Fear no more the heat o' the sun

Imogen's long-lost bros obviously haven't seen a lady in a long while.

Who the hell is Cymbeline? He's a curmudgeonly old king of Britain with an ice queen of a wife, and he soooo doesn't deserve first billing, much less the titular role of one of Shakespeare's most tragically underrated plays. It's his whip-smart nerd of a daughter, Imogen, who carries this story of forbidden love, betrayal, long lost family, and yet more cross-dressing.

Imogen is probably my favorite female character in all the plays. She's headstrong and beautiful, clever and sharp, and she tends to fall asleep in bed while reading. She's an outspoken geek girl of her time and she holds her own amongst all the confused men in her life.

The detailed and pretzel-like plot in no way diminishes the play's enjoyability, but I take no joy in trying to sum it up within the confines of a pithy blog post. For this speech, this is all one needs to know:

Against her father's will, Imogen elopes with the love of her life, the oddly-named Posthumus (which is semi-prophetical, since Imogen only gets to be with him after she "dies") instead of marrying her evil step-mother's clotpole of a son, Cloten. Posthumous runs off to Rome to escape Cymbeline's wary eye. Imogen is locked up by her parents, but when she gets a fake letter telling her that her husband is in Milford-Haven, she resolves to sneak out, dress as a boy named Fidele, and find him. She meets two young men--Guderius (aka Polydore) and Arviragus (aka Cadwal) who are actually her missing brothers, but the trio are none the wiser. Imogen takes a potion to cure her ills, but she pulls a Juliet and she appears to be dead, and her brothers weep over the loss of their lovable new adopted sibling. 

Over her "dead" body, Imogen's brothers sing this obsequy, which is one of the most beautiful and touching pieces of poetry in all of Shakespeare. I'd be honoured to have this read at my funeral, FYI.

Cymbeline, Act IV, Sc. II
GUIDERIUS: Fear no more the heat o' the sun, 
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done, 
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages;
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 
ARVIRAGUS: Fear no more the frown o' the great, 
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke:
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must 
All follow this, and come to dust. 
Gui. Fear no more the lightning-flash, 
Arv. Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Gui. Fear not slander, censure rash; 
Arv. Thou hast finished joy and moan;
Both. All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust. 
Gui. No exerciser harm thee! 
Arv. Nor no witchcraft charm thee! 
Gui. Ghost unlaid forbear thee! 
Arv. Nothing ill come near thee! 
Both. Quiet consummation have; 
And renowned be thy grave!