Cymbeline

enrich mine inventory.
O sleep, thou ape of death, lie dull upon her!
And be her sense but as a monument,
Thus in a chapel lying! Come off, come off: Taking off her bracelet.
As slippery as the Gordian knot was hard!
’Tis mine; and this will witness outwardly,
As strongly as the conscience does within,
To the madding of her lord. On her left breast
A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops
I’ the bottom of a cowslip: here’s a voucher,
Stronger than ever law could make: this secret
Will force him think I have pick’d the lock and ta’en
The treasure of her honour. No more. To what end?
Why should I write this down, that’s riveted,
Screw’d to my memory? She hath been reading late
The tale of Tereus; here the leaf’s turn’d down
Where Philomel gave up. I have enough:
To the trunk again, and shut the spring of it.
Swift, swift, you dragons of the night, that dawning
May bare the raven’s eye! I lodge in fear;
Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here. Clock strikes.
One, two, three: time, time! Goes into the trunk. The scene closes.

Scene III

An ante-chamber adjoining Imogen’s apartments.

	Enter Cloten and Lords.
First Lord	Your lordship is the most patient man in loss, the most coldest that ever turned up ace.
Cloten	It would make any man cold to lose.
First Lord	But not every man patient after the noble temper of your lordship. You are most hot and furious when you win.
Cloten	Winning will put any man into courage. If I could get this foolish Imogen, I should have gold enough. It’s almost morning, is’t not?
First Lord	Day, my lord.
Cloten	I would this music would come: I am advised to give her music o’ mornings; they say it will penetrate.
	Enter Musicians.
	Come on; tune: if you can penetrate her with your fingering, so; we’ll try with tongue too: if none will do, let her remain; but I’ll never give o’er. First, a very excellent good-conceited thing; after, a wonderful sweet air, with admirable rich words to it: and then let her consider.
	Song.
	Hark, hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings, And Phoebus ’gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: With every thing that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise: Arise, arise.
Cloten	So, get you gone. If this penetrate, I will consider your music the better: if it do not, it is a vice in her ears, which horse-hairs and calves’-guts, nor the voice of unpaved eunuch to boot, can never amend. Exeunt Musicians.
Second Lord	Here comes the king.
Cloten	I am glad I was up so late; for that’s the reason I was up so early: he cannot choose but take this service I have done fatherly.
	Enter Cymbeline and Queen.
	Good morrow to your majesty and to my gracious mother.
Cymbeline	Attend you here the door of our stern daughter? Will she not forth?
Cloten	I have assailed her with music, but she vouchsafes no notice.
Cymbeline	The exile of her minion is too new; She hath not yet forgot him: some more time Must wear the print of his remembrance out, And then she’s yours.
Queen	You are most bound to the king, Who lets go by no vantages that may Prefer you to his daughter. Frame yourself To orderly soliciting, and be friended With aptness of the season; make denials Increase your services; so seem as if You were inspired to do those duties which You tender to her; that you in all obey her, Save when command to your dismission tends, And therein you are senseless.
Cloten	Senseless! not so.
	Enter a Messenger.
Messenger	So like you, sir, ambassadors from Rome; The one is Caius Lucius.
Cymbeline	A worthy fellow, Albeit he comes on angry purpose now; But that’s no fault of his: we must receive him According to the honour of his sender; And towards himself, his goodness forespent on us, We must extend our notice. Our dear son, When you have given good morning to your mistress, Attend the queen and us; we shall have need To employ you towards this Roman. Come, our queen. Exeunt all but Cloten.
Cloten	If she be up, I’ll speak with her; if not, Let her lie still and dream. Knocks. By your leave, ho! I Know her women are about her: what If I do line one of their hands? ’Tis gold Which buys admittance; oft it doth; yea, and makes Diana’s rangers false themselves, yield up Their deer to the stand o’ the stealer; and ’tis gold Which makes the true man kill’d and saves the thief; Nay, sometime hangs both thief and true man: what Can it not do and undo? I will make One of her women lawyer to me, for I yet not understand the case myself. Knocks. By your leave.
	Enter a Lady.
Lady	Who’s there that knocks?
Cloten	A gentleman.
Lady	No more?
Cloten	Yes, and a gentlewoman’s son.
Lady	That’s more Than some, whose tailors are as dear as yours, Can justly boast of. What’s your lordship’s pleasure?
Cloten	Your lady’s person: is she ready?
Lady	Ay, To keep her chamber.
Cloten	There is gold for you; Sell me your good report.
Lady	How! my good name? or to report of you What I shall think is good?⁠—The princess!
	Enter Imogen.
Cloten	Good morrow, fairest: sister, your sweet hand. Exit Lady.
Imogen	Good morrow, sir. You lay out too much pains For purchasing but trouble: the thanks I give Is telling you that I am poor of thanks And scarce can spare them.
Cloten	Still, I swear I love you.
Imogen	If you but said so, ’twere as deep with me: If you swear still, your recompense is still That I regard it not.
Cloten	This is no answer.
Imogen	But that you shall not say I yield being silent, I would not speak. I pray you, spare me: ’faith, I shall unfold equal discourtesy To your best kindness: one of your great knowing Should learn, being taught, forbearance.
Cloten	To leave you in your madness, ’twere my sin: I will not.
Imogen	Fools are not mad folks.
Cloten	Do you call me fool?
Imogen	As I am mad, I do: If you’ll be patient, I’ll no more be mad; That