Act 3 - Scene 3
Wales: a mountainous country with a cave.
Enter, from the cave, BELARIUS; GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS following
A goodly day not to keep house, with such
Whose roof's as low as ours! Stoop, boys; this gate
you how to adore the heavens and bows you
To a morning's holy office: the gates of monarchs
so high that giants may jet through
And keep their impious turbans on, without
Good morrow to the sun.
Hail, thou fair heaven!
We house i' the rock, yet use thee not so hardly
As prouder livers do.
Now for our mountain sport: up to yond hill;
Your legs are young; I'll tread these flats. Consider,
above perceive me like a crow,
That it is place which lessens and sets off;
And you may then revolve
what tales I have told you
Of courts, of princes, of the tricks in war:
This service is not service, so being
But being so allow'd: to apprehend thus,
Draws us a profit from all things we see;
And often, to our
comfort, shall we find
The sharded beetle in a safer hold
Than is the full-wing'd eagle. O, this life
than attending for a cheque,
Richer than doing nothing for a bauble,
Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for
Such gain the cap of him that makes 'em fine,
Yet keeps his book uncross'd: no life to ours.
Out of your proof you speak: we, poor unfledged,
Have never wing'd from view o' the nest, nor know not
air's from home. Haply this life is best,
If quiet life be best; sweeter to you
That have a sharper known; well
With your stiff age: but unto us it is
A cell of ignorance; travelling a-bed;
A prison for a debtor,
that not dares
To stride a limit.
What should we speak of
When we are old as you? when we shall hear
The rain and wind beat dark
In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse
The freezing hours away? We have seen
We are beastly, subtle as the fox for prey,
Like warlike as the wolf for what we eat;
Our valour is
to chase what flies; our cage
We make a quire, as doth the prison'd bird,
And sing our bondage freely.
How you speak!
Did you but know the city's usuries
And felt them knowingly; the art o' the court
to leave as keep; whose top to climb
Is certain falling, or so slippery that
The fear's as bad as falling; the
toil o' the war,
A pain that only seems to seek out danger
I' the name of fame and honour; which dies i'
And hath as oft a slanderous epitaph
As record of fair act; nay, many times,
Doth ill deserve by
doing well; what's worse,
Must court'sy at the censure:O boys, this story
The world may read in me: my
With Roman swords, and my report was once
First with the best of note: Cymbeline loved
And when a soldier was the theme, my name
Was not far off: then was I as a tree
Whose boughs did
bend with fruit: but in one night,
A storm or robbery, call it what you will,
Shook down my mellow hangings,
nay, my leaves,
And left me bare to weather.
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