your estate. Consider, sir, the chance of war: the day Was yours by accident; had it gone with us, We should not, when the blood was cool, have threaten'd Our prisoners with the sword. But since the gods Will have it thus, that nothing but our lives May be call'd ransom, let it come: sufficeth A Roman with a Roman's heart can suffer: Augustus lives to think on't: and so much For my peculiar care. This one thing only I will entreat; my boy, a Briton born, Let him be ransom'd: never master had A page so kind, so duteous, diligent, So tender over his occasions, true, So feat, so nurse-like: let his virtue join With my request, which I make bold your highness Cannot deny; he hath done no Briton harm, Though he have served a Roman: save him, sir, And spare no blood beside. I have surely seen him: His favour is familiar to me. Boy, Thou hast look'd thyself into my grace, And art mine own. I know not why, wherefore, To say 'live, boy:' ne'er thank thy master; live: And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt, Fitting my bounty and thy state, I'll give it; Yea, though thou do demand a prisoner, The noblest ta'en. I humbly thank your highness. I do not bid thee beg my life, good lad; And yet I know thou wilt. No, no: alack, There's other work in hand: I see a thing Bitter to me as death: your life, good master, Must shuffle for itself. The boy disdains me, He leaves me, scorns me: briefly die their joys That place them on the truth of girls and boys. Why stands he so perplex'd? What wouldst thou, boy? I love thee more and more: think more and more What's best to ask. Know'st him thou look'st on? speak, Wilt have him live? Is he thy kin? thy friend? He is a Roman; no more kin to me Than I to your highness; who, being born your vassal, Am something nearer. Wherefore eyest him so? I'll tell you, sir, in private, if you please To give me hearing. Ay, with all my heart, And lend my best attention. What's thy name? Fidele, sir. Thou'rt my good youth, my page; I'll be thy master: walk with me; speak freely. Is not this boy revived from death? One sand another Not more resembles that sweet rosy lad Who died, and was Fidele. What think you? The same dead thing alive.