Sicil. Thy Christall window ope; looke, looke out, no longer exercise Vpon a valiant Race, thy harsh, and potent iniuries:

Moth. Since (Iupiter) our Son is good, take off his miseries

Sicil. Peepe through thy Marble Mansion, helpe, or we poore Ghosts will cry To'th' shining Synod of the rest, against thy Deity

Brothers. Helpe (Iupiter) or we appeale, and from thy iustice flye.

Iupiter descends in Thunder and Lightning, sitting vppon an Eagle: hee throwes a Thunder-bolt. The Ghostes fall on their knees.

Iupiter. No more you petty Spirits of Region low Offend our hearing: hush. How dare you Ghostes Accuse the Thunderer, whose Bolt (you know) Sky-planted, batters all rebelling Coasts. Poore shadowes of Elizium, hence, and rest Vpon your neuer-withering bankes of Flowres. Be not with mortall accidents opprest, No care of yours it is, you know 'tis ours. Whom best I loue, I crosse; to make my guift The more delay'd, delighted. Be content, Your low-laide Sonne, our Godhead will vplift: His Comforts thriue, his Trials well are spent: Our Iouiall Starre reign'd at his Birth, and in Our Temple was he married: Rise, and fade, He shall be Lord of Lady Imogen, And happier much by his Affliction made This Tablet lay vpon his Brest, wherein Our pleasure, his full Fortune, doth confine, And so away: no farther with your dinne Expresse Impatience, least you stirre vp mine: Mount Eagle, to my Palace Christalline.


Sicil. He came in Thunder, his Celestiall breath Was sulphurous to smell: the holy Eagle Stoop'd, as to foote vs: his Ascension is More sweet then our blest Fields: his Royall Bird Prunes the immortall wing, and cloyes his Beake, As when his God is pleas'd

All. Thankes Iupiter

Sic. The Marble Pauement clozes, he is enter'd His radiant Roofe: Away, and to be blest Let vs with care performe his great behest.


Post. Sleepe, thou hast bin a Grandsire, and begot A Father to me: and thou hast created A Mother, and two Brothers. But (oh scorne) Gone, they went hence so soone as they were borne: And so I am awake. Poore Wretches, that depend On Greatnesse, Fauour; Dreame as I haue done, Wake, and finde nothing. But (alas) I swerue: Many Dreame not to finde, neither deserue, And yet are steep'd in Fauours; so am I That haue this Golden chance, and know not why: What Fayeries haunt this ground? A Book? Oh rare one, Be not, as is our fangled world, a Garment Nobler then that it couers. Let thy effects So follow, to be most vnlike our Courtiers, As good, as promise.


When as a Lyons whelpe, shall to himselfe vnknown, 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 reuiue, bee ioynted to the old Stocke, and freshly grow, then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britaine be fortunate, and flourish in Peace and Plentie. 'Tis still a Dreame: or else such stuffe as Madmen Tongue, and braine not: either both, or nothing Or senselesse speaking, or a speaking such As sense cannot vntye. Be what it is, The Action of my life is like it, which Ile keepe If but for simpathy. Enter Gaoler.

Gao. Come Sir, are you ready for death? Post. Ouer-roasted rather: ready long ago

Gao. Hanging is the word, Sir, if you bee readie for that, you are well Cook'd

Post. So if I proue a good repast to the Spectators, the dish payes the shot

William Shakespeare
Classic Literature Library

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