Yet is it true, sir.
We must forbear: here comes the gentleman,
The queen, and princess. Exeunt.
No, be assured you shall not find me, daughter,
After the slander of most stepmothers,
Evil-eyed unto you: you’re my prisoner, but
Your gaoler shall deliver you the keys
That lock up your restraint. For you, Posthumus,
So soon as I can win the offended king,
I will be known your advocate: marry, yet
The fire of rage is in him, and ’twere good
You lean’d unto his sentence with what patience
Your wisdom may inform you.
Please your highness,
I will from hence to-day.
You know the peril.
I’ll fetch a turn about the garden, pitying
The pangs of barr’d affections, though the king
Hath charged you should not speak together. Exit.
O
Dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant
Can tickle where she wounds! My dearest husband,
I something fear my father’s wrath; but nothing—
Always reserved my holy duty—what
His rage can do on me: you must be gone;
And I shall here abide the hourly shot
Of angry eyes, not comforted to live,
But that there is this jewel in the world
That I may see again.
My queen! my mistress!
O lady, weep no more, lest I give cause
To be suspected of more tenderness
Than doth become a man. I will remain
The loyal’st husband that did e’er plight troth:
My residence in Rome at one Philario’s,
Who to my father was a friend, to me
Known but by letter: thither write, my queen,
And with mine eyes I’ll drink the words you send,
Though ink be made of gall.
Be brief, I pray you:
If the king come, I shall incur I know not
How much of his displeasure. Aside. Yet I’ll move him
To walk this way: I never do him wrong,
But he does buy my injuries, to be friends;
Pays dear for my offences. Exit.
Should we be taking leave
As long a term as yet we have to live,
The loathness to depart would grow. Adieu!
Nay, stay a little:
Were you but riding forth to air yourself,
Such parting were too petty. Look here, love;
This diamond was my mother’s: take it, heart;
But keep it till you woo another wife,
When Imogen is dead.
How, how! another?
You gentle gods, give me but this I have,
And sear up my embracements from a next
With bonds of death! Putting on the ring. Remain, remain thou here
While sense can keep it on. And, sweetest, fairest,
As I my poor self did exchange for you,
To your so infinite loss, so in our trifles
I still win of you: for my sake wear this;
It is a manacle of love; I’ll place it
Upon this fairest prisoner. Putting a bracelet upon her arm.
O the gods!
When shall we see again?
Thou basest thing, avoid! hence, from my sight!
If after this command thou fraught the court
With thy unworthiness, thou diest: away!
Thou’rt poison to my blood.
The gods protect you!
And bless the good remainders of the court!
I am gone! Exit.
There cannot be a pinch in death
More sharp than this is.
O disloyal thing,
That shouldst repair my youth, thou heap’st
A year’s age on me.
I beseech you, sir,
Harm not yourself with your vexation:
I am senseless of your wrath; a touch more rare
Subdues all pangs, all fears.
O blest, that I might not! I chose an eagle,
And did avoid a puttock.
Thou took’st a beggar; wouldst have made my throne
A seat for baseness.
No; I rather added
A lustre to it.
Sir,
It is your fault that I have loved Posthumus:
You bred him as my playfellow, and he is
A man worth any woman, overbuys me
Almost the sum he pays.
Almost, sir: heaven restore me! Would I were
A neat-herd’s daughter, and my Leonatus
Our neighbour shepherd’s son!
They were again together: you have done
Not after our command. Away with her,
And pen her up.
Beseech your patience. Peace,
Dear lady daughter, peace! Sweet sovereign,
Leave us to ourselves; and make yourself some comfort
Out of your best advice.
Nay, let her languish
A drop of blood a day; and, being aged,
Die of this folly! Exeunt Cymbeline and Lords.
Ha!
No harm, I trust, is done?
There might have been,
But that my master rather play’d than fought
And had no help of anger: they were parted
By gentlemen at hand.
Your son’s my father’s friend; he takes his part.
To draw upon an exile! O brave sir!
I would they were in Afric both together;
Myself by with a needle, that I might prick
The goer-back. Why came you from your master?
On his command: he would not suffer me
To bring him to the haven; left these notes
Of what commands I should be subject to,
When’t pleased you to employ me.
This hath been
Your faithful servant: I dare lay mine honour
He will remain so.
About some half-hour hence,
I pray you, speak with me: you shall at least
Go see my lord aboard: for this time leave me. Exeunt.
Scene II
The same. A public place.
| Enter Cloten and two Lords. | |
| First Lord | Sir, I would advise you to shift a shirt; the violence of action hath made you reek as a sacrifice: where air comes out, air comes in: there’s none abroad so wholesome as that you vent. |
| Cloten | If my shirt were bloody, then to shift it. Have I hurt him? |
| Second Lord | Aside. No, ’faith; not so much as his patience. |
| First Lord | Hurt him! his body’s a passable carcass, if he |
