PISANIO.
He hath been search’d among the dead and living,
But no trace of him.
CYMBELINE.
To my grief, I am
The heir of his reward, [To Belarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus] which I will add
To you, the liver, heart, and brain of Britain,
By whom I grant she lives. ’Tis now the time
To ask of whence you are. Report it.
BELARIUS.
Sir,
In Cambria are we born, and gentlemen;
Further to boast were neither true nor modest,
Unless I add we are honest.
CYMBELINE.
Bow your knees.
Arise my knights o’ th’ battle; I create you
Companions to our person, and will fit you
With dignities becoming your estates.
Enter Cornelius and Ladies.
There’s business in these faces. Why so sadly
Greet you our victory? You look like Romans,
And not o’ th’ court of Britain.
CORNELIUS.
Hail, great King!
To sour your happiness I must report
The Queen is dead.
CYMBELINE.
Who worse than a physician
Would this report become? But I consider
By med’cine life may be prolong’d, yet death
Will seize the doctor too. How ended she?
CORNELIUS.
With horror, madly dying, like her life;
Which, being cruel to the world, concluded
Most cruel to herself. What she confess’d
I will report, so please you; these her women
Can trip me if I err, who with wet cheeks
Were present when she finish’d.
CYMBELINE.
Prithee say.