band of Clotens Had ever scar for. Let his Arms alone, They were not born for bondage. We will die all three, But I will prove that two one's are as good As I have given out him. My Sons, I must For mine own partly, unfold a dangerous speech, Though haply well for you. Have at it then, by leave Thou hadst (great King) a Subject, who Was called Belarius. He it is, that hath Assumed this age: indeed a banished man, I know not how, a Traitor. Not too hight; First pay me for the Nursing of thy Sons, And let it be confiscate all, so soon As I have received it. I am too blunt, and saucy: here's my knee: 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. So sure as you, your Father's: I (old Morgan ) Am that Belarius, whom you sometime banished: Your pleasure was my near offence, my punishment It self, 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 too't, Having received the punishment before For that which I did then. Beaten for Loyalty, Excited me to Treason. Their deer lose, 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 sweetest Companions in the World. The benediction of these covering Heavens Fallen on their heads liks Due, for they are worthy To inlay Heaven with Stars. Be pleased awhile; This Gentleman, whom I call Polidore, Most worthy Prince, as yours, is true Guiderius: This Gentleman, my Cadwall, Arviragus. Your younger Princely Son, he Sir, was leapt In a most curious Mantle, wrought by the hand Of his Queen Mother, which for more probation I can with ease produce. 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. Now for our Mountain sport, up to yond hill Your legs are young: I'll tread these Flats. Consider, When you above perceive me Like a Crow, That it is Place, which lessen's, and sets off, And you may then revolve what Tales, I have told you, Of Courts, of Princes; of the Tricks in War. This Service, is not Service; so being done, But being so allowed. To apprehend thus, Draws us a profit from all things we see: And osten to our comfort, shall we find The sharded-Beetle, in a safer hold Then is the full-winged Eagle. O this life, Is Nobler, then attending for a check: Richer, then doing nothing for a Babe: Prouder, then rustling in vnpayd-for Silk: Such gain the Cap of him, that makes him fine, Yet keeps his Book vncros'd: no life to ours.