Cymbeline by William Shakespeare

Cymbeline, King of Britain

written by William Shakespeare

JUPITER "No more, you pretty spirits of region low,

Offend our hearing. Hush! How dare you ghosts

Accuse the thunder, whose bolt, you know,

Sky-planted, batters all rebeling coasts?

Poor shadows of Elysium, hence, and rest

Upon your mid-withering banks of flowers.

Be not with mortal accidents opressed;

No care of your it is; you know 'tis ours.

Whom best I love, I cross, to make my gift,

The more delayed, delighted. Be content.

Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift.

His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent.

Our jovial star reigned at his birth, and in

Our temple was he married. Rise, and fade.

He shall be lord of Lady Innogen,

And happier much by his affliction made.

This tablet lay upon his breast, wherein

Our pleasure his full fortune doth confine.

And so away. No farther with your din

Express impatience, lest you stir up mine.

Mount, eagle, to my palace crystalline."

Act V Scene V