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 offence, 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.

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 ⌈rising⌉

Be pleased a while.

This gentleman, whom I call Polydore,

Most worthy prince, as yours, is true Guiderius.

⌈Guiderius kneels⌉

This gentleman, my Cadwal, Arviragus,

Your younger princely son.

⌈Arviragus kneels⌉

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!

⌈Guiderius and Arviragus rise⌉

O Innogen,

Thou hast lost by this a kingdom.

INNOGEN

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 ye were so indeed.

CYMBELINE

Did you e’er meet?

ARVIRAGUS

Ay, my good lord.

GUIDERIUS

And at first meeting loved,

Continued so until we thought he died.

CORNELIUS

By the Queen’s dram she swallowed.

CYMBELINE

O rare instinct!

When shall I hear all through? This fierce abridgement

Hath to it circumstantial branches which

Distinction should be rich in. Where? How lived you?

And when came you to serve our Roman captive?

How parted with your brothers? How first met them?

Why fled you from the court? And whither? These,

And your three motives to the battle, with

I know not how much more, should be demanded,

And all the other by-dependences,

From chance to chance. But nor the time nor place

Will serve our long inter’gatories. See,

Posthumus anchors upon Innogen,

And she, like harmless lightning, throws her eye

On him, her brothers, me, her master, hitting

Each object with a joy. The counterchange

Is severally in all. Let’s quit this ground,

And smoke the temple with our sacrifices.

(To Belarius) Thou art my brother; so we’ll hold thee

ever.

INNOGEN (to Belarius)

You are my father too, and did relieve me

To see this gracious season.

CYMBELINE

All o’erjoyed,

Save these in bonds. Let them be joyful too,

For they shall taste our comfort.

INNOGEN (to Lucius)

My good master,

I will yet do you service.

LUCIUS

Happy be you!

CYMBELINE

The forlorn soldier that so nobly fought,

He would have well becomed this place, and graced

The thankings of a king.

POSTHUMUS

I am, sir,

The soldier that did company these three

In poor beseeming. ’Twas a fitment for

The purpose I then followed. That I was he,

Speak, Giacomo; I had you down, and might

Have made you finish.

GIACOMO (kneeling)

I am down again,

But now my heavy conscience sinks my knee

As then your force did. Take that life, beseech you,

Which I so often owe; but your ring first,

And here the bracelet of the truest princess

That ever swore her faith.

POSTHUMUS (raising him)

Kneel not to me.

The power that I have on you is to spare you,

The malice towards you to forgive you. Live,

And deal with others better.