A goodly day not to keep house with such
Whose roof’s as low as ours! Stoop, boys; this gate
Instructs you how t’ adore the heavens, and bows you
To a morning’s holy office. The gates of monarchs
Are arch’d 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’ th’ rock, yet use thee not so hardly
As prouder livers do.
A goodly day not to keep house with such Whose roof’s as low as ours! Stoop, boys; this gate Instructs you how t’ adore the heavens, and bows you To a morning’s holy office. The gates of monarchs Are arch’d so high that giants may jet through And keep their impious turbans on without Good morrow to
a goodly day not to keep house with such whose roof’s as low as ours! stoop, boys; this gate instructs you how t’ adore the heavens, and bows you to a morning’s holy office. the gates of monarchs are arch’d so high that giants may jet through and keep their impious turbans on without good morrow to
a goodly day not to keep house with such whose roo
Hail, heaven!
Hail, heaven!
hail, heaven!
hail, heaven!...
Hail, heaven!
Hail, heaven!
hail, heaven!
hail, heaven!...
Now for our mountain sport. Up to yond hill,
Your legs are young; I’ll tread these flats. Consider,
When you 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 done,
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
Is nobler than attending for a check,
Richer than doing nothing for a robe,
Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk:
Such gain the cap of him that makes him fine,
Yet keeps his book uncross’d. No life to ours!
Now for our mountain sport. Up to yond hill, Your legs are young; I’ll tread these flats. Consider, When you 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 no
now for our mountain sport. up to yond hill, your legs are young; i’ll tread these flats. consider, when you 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 no
now for our mountain sport. up to yond hill, your
Out of your proof you speak. We, poor unfledg’d,
Have never wing’d from view o’ th’ nest, nor know not
What air’s from home. Haply this life is best,
If quiet life be best; sweeter to you
That have a sharper known; well corresponding
With your stiff age. But unto us it is
A cell of ignorance, travelling abed,
A prison for a debtor that not dares
To stride a limit.
Out of your proof you speak. We, poor unfledg’d, Have never wing’d from view o’ th’ nest, nor know not What air’s from home. Haply this life is best, If quiet life be best; sweeter to you That have a sharper known; well corresponding With your stiff age. But unto us it is A cell of ignorance, travel
out of your proof you speak. we, poor unfledg’d, have never wing’d from view o’ th’ nest, nor know not what air’s from home. haply this life is best, if quiet life be best; sweeter to you that have a sharper known; well corresponding with your stiff age. but unto us it is a cell of ignorance, travel
out of your proof you speak. we, poor unfledg’d, h
What should we speak of
When we are old as you? When we shall hear
The rain and wind beat dark December, how,
In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse.
The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing;
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 choir, as doth the prison’d bird,
And sing our bondage freely.
What should we speak of When we are old as you? When we shall hear The rain and wind beat dark December, how, In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse. The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing; We are beastly: subtle as the fox for prey, Like warlike as the wolf for what we eat. Our valour
what should we speak of when we are old as you? when we shall hear the rain and wind beat dark december, how, in this our pinching cave, shall we discourse. the freezing hours away? we have seen nothing; we are beastly: subtle as the fox for prey, like warlike as the wolf for what we eat. our valour
what should we speak of when we are old as you? wh
How you speak!
Did you but know the city’s usuries,
And felt them knowingly; the art o’ th’ court,
As hard to leave as keep, whose top to climb
Is certain falling, or so slipp’ry that
The fear’s as bad as falling; the toil o’ th’ war,
A pain that only seems to seek out danger
I’ th’ name of fame and honour, which dies i’ th’ search,
And hath as oft a sland’rous epitaph
As record of fair act; nay, many times,
Doth ill deserve by doing well; what’s worse,
Must curtsy at the censure. O, boys, this story
The world may read in me; my body’s mark’d
With Roman swords, and my report was once
First with the best of note. Cymbeline lov’d me;
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.
How you speak! Did you but know the city’s usuries, And felt them knowingly; the art o’ th’ court, As hard to leave as keep, whose top to climb Is certain falling, or so slipp’ry that The fear’s as bad as falling; the toil o’ th’ war, A pain that only seems to seek out danger I’ th’ name of fame and
how you speak! did you but know the city’s usuries, and felt them knowingly; the art o’ th’ court, as hard to leave as keep, whose top to climb is certain falling, or so slipp’ry that the fear’s as bad as falling; the toil o’ th’ war, a pain that only seems to seek out danger i’ th’ name of fame and
how you speak! did you but know the city’s usuries
Uncertain favour!
Uncertain favour!
uncertain favour!
uncertain favour!...
My fault being nothing, as I have told you oft,
But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail’d
Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline
I was confederate with the Romans. So
Follow’d my banishment, and this twenty years
This rock and these demesnes have been my world,
Where I have liv’d at honest freedom, paid
More pious debts to heaven than in all
The fore-end of my time. But up to th’ mountains!
This is not hunters’ language. He that strikes
The venison first shall be the lord o’ th’ feast;
To him the other two shall minister;
And we will fear no poison, which attends
In place of greater state. I’ll meet you in the valleys.
My fault being nothing, as I have told you oft, But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail’d Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline I was confederate with the Romans. So Follow’d my banishment, and this twenty years This rock and these demesnes have been my world, Where I have liv’d at h
my fault being nothing, as i have told you oft, but that two villains, whose false oaths prevail’d before my perfect honour, swore to cymbeline i was confederate with the romans. so follow’d my banishment, and this twenty years this rock and these demesnes have been my world, where i have liv’d at h
my fault being nothing, as i have told you oft, bu
This scene articulates a central Renaissance idea: that noble birth manifests itself regardless of nurture. The boys have been raised in a cave, away from courts and cities, yet they show 'sparks of nature' that cannot be hidden. They naturally 'prince it' in simple things. This is not a claim about individual virtue — it's a claim about blood. Nobility is essential, inherent. The scene performs this idea as consoling: even in exile, even stripped of titles and power, the boys retain their nobility because nobility is inborn. Yet the play complicates this: Imogen is noble-born but will soon be stripped of title, home, and eventually even her identity. The play will test whether nobility survives such dispossession.
Belarius speaks this soliloquy alone. Through it, the audience learns what the boys do not: their true parentage, their status as heirs, their intended fates. We are now in possession of information that will structure the rest of the play. We know Arviragus will meet Imogen — and we know it's a meeting between siblings. We know both of them are heirs to kingdoms. This is the condition of watching a tragicomedy: we possess the knowledge that will eventually restore order to the world, but we must watch the characters grope toward it without that knowledge. The audience is positioned as privileged witnesses to an unfolding recognition.
The Reckoning
This scene introduces the Welsh world where the play's second half unfolds. Belarius is an exiled nobleman hiding from Cymbeline's court, raising the king's two stolen sons as his own. The scene performs the idea that noble birth shows itself even in humble circumstances — the boys have kingly impulses they don't understand. Belarius's soliloquy is the mechanism by which the audience learns the truth: these mountain-dwelling youths are Britain's heir and spare. The scene establishes Wales as a space of truth and nature, contrasted with the poisoned world of Rome and the court.
If this happened today…
A man hides in the mountains with two young men he claims are his sons. Unknown to them, they are actually the lost princes. They show signs of noble bearing despite their rough upbringing. The man reflects that you cannot hide what is inherently superior — their nature will show through.