The Complete Works of William Shakespeare In Plain and Simple English (Translated) (834 page)

The roofs of palaces, and nature prompts them

In simple and low things to prince it much

Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore,

The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, who

The King his father call'd Guiderius- Jove!

When on my three-foot stool I sit 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, Cadwal,

Once Arviragus, in as like a figure

Strikes life into my speech, and shows much more

His own conceiving. Hark, the game is rous'd!

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 wast their nurse; they took thee for their mother,

And every day do honour to her grave.

Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call'd,

They take for natural father. The game is up.

Exit

I had done nothing wrong - as I've often told you -

but two villains, whose false oaths were believed

more than my perfect honesty, swore to Cymbeline

that I was in league with the Romans.So

I was banished, and for the last twenty years

this cave and its surroundings have been my world,

where I have lived in honest freedom, and given

more genuine worship to heaven than I did in all

the time leading up to this.But up to the mountains!

This is not the way for hunters to talk.The one who gets

the first deer shall be lord of the feast;

the other two will serve him,

and we won't worry about being poisoned, which we would

if we were in a higher situation.I'll meet you in the valleys.

How difficult it is to hide away true nature!

Those boys have no idea that they are the King's sons,

and Cymbeline has no idea that they are alive.

They think they are mine; and though they have been brought up in such a lowly way,

in the cave where they now crouch, their thoughts reach

to the roofs of palaces, and their nature prompts them

to act like princes even in simple low things,

far above the way others behave.This Polydore,

the heir of Cymbeline and of Britain, whom

his father the King called Guiderius - by Jove!

When I sit on my three legged stool and tell them

of the warlike things I have done, he immerses himself

in my story;if I say, "This is how my enemy fell,

and this is how I put my foot on his neck," then

the princely blood flushes his cheeks, he sweats,

strains his young nerves, and puts himself in a position

that mimics my words.The younger brother, Cadwal,

who was once called Arviragus, in the same way

lives out what I say, and shows that he's

imagining much more.Listen, the game has been flushed out!

Oh Cymbeline, heaven and my conscience know

that you exiled me unjustly!So, when they

were two and three years old, I stole these babies,

planning to stop your succession in revenge

for you taking my lands.Euriphile,

you nursed them; they thought you were their mother,

and every day they pay their respects at your grave.

Me, Belarius, who calls myself Morgan,

they think is their real father.The game is running.

Enter PISANIO and IMOGEN

IMOGEN.

Thou told'st me, when we came from horse, the place

Was near at hand. Ne'er long'd my mother so

To see me first as I have now - Pisanio! Man!

Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind

That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that sigh

From th' inward of thee? One but painted thus

Would be interpreted a thing perplex'd

Beyond self-explication. Put thyself

Into a haviour of less fear, ere wildness

Vanquish my staider senses. What's the matter?

Why tender'st thou that paper to me with

A look untender! If't be summer news,

Smile to't before; if winterly, thou need'st

But keep that count'nance still. My husband's hand?

That drug-damn'd Italy hath out-craftied him,

And he's at some hard point. Speak, man; thy tongue

May take off some extremity, which to read

Would be even mortal to me.

You told me, when we left the horses, that the place

was nearby.My mother never so longed to see me

arrive as I now - Pisanio! Man!

Where is Posthumus?What's on your mind

that makes you stare like that?Why do you give

those great heartfelt sighs?Just a picture of you

would be seen as a person confused

beyond explanation.Stop

looking so worried, or panic

will start to overcome my calm senses.What's the matter?

Why are you holding that paper out to me with

such a harsh look?If it's good news,

give us a smile, if it's bad

you can keep that face.My husband's handwriting?

That poisonous Italy has tricked him,

and he's in some kind of trouble.Speak, man; if I hear it

it might take the edge off the horror of it, when to read it

might kill me.

PISANIO.

Please you read,

And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing

The most disdain'd of fortune.

Please, you read it,

and you will see that I, wretched man, am the

unluckiest man alive.

IMOGEN.

[Reads] 'Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath play'd the

strumpet in

my bed, the testimonies whereof lie bleeding in me. I speak

not

out of weak surmises, but from proof as strong as my grief

and as

certain as I expect my revenge. That part thou, Pisanio, must

act

for me, if thy faith be not tainted with the breach of hers.

Let

thine own hands take away her life; I shall give thee

opportunity

at Milford Haven; she hath my letter for the purpose; where,

if

thou fear to strike, and to make me certain it is done, thou

art

the pander to her dishonour, and equally to me disloyal.'

'Your mistress, Pisanio, has acted like a tart in my bed,

of which I've had proof which has stabbed me to the heart.

I'm not talking about weak guesses, but proof as strong as my grief

and as certain as the fact that I'll get revenge.Your part, Pisanio,

if your loyalty hasn't been corrupted like hers, is to take

that revenge, kill her yourself.I shall set up your chance

at Milford Haven; I've given her a letter which will get her there;

if you don't do this, and give me proof of it, I'll know

that you are a pimp in her dishonour, and disloyal to me.'

PISANIO.

What shall I need to draw my sword? The paper

Hath cut her throat already. No, 'tis slander,

Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue

Outvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath

Rides on the posting winds and doth belie

All corners of the world. Kings, queens, and states,

Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave,

This viperous slander enters. What cheer, madam?

Is there any need to take my sword out?The letter

has already cut her throat out.No, it's slander,

which is sharper than a sword, whose tongue

is more poisonous than all the snakes of Eygpt, whose breath

rides on the swift winds and tells lies

in all corners of the world.Kings, queens and states,

girls, old women, even the secrets of the grave,

are bitten by the viper of slander.What are you thinking, madam?

IMOGEN.

False to his bed? What is it to be false?

To lie in watch there, and to think on him?

To weep twixt clock and clock? If sleep charge nature,

To break it with a fearful dream of him,

And cry myself awake? That's false to's bed,

Is it?

False in his bed?What does it mean, false?

Lying awake in there, thinking of him?

To weep away the hours?If nature breaks sleep,

giving me a terrible dream that he's in trouble,

and cry myself awake?That's being false in his bed,

is it?

PISANIO.

Alas, good lady!

Alas, good lady!

IMOGEN.

I false! Thy conscience witness! Iachimo,

Thou didst accuse him of incontinency;

Thou then look'dst like a villain; now, methinks,

Thy favour's good enough. Some jay of Italy,

Whose mother was her painting, hath betray'd him.

Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion,

And for I am richer than to hang by th' walls

I must be ripp'd. To pieces with me! O,

Men's vows are women's traitors! All good seeming,

By thy revolt, O husband, shall be thought

Put on for villainy; not born where't grows,

But worn a bait for ladies.

Me false!Do you really believe that!Iachimo,

you accused him of being unfaithful;

then you looked like a villain; now I look

at you in a different light.Some made up

Italian tart has led him astray.

He's had enough of me, like clothes that have gone out of fashion,

and as I'm too good to just be hung up in a cupboard

I must be ripped to pieces.Rip me up!Oh,

the promises of men betray women!Everything that looked good

now looks, due to your betrayal, oh husband,

as if it was faked for evil ends; it wasn't natural,

but put on to trap ladies.

PISANIO.

Good madam, hear me.

Good madam, listen to me.

IMOGEN.

True honest men being heard, like false Aeneas,

Were, in his time, thought false; and Sinon's weeping

Did scandal many a holy tear, took pity

From most true wretchedness. So thou, Posthumus,