SICILIUS.
The marble pavement closes, he is enter’d
His radiant roof. Away! and, to be blest,
Let us with care perform his great behest.
[Ghosts vanish.]
POSTHUMUS.
[Waking.] Sleep, thou has been a grandsire and begot
A father to me; and thou hast created
A mother and two brothers. But, O scorn,
Gone! They went hence so soon as they were born.
And so I am awake. Poor wretches, that depend
On greatness’ favour, dream as I have done;
Wake and find nothing. But, alas, I swerve;
Many dream not to find, neither deserve,
And yet are steep’d in favours; so am I,
That have this golden chance, and know not why.
What fairies haunt this ground? A book? O rare one!
Be not, as is our fangled world, a garment
Nobler than that it covers. Let thy effects
So follow to be most unlike our courtiers,
As good as promise.
[Reads.] When as a lion’s whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embrac’d by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopp’d branches which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the old stock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be fortunate and flourish in peace and plenty.
’Tis still a dream, or else such stuff as madmen
Tongue, and brain not; either both or nothing,
Or senseless speaking, or a speaking such
As sense cannot untie. Be what it is,
The action of my life is like it, which
I’ll keep, if but for sympathy.
Enter Gaoler.
GAOLER.
Come, sir, are you ready for death?
POSTHUMUS.
Over-roasted rather; ready long ago.
GAOLER.
Hanging is the word, sir; if you be ready for that, you are well cook’d.
POSTHUMUS.
So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators, the dish pays the shot.