And conquered it, Cassibelan, thine uncle,

Famous in Caesar’s praises no whit less

Than in his feats deserving it, for him

And his succession granted Rome a tribute,

Yearly three thousand pounds, which by thee lately

Is left untendered.

QUEEN

And, to kill the marvel,

Shall be so ever.

CLOTEN

There will be many Caesars

Ere such another Julius. Britain’s a world

By itself, and we will nothing pay

For wearing our own noses.

QUEEN

That opportunity

Which then they had to take from ‘s, to resume

We have again. Remember, sir, my liege,

The kings your ancestors, together with

The natural bravery of your isle, which stands

As Neptune’s park, ribbed and paled in

With banks unscalable and roaring waters,

With sands that will not bear your enemies’ boats,

But suck them up to th’ topmast. A kind of conquest

Caesar made here, but made not here his brag

Of ‘came and saw and overcame’. With shame—

The first that ever touched him—he was carried

From off our coast, twice beaten; and his shipping,

Poor ignorant baubles, on our terrible seas

Like eggshells moved upon their surges, cracked

As easily ’gainst our rocks; for joy whereof

The famed Cassibelan, who was once at point—

O giglot fortune!—to master Caesar’s sword,

Made Lud’s town with rejoicing fires bright,

And Britons strut with courage.

CLOTEN Come, there’s no more tribute to be paid. Our kingdom is stronger than it was at that time, and, as I said, there is no more such Caesars. Other of them may have crooked noses, but to owe such straight arms, none.

CYMBELINE Son, let your mother end.

CLOTEN We have yet many among us can grip as hard as Cassibelan. I do not say I am one, but I have a hand. Why tribute? Why should we pay tribute? If Caesar can hide the sun from us with a blanket, or put the moon in his pocket, we will pay him tribute for light; else, sir, no more tribute, pray you now.

CYMBELINE (to Lucius) You must know,

Till the injurious Romans did extort

This tribute from us we were free. Caesar’s ambition,

Which swelled so much that it did almost stretch

The sides o‘th’ world, against all colour here

Did put the yoke upon ’s, which to shake off

Becomes a warlike people, whom we reckon

Ourselves to be. We do say then to Caesar,

Our ancestor was that Mulmutius which

Ordained our laws, whose use the sword of Caesar

Hath too much mangled, whose repair and franchise

Shall by the power we hold be our good deed,

Though Rome be therefore angry. Mulmutius made

our laws,

Who was the first of Britain which did put

His brows within a golden crown and called

Himself a king.

LUCIUS

I am sorry, Cymbeline,

That I am to pronounce Augustus Caesar—

Caesar, that hath more kings his servants than

Thyself domestic officers—thine enemy.

Receive it from me, then: war and confusion

In Caesar’s name pronounce I ’gainst thee. Look

For fury not to be resisted. Thus defied,

I thank thee for myself.

CYMBELINE

Thou art welcome, Caius.

Thy Caesar knighted me; my youth I spent

Much under him; of him I gathered honour,

Which he to seek of me again perforce

Behoves me keep at utterance. I am perfect

That the Pannonians and Dalmatians for

Their liberties are now in arms, a precedent

Which not to read would show the Britons cold;

So Caesar shall not find them.

LUCIUS

Let proof speak.

CLOTEN His majesty bids you welcome. Make pastime with us a day or two or longer. If you seek us afterwards in other terms, you shall find us in our salt-water girdle. If you beat us out of it, it is yours; if you fall in the adventure, our crows shall fare the better for you; and there’s an end.

LUCIUS So, sir.

CYMBELINE

I know your master’s pleasure, and he mine.

All the remain is ‘Welcome’.

⌈Flourish.⌉ Exeunt

3.2 Enter Pisanio, reading of a letter

PISANIO

How? Of adultery? Wherefore write you not

What monster’s her accuser? Leonatus,

O master, what a strange infection

Is fall’n into thy ear! What false Italian,

As poisonous tongued as handed, hath prevailed

On thy too ready hearing? Disloyal? No.

She’s punished for her truth, and undergoes,

More goddess-like than wife-like, such assaults

As would take in some virtue. O my master,

Thy mind to hers is now as low as were

Thy fortunes. How? That I should murder her,

Upon the love and truth and vows which I

Have made to thy command? I her? Her blood?

If it be so to do good service, never

Let me be counted serviceable. How look I,

That I should seem to lack humanity

So much as this fact comes to? (Reads) ‘Do’t. The letter

That I have sent her, by her own command

Shall give thee opportunity.’ O damned paper,

Black as the ink that’s on thee! Senseless bauble,

Art thou a fedary for this act, and look’st

So virgin-like without?

Enter Innogen

Lo, here she comes.

I am ignorant in what I am commanded.