You shall not now be stol’n, you have locks upon you;
So graze as you find pasture.
You won't be stolen now that you have chains on; just find what you can to eat where you're kept, like an animal.
You're not going anywhere with those shackles on you. Just make do with whatever food you can find.
you're locked up. find your own food and deal with it.
Ay, or a stomach.
Yes, or an appetite.
Yeah, or maybe I'm just hungry.
yep, or maybe i'm starving
Most welcome, bondage! for thou art a way,
I think, to liberty. Yet am I better
Than one that’s sick o’ th’ gout, since he had rather
Groan so in perpetuity than be cur’d
By th’ sure physician death, who is the key
T’ unbar these locks. My conscience, thou art fetter’d
More than my shanks and wrists; you good gods, give me
The penitent instrument to pick that bolt,
Then, free for ever! Is’t enough I am sorry?
So children temporal fathers do appease;
Gods are more full of mercy. Must I repent,
I cannot do it better than in gyves,
Desir’d more than constrain’d. To satisfy,
If of my freedom ’tis the main part, take
No stricter render of me than my all.
I know you are more clement than vile men,
Who of their broken debtors take a third,
A sixth, a tenth, letting them thrive again
On their abatement; that’s not my desire.
For Imogen’s dear life take mine; and though
’Tis not so dear, yet ’tis a life; you coin’d it.
’Tween man and man they weigh not every stamp;
Though light, take pieces for the figure’s sake;
You rather mine, being yours. And so, great pow’rs,
If you will take this audit, take this life,
And cancel these cold bonds. O Imogen!
I’ll speak to thee in silence.
Welcome, chains! I believe you are the way to freedom. I am in a better state than someone sick with gout, since they would rather groan forever than be cured by death, who is the key that unlocks these prison doors. My conscience is chained more than my body and wrists; gods, give me the tool to pick that lock, then I am free forever. Is it enough to be sorry? Children calm their earthly fathers that way; gods show more mercy. Must I repent? I cannot do it better than in chains I want more than I am forced to wear. To satisfy, if freedom's main requirement is payment, take all of me. I know you are gentler than vile men who take a third or tenth of broken debtors' debts, letting them thrive again. That is not my wish. For Imogen's life, take mine; though not as dear, it is still a life you created. Between people they do not weigh each coin equally; though light, they take pieces for the image's sake. You take mine, being yours. Great powers, if you will accept this account, take this life and cancel these cold chains. O Imogen! I will speak to you in silence.
I welcome these chains because they are my path to freedom. I am actually better off than someone tormented by gout who would rather live with that pain forever than face death, which would set me free. My guilt and conscience weigh heavier on me than actual chains ever could. Gods, let me find a way to escape this inner prison and be truly free. Is not it enough to feel sorry? Kids know how to apologize to their fathers; surely you gods are even more forgiving than that. Do I have to repent? I will do it here, in chains, willingly—maybe even preferring them to freedom I do not deserve. If freedom costs something, take everything from me. I know you are kinder than cruel men who take just a portion of what they are owed from poor people in debt. That is not what I am asking. Take my life to save Imogen's, and though my life is not worth as much, it is still life you made. Between people they do not scrutinize every coin, so even if mine is imperfect, it is still yours. Great gods, if you will accept this trade, take my life and release me from these chains. Imogen, I will be silent but thinking of you.
chains are freedom better than rotting alive like someone sick death's the key my guilt chains me worse than iron gods give me a way out i'm sorry—isn't that enough i'd rather be chained and repent than free and guilty take all of me kinder than human greed right take my life for imogen's i'm talking to you in silence
Posthumus, an old man attired like a warrior; leading in his hand an
ancient matron, his wife and Mother to Posthumus, with music before
them. Then, after other music, follows the two young Leonati, brothers
to Posthumus, with wounds, as they died in the wars. They circle
Posthumus round as he lies sleeping.
Posthumus appears as an old man dressed like a soldier, leading an elderly woman—his wife and Posthumus's mother—with music before them. Then, to more music, Posthumus's two young brothers appear with wounds showing how they died in war. They circle around Posthumus as he sleeps.
An old warrior enters, leading an elderly woman—Posthumus's mother and his wife—with music playing. Then his two young brothers appear with wounds from the war, circling around sleeping Posthumus.
old warrior + elderly woman (mom & wife) enter with music. two brothers appear wounded from war. they circle sleeping posthumus.
No more, thou thunder-master, show
Thy spite on mortal flies.
With Mars fall out, with Juno chide,
That thy adulteries
Rates and revenges.
Hath my poor boy done aught but well,
Whose face I never saw?
I died whilst in the womb he stay’d
Attending nature’s law;
Whose father then, as men report
Thou orphans’ father art,
Thou shouldst have been, and shielded him
From this earth-vexing smart.
No more, master of thunder, show your spite on mortal insects. Take your anger out on Mars, quarrel with Juno, since your infidelities and their revenge bring such harm. Has my poor boy done anything but well, whose face I never saw? I died while still in the womb, attending nature's law. You should have been like a father to orphans, protecting him from this life's anguish.
Thunder god, stop punishing helpless mortals. Go fight with Mars, argue with Juno about their scandals and drama—why do humans have to pay for your affairs? My son did nothing wrong, and I never even saw his face, dying before he was born. You are supposed to be the father of orphans, but you let him suffer because of your own messy situation.
stop hurting regular people for your drama fight with mars and juno instead my son never did anything wrong i died before he was born you're supposed to protect orphans not let them suffer for your mess
Lucina lent not me her aid,
But took me in my throes,
That from me was Posthumus ripp’d,
Came crying ’mongst his foes,
A thing of pity.
The goddess of childbirth did not give me her aid, but only took me in my labor pains. Posthumus was torn from me and came crying among his enemies, a pitiful thing.
The goddess did not help me through childbirth—she just let me suffer through labor. My baby was ripped out of me and came into the world crying, surrounded by enemies. It was terrible.
goddess didn't help just let me suffer posthumus ripped from me came out screaming into a war zone so sad
Great Nature like his ancestry
Moulded the stuff so fair
That he deserv’d the praise o’ th’ world
As great Sicilius’ heir.
Nature, like his noble ancestry, molded his character so beautifully that he deserved the world's praise as the heir of great Sicilius.
Nature gave Posthumus character as noble as his family line. He was shaped to be worthy of the world's respect, living up to his father's name.
nature made him as noble as his blood deserved the world's respect lived up to his father
When once he was mature for man,
In Britain where was he
That could stand up his parallel,
Or fruitful object be
In eye of Imogen, that best
Could deem his dignity?
When he matured to manhood, who in Britain could stand as his equal or be worthy enough for Imogen to consider as her match?
When he grew up, there was nobody in Britain who could compare to him or deserve Imogen's attention the way he did.
grown man no one in britain matched him imogen only looked at him
With marriage wherefore was he mock’d,
To be exil’d and thrown
From Leonati seat and cast
From her his dearest one,
Sweet Imogen?
Why was he mocked with marriage, then exiled and cast out from his home and separated from his dearest love, sweet Imogen?
Why did they marry him just to betray him? He got thrown out of his home and torn away from the person he loved most, Imogen.
married him then betrayed him threw him out ripped him away from imogen
Why did you suffer Iachimo,
Slight thing of Italy,
To taint his nobler heart and brain
With needless jealousy,
And to become the geck and scorn
O’ th’ other’s villainy?
Why did you allow Iachimo, a mere trifle from Italy, to corrupt his noble heart and mind with baseless jealousy and make him the laughing stock and victim of that man's villainy?
Why did you let Iachimo—some nobody from Italy—fill Posthumus's head with jealousy that had no reason? Why did you let him become a joke because of that guy's schemes?
why let iachimo some italian nobody fill him with fake jealousy make him look like a fool
For this from stiller seats we came,
Our parents and us twain,
That, striking in our country’s cause,
Fell bravely and were slain,
Our fealty and Tenantius’ right
With honour to maintain.
For this we left peaceful lives, my twin brother and I and our parents, and in fighting for our country, we fell bravely and were slain, maintaining our loyalty and Tenantius's rights with honor.
We left our quiet life—me and my twin brother and our parents—to fight for Britain, and we all died doing it honorably, keeping the family's duty and Tenantius's claim alive.
left peaceful life fought for the country me my twin our parents all died honorably
Like hardiment Posthumus hath
To Cymbeline perform’d.
Then, Jupiter, thou king of gods,
Why hast thou thus adjourn’d
The graces for his merits due,
Being all to dolours turn’d?
Posthumus has shown the same brave service to Cymbeline as we did. Then, Jupiter, king of the gods, why have you delayed giving him the honors he merits, instead turning all to his suffering?
Posthumus has served Cymbeline as bravely as we did. Jupiter, why will you not give him the rewards he has earned? Why does he only get pain and sorrow?
posthumus served cymbeline brave as we did jupiter why no rewards why just pain
The descent of Jupiter on an eagle is the most spectacular theatrical moment in the late romances, and it has made critics uncomfortable for centuries. Is it sincere? Is it satirical? Is it the work of an exhausted playwright handing off to a collaborator? The staging clues suggest Shakespeare took it seriously: the Eagle was a real theatrical device at the Blackfriars indoor theatre (where Cymbeline was likely also performed), operated by a flying rig. The god's speech is in the same rhymed tetrameter as the ghost's stanzas — a formal, elevated register distinct from the surrounding blank verse, signaling a change of ontological category. The scene is meant to be overwhelming. Jupiter does not appear because the play needs him — he appears because the play has been arguing for his existence since Act 1, and now it has to show up or the argument fails.
Thy crystal window ope; look out;
No longer exercise
Upon a valiant race thy harsh
And potent injuries.
Open your shining window and look out; stop exercising your harsh and powerful punishments on this courageous race.
Look out from your crystal window in heaven. Stop hurting this brave family so much.
look out from heaven stop punishing the brave
Since, Jupiter, our son is good,
Take off his miseries.
Since our son is virtuous, Jupiter, remove his misery.
Jupiter, our son is a good person. Please end his suffering.
son's good jupiter take away the pain
Peep through thy marble mansion. Help!
Or we poor ghosts will cry
To th’ shining synod of the rest
Against thy deity.
Peek through your marble palace. Help us, or we poor ghosts will cry out to the great assembly of the other gods against your power.
Look through your marble palace. Help us, or we ghosts will go complain to all the other gods about how unfair you are being.
look out help us or we're telling the other gods about you
Help, Jupiter! or we appeal,
And from thy justice fly.
Jupiter descends in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an eagle. He
throws a thunderbolt. The Ghosts fall on their knees.
Help us, Jupiter! Or else we will plead our case and flee from your judgment. [Jupiter descends in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an eagle. He throws a thunderbolt. The Ghosts fall to their knees.]
Help us, Jupiter! Or we're going to appeal your decision and run away from your justice. [Jupiter descends in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an eagle. He throws a thunderbolt. The Ghosts fall to their knees.]
help jupiter or were appealing fleeing ur judgment [jupiter shows up w/ thunder, throws bolt, ghosts kneel]
No more, you petty spirits of region low,
Offend our hearing; hush! How dare you ghosts
Accuse the Thunderer whose bolt, you know,
Sky-planted, batters all rebelling coasts?
Poor shadows of Elysium, hence and rest
Upon your never-withering banks of flow’rs.
Be not with mortal accidents opprest:
No care of yours it is; you know ’tis ours.
Whom best I love I cross; to make my gift,
The more delay’d, delighted. Be content;
Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift;
His comforts thrive, his trials well are spent.
Our Jovial star reign’d at his birth, and in
Our temple was he married. Rise and fade!
He shall be lord of Lady Imogen,
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.
Silence, little spirits from the lower regions. Stop offending my ears. How dare you ghosts accuse me, the Thunderer, whose lightning planted in the sky shatters all rebellious shores? Poor shadows from Elysium, leave and rest on your never-dying fields of flowers. Do not be troubled by mortal problems; that is not your concern, it is ours. I test those I love most; the gift delayed is more delightful when it comes. Be satisfied. Your low-born son will be raised up by our godhead. His comforts thrive; his trials are well spent. Our lucky star was in the sky when he was born, and he was married in our temple. Rise and fade away. He will be lord of Lady Imogen and much happier because of his suffering. I leave this tablet on his chest, where our blessing confines his complete fortune. So go away; do not make more noise or you will anger me. Eagle, fly to my crystal palace.
Quiet, you minor spirits. Stop making noise and complaining to me. How dare you accuse the Thunder God, whose power shapes the very sky and sea? Go back to rest in those beautiful fields you come from. Do not worry about what happens to mortals—that is my job, not yours. I make people I love go through hard times because the reward is sweeter when it finally comes. Accept this and stop complaining. Your son is going to rise above all this suffering. He was blessed at birth and married in my temple. He is going to be with Imogen and actually be happier because of what he went through. I am leaving proof of my blessing with him. Now go away and do not upset me further.
stop whining you ghosts how dare you accuse the thunderer the sky and sea bow to me go rest in those flower fields quit worrying about mortals when i love someone i test them the reward's better when you wait your son's gonna make it he'll be with imogen suffering made him better here's proof of my blessing go away before i get mad
He came in thunder; his celestial breath
Was sulphurous to smell; the holy eagle
Stoop’d as to foot us. His ascension is
More sweet than our blest fields. His royal bird
Prunes the immortal wing, and cloys his beak,
As when his god is pleas’d.
He came in thunder; his heavenly breath was sulfurous to smell; the holy eagle bowed down toward us. His ascension is more beautiful than our blessed fields. His royal bird preens its immortal wings and satisfies its beak, as when his god is pleased.
He came in a thunderstorm; you could smell the sulfur from his divine breath; his eagle even bowed down to us. His journey back to heaven was more beautiful than the paradise we are in. The sacred bird is grooming itself proudly, like a satisfied god.
came in thunder sulfur stink eagle bowed to us heaven's more beautiful than here the bird's preening satisfied
Thanks, Jupiter!
Thanks, Jupiter!
thanks, jupiter!
thanks, jupiter!...
The marble pavement closes, he is enter’d
His radiant roof. Away! and, to be blest,
Let us with care perform his great behest.
The marble floor closes; he has entered his shining palace. Let us go away and, to be blessed, carefully perform his great command.
The stone floor sealed shut as he went into his glowing palace. Let us get going and do what he asked us to—that will keep us blessed.
marble floor closed he's in his palace let's do what he said keep us blessed
[_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.
Sleep, you've been like a grandfather to me, creating a father for me, and a mother and two brothers. But, what a shame, they're gone! They vanished the moment they were born. So now I'm awake. Poor people who depend on powerful people's favor dream like I just did, then wake to find nothing. But honestly, many don't even deserve to dream yet still receive favor. I'm one of the lucky ones with this golden opportunity, but I don't understand why. What spirits haunt this place? A book? Oh, what a rare thing! I hope you're not like our deceptive world, where the outside looks nobler than what's inside. Let your actual content match your appearance - be real, unlike our courtiers who promise everything but deliver nothing.
Sleep, you've been like my grandfather, creating a father, a mother, and two brothers for me. But they're gone - they vanished as soon as they were born. Now I'm awake and back to reality. Poor people who depend on rich and powerful people's favor dream like me and then wake to nothing. But honestly, tons of people don't even deserve to dream and they still get rewarded. I'm one of them - I have this amazing opportunity and I have no clue why. What is this place, anyway? A book? Wow, something actually rare and valuable! I just hope you're not like the fake world out there where everything looks better on the outside than it actually is inside. Be real, not like those courtiers who promise you everything but give you nothing.
sleep created my whole family they vanished the moment they were born im awake now poor people dream n wake to nothing i don't deserve this luck but i have it what's this book hope it's real not fake like courtiers
[_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.
When a young lion, unknown to himself, finds and is embraced by tender air, and when branches cut from a mighty cedar, dead for many years, revive and rejoin their old trunk to grow fresh again - then Posthumus will end his suffering, and Britain will be fortunate and flourish in peace and plenty. This sounds like a dream, or the kind of nonsense madmen speak without thinking. It's either complete gibberish or words so twisted that reason cannot untangle them. But my own life is so strange that it resembles this, so I'll keep it.
Whenever a young lion finds and gets embraced by a gentle breeze without even knowing it, and whenever branches from an old cedar that have been dead for years suddenly come back to life and grow fresh again - that's when I'll stop suffering and Britain will be peaceful and prosperous. Honestly, this sounds like a dream or the crazy ramblings of a madman. It's either total nonsense or so confusing that nobody could figure it out. But my life is so weird and twisted that it actually matches up - so I'm keeping it.
when the lion cub finds the gentle breeze and dead cedar branches come back to life then i'll stop suffering britain will flourish this is probably a dream or madness but my life is so weird it actually fits
Come, sir, are you ready for death?
So, sir, have you prepared yourself to meet your end?
So, are you ready to die?
ready to die
Over-roasted rather; ready long ago.
More like over-cooked; I have been ready for a long time.
More like I am overdone; I have been ready to go for ages.
overdone already ready forever ago
Hanging is the word, sir; if you be ready for that, you are well
cook’d.
Hanging is the method, sir; if you are ready for that, you are well-prepared.
Hanging is how it is happening, and if you are ready for that, then you are all set.
hanging's the way you're all set then
The gaoler who appears after the Jupiter vision is one of Shakespeare's greatest minor characters precisely because he seems to have wandered in from a completely different play. His routine about tavern bills and the charity of a rope is dark comedy in the tradition of the gravedigger in Hamlet — low comedy that arrives immediately after the high, and makes the high feel more real by contrast. But Shakespeare gives this gaoler something the gravedigger doesn't have: a moment of accidental moral insight. His final speech — wishing he lived in a world where gaolers weren't needed — is a surprising grace note. He is not a wise fool. He is an ordinary man who has just watched someone die willingly, and for a moment it has made him think about what a good world might look like. That impulse toward decency, arriving in the most unlikely character in the most unlikely moment, is very much what this play is about.
So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators, the dish pays the shot.
So if I make a good show for the spectators, then the entertainment pays for itself.
So if I am a good show for the crowd watching, then the entertainment pays for the bill.
if i'm good entertainment the show pays for itself
A heavy reckoning for you, sir. But the comfort is, you shall be called
to no more payments, fear no more tavern bills, which are often the
sadness of parting, as the procuring of mirth. You come in faint for
want of meat, depart reeling with too much drink; sorry that you have
paid too much, and sorry that you are paid too much; purse and brain
both empty; the brain the heavier for being too light, the purse too
light, being drawn of heaviness. O, of this contradiction you shall now
be quit. O, the charity of a penny cord! It sums up thousands in a
trice. You have no true debitor and creditor but it; of what’s past,
is, and to come, the discharge. Your neck, sir, is pen, book, and
counters; so the acquittance follows.
That is a heavy debt, sir. But the comfort is you will not have to make any more payments, will not fear tavern bills—which often make parting painful through the cost of drinking. You come in hungry from lack of food, leave drunk from too much drink; sorry you paid too much, sorry they owe you too much; both purse and brain empty; the brain heavier for being too light, the purse too light from being drained of weight. From this contradiction you will now be freed. O the mercy of a penny rope. It settles thousands in an instant. You have no creditor or debtor but it; of everything past, present, and future, it is your discharge. Your neck, sir, is your pen, book, and ledger; so the settlement follows.
That is a serious debt you will be paying. But here is the bright side: you will not have to worry about bar tabs anymore—you know, those bills that make people sad when they are leaving because they spent so much on drinks. You come in hungry, leave drunk, feeling bad that you spent too much money and bad that you owe people money; both your wallet and your head are empty. Your head feels heavy because it is empty of sense, your wallet feels light because you are broke. You will not have to deal with that contradiction anymore. That rope around your neck is like an act of charity—it settles everything instantly. It is the only ledger that matters; everything you owe, everything you have done, everything you will do—it is all settled. Your neck becomes the writing, the book, and the numbers; everything is concluded.
heavy debt but hey no more bar tabs no more goodbye pain come hungry leave drunk feel bad you spent too much feel bad you owe too much purse empty brain empty brain heavy from emptiness purse light from debt the rope settles it all just one pen book counter everything's done
I am merrier to die than thou art to live.
I am more cheerful about dying than you are about living.
I am actually happier about dying than you are about living.
i'm happier dying than you are living
Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the toothache. But a man that
were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he
would change places with his officer; for look you, sir, you know not
which way you shall go.
True, sir; someone asleep does not feel pain. But a man about to sleep your sleep—death—with a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would want to trade places with his executioner, because he does not know which way he will go.
That is true, someone sleeping does not feel pain. But a person facing your kind of sleep—death—with a hangman dragging him along, I think he would actually want to switch places with the hangman, because nobody knows what comes next.
asleep no pain true but facing death with a hangman he'd trade places cuz nobody knows what's next
Yes indeed do I, fellow.
Yes, I certainly do, fellow.
Yeah, I definitely know, buddy.
yeah i know
Your death has eyes in’s head, then; I have not seen him so pictur’d.
You must either be directed by some that take upon them to know, or to
take upon yourself that which I am sure you do not know, or jump the
after-inquiry on your own peril. And how you shall speed in your
journey’s end, I think you’ll never return to tell one.
Your death has eyes—can see? I have never seen death depicted that way. You must either be guided by people who claim to know the answer, or you yourself are claiming knowledge you certainly do not have, or you are gambling on your own judgment about what comes after. And how you will fare at journey's end, I do not think you will return to tell anyone.
Death has eyes? I have never seen death painted like that. You are either listening to people who act like they know, or you are pretending you know when you do not, or you are just guessing about what comes next. And honestly, I do not think you will be coming back to tell anyone how it went.
death has eyes never seen it that way either trusting people or faking knowledge or just guessing and you won't come back to tell
I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes to direct them the way I
am going, but such as wink and will not use them.
I tell you, fellow, there are plenty who have the ability to see the direction I am going, except for those who close their eyes and refuse to use them.
Look, there are plenty of people with open eyes who can see where I am headed. The only ones who cannot see are the ones who shut their eyes and refuse to look.
lots of people see where i'm going only ones who can't are those who close their eyes
What an infinite mock is this, that a man should have the best use of
eyes to see the way of blindness! I am sure hanging’s the way of
winking.
What an absurd mockery—that a man should have perfect eyesight to see the path to blindness. I am certain that hanging is the way of closing your eyes forever.
That is ridiculous—you have perfect vision to see the path to total blindness. Hanging is definitely a way of permanently winking.
joke's on you perfect sight to see blindness hanging is eternal winking
Knock off his manacles; bring your prisoner to the King.
Remove his chains; bring your prisoner to the King.
Take off his chains and bring him to the King.
free him take him to the king
Thou bring’st good news: I am call’d to be made free.
You bring good news: I am summoned to be set free.
That is great news—I am being called to be released.
good news i'm free
I’ll be hang’d then.
Then I will be hanged.
Then I guess I will be the one hanged instead.
guess i'm hanged then
Thou shalt be then freer than a gaoler; no bolts for the dead.
Then you will be freer than any jailer; there are no chains for the dead.
Well, then you will be freer than any jailer ever was—no chains can hold the dead.
you'll be free dead don't need chains
Unless a man would marry a gallows and beget young gibbets, I never saw
one so prone. Yet, on my conscience, there are verier knaves desire to
live, for all he be a Roman; and there be some of them too that die
against their wills; so should I, if I were one. I would we were all of
one mind, and one mind good. O, there were desolation of gaolers and
gallowses! I speak against my present profit, but my wish hath a
preferment in’t.
Unless a man would marry a gallows and father little gallows, I have never seen anyone so eager for it. Yet truly, I have known knaves who want to live, though he is a Roman, and some who die against their will. So would I, if I were one. I wish we were all of one mind and that mind good. O what a relief to gaolers and gallows then. I speak against my own profit, but my wish contains a preference for that.
I have never seen anyone so eager to die—like they actually want to marry a gallows and have gallows kids. But honestly, I know plenty of criminals who want to live, even if he is Roman. And some criminals who do not want to die but have to. I would be the same if I were in their shoes. I wish everyone thought the same way and had good thoughts. That would put jailers and hangmen out of business. I am literally speaking against my own job, but I would prefer that outcome.
never seen anyone so eager to die like they're marrying the gallows most criminals want to live even romans some die against their will i would too wish everyone had one good mind no more jailers no more gallows i'm speaking against my job but yeah i prefer that
The Reckoning
This is the play's most spectacular scene — and its strangest. A god literally descends on an eagle. Dead ancestors speak in rhymed verse. A prophecy is handed to a sleeping man. And yet Shakespeare brackets all of this supernatural machinery with a prison comedy: a gaoler who makes bookkeeping metaphors about hanging and a prisoner who banters about being 'over-roasted.' The tonal whiplash is deliberate. The Jupiter vision is the play's cosmic answer to every injustice that has accumulated; the gaoler scene is the reminder that from the outside, none of this looks like anything but a man about to be hanged. Both are true at once. The scene ends with Posthumus being called not to execution but to the king — and the machinery of resolution finally beginning to move.
If this happened today…
A man who has confessed to a crime he believes he committed — but which may never have actually happened — is sitting in a holding cell the night before sentencing. He writes a letter to the victim's family that is one of the most honest things he has ever written. He falls asleep and dreams that his dead parents and brothers appear and argue his case to a divine judge who finally tells them to relax, everything's being handled, go back to the afterlife. He wakes up and finds a mysterious note in his cell. He has no idea how it got there. A guard comes in and does fifteen minutes of gallows humor about the execution process — until a different officer arrives and says the judge wants to see him. In chambers. Today.