Most worthy Prince, as yours, is true Guiderius:
This Gentleman, my Cadwall, Arviragus.
Your yonger Princely Son, he Sir, was lapt
In a most curious Mantle, wrought by th'hand
Of his Queene Mother, which for more probation
I can with ease produce.

Upon his necke a Mole, a sanguine Starre,
It was a marke of wonder.

Who hath upon him still that naturall stampe :
It was wise Natures end, in the donation

To be his evidence now.

A Mother to the byrth of three? Nere Mother
Rejoyc'd deliverance more: Blest, pray you be,
That after this strange starting from your Orbes,
You may reigne in them now: Oh Imogen,
Thou hast lost by this a Kingdome.

Imo.

No, my Lord:

I have got two Worlds by't. Oh my gentle Brothers,
Have we thus met? Oh never say heereafter
But I am truest speaker. You call'd me Brother
When I was but your Sister: I you Brothers,

Corn. By the Queenes Dramme she swallow'd. Cym. O rare instinct! When shall I heare all through? This fierce abridgment, Hath to it Circumstantiall branches, which Distinction should be rich in. Where? how liv'd you? And when came you to serve our Romane Captive?

How parted with your Brother? How first met them?
Why fled
you from the Court? And whether these?
And your three motives to the Battaile? with

I know not how much more should be demanded,

And all the other by-dependances

From chance to chance? But nor the Time, nor Place

Will serve our long Interrogatories. See,

Posthumus Anchors upon Imogen;

And she (like harmlesse Lightning) throwes her eye

On him her Brothers, Me: her Master hitting
Each object with a Joy: the Counter-change
Is severally in all. Let's quit this ground,
And smoake the Temple with our Sacrifices.
Thou art my Brother, so wee'l hold thee ever.
Imo. You are my Father too, and did releeve me :
To see this gracious season.

Cym.

All ore-joy'd

Save these in bonds, let them be joyfull too,

For they shall taste our Comfort.

Imo. My good Master, I will yet do

Luc. Happy be you.

you service.

Cym. The forlorne Souldier, that no Nobly fought He would have well becom❜d this place, and grac'd The thankings of a King.

The Souldier that did company these three
In poore beseeming: 'twas a fitment for
The purpose I then follow'd. That I was he,
Speake Iachimo, I had you downe, and might
Have made you finish.

Iach.

I am downe againe :

But now my heavie Conscience sinkes my knee,
As then your force did. Take that life, beseech you
Which I so often owe: but your Ring first,

And heere the Bracelet of the truest Princesse

That ever swore her Faith.

Post.

Kneele not to me:

The powre that I have on you, is to spare you :
The malice towards you, to forgive you. Live

And deale with others better.

Cym.

Nobly doom'd:

Wee'l learne our Freenesse of a Sonne-in-Law:

Pardon's the word to all.

As

you did meane indeed to be our Brother,

Joy'd are we, that you are.

Post. Your Servant Princes. Good my Lord of Rome
Call forth your Sooth-sayer: As I slept, me thought
Great Jupiter upon his Eagle back'd

Appear'd to me, with other sprightly shewes

Of mine owne Kindred. When I wak'd, I found
This Labell on my bosome; whose containing

Is so from sense in hardnesse, that I can

Make no Collection of it. Let him shew

His skill in the construction.

When as a Lyons whelpe, shall to himselfe unknown without

seeking finde, and bee embrac'd by a peece of tender Ayre : And when from a stately Cedar shall be lopt branches, which being dead many yeares, shall after revive, be joynted to the old Stocke, and freshly grow, then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britaine be fortunate, and flourish in Peace and Plentie. Thou Leonatus art the Lyons Whelpe, The fit and apt Construction of thy name Being Leonatus, doth import so much :

The

peece of tender Ayre, thy vertuous Daughter,

Which we call Mollis Aer, and Mollis Aer
We terme it Mulier; which Mulier I divine
Is this most constant Wife, who even now
Answering the Letter of the Oracle,
Unknowne to you unsought, were clipt about
With this most tender Aire.

Cym.

This hath some seeming. Sooth. The lofty Cedar, Royall Cymbeline Personates thee and thy lopt Branches, point Thy two Sonnes forth who by Belarius stolne For many yeares thought dead, are now reviv'd To the Majesticke Cedar joyn'd; whose Issue Promises Britaine, Peace and Plenty.

:

Cym.
Well,
My Peace we will begin: And Caius Lucius,
Although the Victor, we submit to Casar,
And to the Romane Empire; promising
To pay our wonted Tribute, from the which
We were disswaded by our wicked Queene,
Whom heavens in Justice both on her, and hers,
Have laid most heavy hand.

Sooth. The fingers of the Powres above, do tune
The harmony of this Peace: the Vision
Which I made knowne to Lucius ere the stroke
Of yet this scarse-cold-Battaile, at this instant
Is full accomplish'd. For the Romaine Eagle
From South to West, on wing soaring aloft
Lessen'd her selfe, and in the Beames o'th'Sun
So vanish'd; which fore-shew'd our Princely Eagle
Th'Imperiall Casar, should againe unite

His Favour, with the Radiant Cymbeline,

Which shines heere in the West.

Cym.

Laud we the Gods,

And let our crooked Smoakes climbe to their Nostrils

From our blest Altars. Publish we this Peace

To all our Subjects. Set we forward: Let
A Roman, and a Brittish Ensigne wave

Friendly together: so through Luds-Towne march,
And in the Temple of great Jupiter

Our Peace wee'l ratifie: Seale it with Feasts.

Set on there: Never was a Warre did cease

(Ere bloodie hands were wash'd) with such a Peace.

Exeunt.