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Ebook has 778 lines and 31776 words, and 16 pages
This is our 3rd edition of most of these plays. See the index.
The Tragedie of Cymbeline
by William Shakespeare
July, 2000
Executive Director's Notes:
Barnardo. Who's there? Fran. Nay answer me: Stand & vnfold your selfe
Bar. Long liue the King
As I understand it, the printers often ran out of certain words or letters they had often packed into a "cliche". . .this is the original meaning of the term cliche. . .and thus, being unwilling to unpack the cliches, and thus you will see some substitutions that look very odd. . .such as the exchanges of u for v, v for u, above. . .and you may wonder why they did it this way, presuming Shakespeare did not actually write the play in this manner. . . .
The answer is that they MAY have packed "liue" into a cliche at a time when they were out of "v"'s. . .possibly having used "vv" in place of some "w"'s, etc. This was a common practice of the day, as print was still quite expensive, and they didn't want to spend more on a wider selection of characters than they had to.
You will find a lot of these kinds of "errors" in this text, as I have mentioned in other times and places, many "scholars" have an extreme attachment to these errors, and many have accorded them a very high place in the "canon" of Shakespeare. My father read an assortment of these made available to him by Cambridge University in England for several months in a glass room constructed for the purpose. To the best of my knowledge he read ALL those available . . .in great detail. . .and determined from the various changes, that Shakespeare most likely did not write in nearly as many of a variety of errors we credit him for, even though he was in/famous for signing his name with several different spellings.
So, please take this into account when reading the comments below made by our volunteer who prepared this file: you may see errors that are "not" errors. . . .
Scanner's Notes: What this is and isn't. This was taken from a copy of Shakespeare's first folio and it is as close as I can come in ASCII to the printed text.
The elongated S's have been changed to small s's and the conjoined ae have been changed to ae. I have left the spelling, punctuation, capitalization as close as possible to the printed text. I have corrected some spelling mistakes , typo's and expanded abbreviations as I have come across them. Everything within brackets is what I have added. So if you don't like that you can delete everything within the brackets if you want a purer Shakespeare.
Another thing that you should be aware of is that there are textual differences between various copies of the first folio. So there may be differences between this and other first folio editions. This is due to the printer's habit of setting the type and running off a number of copies and then proofing the printed copy and correcting the type and then continuing the printing run. The proof run wasn't thrown away but incorporated into the printed copies. This is just the way it is. The text I have used was a composite of more than 30 different First Folio editions' best pages.
David Reed
The Tragedie of Cymbeline
Actus Primus. Scoena Prima.
Enter two Gentlemen.
Exeunt.
Scena Secunda.
Enter the Queene, Posthumus, and Imogen.
Qu. No, be assur'd you shall not finde me After the slander of most Step-Mothers, Euill-ey'd vnto you. You're my Prisoner, but Your Gaoler shall deliuer you the keyes That locke vp your restraint. For you Posthumus, So soone as I can win th' offended King, I will be knowne your Aduocate: marry yet The fire of Rage is in him, and 'twere good You lean'd vnto his Sentence, with what patience Your wisedome may informe you
Post. 'Please your Highnesse, I will from hence to day
Qu. You know the perill: Ile fetch a turne about the Garden, pittying The pangs of barr'd Affections, though the King Hath charg'd you should not speake together.
Exit
Imo. O dissembling Curtesie! How fine this Tyrant Can tickle where she wounds? My deerest Husband, I something feare my Fathers wrath, but nothing what His rage can do on me. You must be gone, And I shall heere abide the hourely shot Of angry eyes: not comforted to liue, But that there is this Iewell in the world, That I may see againe
Post. My Queene, my Mistris: O Lady, weepe no more, least I giue cause To be suspected of more tendernesse Then doth become a man. I will remaine The loyall'st husband, that did ere plight troth. My residence in Rome, at one Filorio's, Who, to my Father was a Friend, to me Knowne but by Letter; thither write And with mine eyes, Ile drinke the words you send, Though Inke be made of Gall. Enter Queene.
Qu. Be briefe, I pray you: If the King come, I shall incurre, I know not How much of his displeasure: yet Ile moue him To walke this way: I neuer do him wrong, But he do's buy my Iniuries, to be Friends: Payes deere for my offences
Post. Should we be taking leaue As long a terme as yet we haue to liue, The loathnesse to depart, would grow: Adieu
Imo. Nay, stay a little: Were you but riding forth to ayre your selfe, Such parting were too petty. Looke heere This Diamond was my Mothers; take it But keepe it till you woo another Wife, When Imogen is dead
Post. How, how? Another? You gentle Gods, giue me but this I haue, And seare vp my embracements from a next, With bonds of death. Remaine, remaine thou heere, While sense can keepe it on: And sweetest, fairest, As I did exchange for you To your so infinite losse; so in our trifles I still winne of you. For my sake weare this, It is a Manacle of Loue, Ile place it Vpon this fayrest Prisoner
Imo. O the Gods! When shall we see againe? Enter Cymbeline, and Lords.
Post. Alacke, the King
Cym. Thou basest thing, auoyd hence, from my sight: If after this command thou fraught the Court With thy vnworthinesse, thou dyest. Away, Thou'rt poyson to my blood
Post. The Gods protect you, And blesse the good Remainders of the Court: I am gone
Imo. There cannot be a pinch in death More sharpe then this is
Cym. O disloyall thing, That should'st repayre my youth, thou heap'st A yeares age on mee
Imo. I beseech you Sir, Harme not your selfe with your vexation, I am senselesse of your Wrath; a Touch more rare Subdues all pangs, all feares
Cym. Past Grace? Obedience? Imo. Past hope, and in dispaire, that way past Grace
Cym. That might'st haue had The sole Sonne of my Queene
Imo. O blessed, that I might not: I chose an Eagle, And did auoyd a Puttocke
Cym. Thou took'st a Begger, would'st haue made my Throne, a Seate for basenesse
Imo. No, I rather added a lustre to it
Cym. O thou vilde one! Imo. Sir, It is your fault that I haue lou'd Posthumus: You bred him as my Play-fellow, and he is A man, worth any woman: Ouer-buyes mee Almost the summe he payes
Cym. What? art thou mad? Imo. Almost Sir: Heauen restore me: would I were A Neat-heards Daughter, and my Leonatus Our Neighbour-Shepheards Sonne. Enter Queene.
Cym. Thou foolish thing; They were againe together: you haue done Not after our command. Away with her, And pen her vp
Qu. Beseech your patience: Peace Deere Lady daughter, peace. Sweet Soueraigne, Leaue vs to our selues, and make your self some comfort Out of your best aduice
Cym. Nay, let her languish A drop of blood a day, and being aged Dye of this Folly. Enter.
Enter Pisanio.
Qu. Fye, you must giue way: Heere is your Seruant. How now Sir? What newes? Pisa. My Lord your Sonne, drew on my Master
Qu. I am very glad on't
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