Cymbeline

cures us both. I am much sorry, sir,
You put me to forget a lady’s manners,
By being so verbal: and learn now, for all,
That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce,
By the very truth of it, I care not for you,
And am so near the lack of charity⁠—
To accuse myself⁠—I hate you; which I had rather
You felt than make’t my boast. Cloten

You sin against
Obedience, which you owe your father. For
The contract you pretend with that base wretch,
One bred of alms and foster’d with cold dishes,
With scraps o’ the court, it is no contract, none:
And though it be allow’d in meaner parties⁠—
Yet who than he more mean?⁠—to knit their souls,
On whom there is no more dependency
But brats and beggary, in self-figured knot;
Yet you are curb’d from that enlargement by
The consequence o’ the crown, and must not soil
The precious note of it with a base slave,
A hilding for a livery, a squire’s cloth,
A pantler, not so eminent.

Imogen

Profane fellow
Wert thou the son of Jupiter and no more
But what thou art besides, thou wert too base
To be his groom: thou wert dignified enough,
Even to the point of envy, if ’twere made
Comparative for your virtues, to be styled
The under-hangman of his kingdom, and hated
For being preferr’d so well.

Cloten The south-fog rot him! Imogen

He never can meet more mischance than come
To be but named of thee. His meanest garment,
That ever hath but clipp’d his body, is dearer
In my respect than all the hairs above thee,
Were they all made such men. How now, Pisanio!

Enter Pisanio. Cloten “His garment!” Now the devil⁠— Imogen To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently⁠— Cloten “His garment!” Imogen

I am sprited with a fool.
Frighted, and anger’d worse: go bid my woman
Search for a jewel that too casually
Hath left mine arm: it was thy master’s: ’shrew me,
If I would lose it for a revenue
Of any king’s in Europe. I do think
I saw’t this morning: confident I am
Last night ’twas on mine arm; I kiss’d it:
I hope it be not gone to tell my lord
That I kiss aught but he.

Pisanio ’Twill not be lost. Imogen I hope so: go and search. Exit Pisanio. Cloten

You have abused me:
“His meanest garment!”

Imogen

Ay, I said so, sir:
If you will make’t an action, call witness to’t.

Cloten I will inform your father. Imogen

Your mother too:
She’s my good lady, and will conceive, I hope,
But the worst of me. So, I leave you, sir,
To the worst of discontent. Exit.

Cloten

I’ll be revenged:
“His meanest garment!” Well. Exit.

Scene IV

Rome. Philario’s house.

	Enter Posthumus and Philario.
Posthumus	Fear it not, sir: I would I were so sure To win the king as I am bold her honour Will remain hers.
Philario	What means do you make to him?
Posthumus	Not any, but abide the change of time, Quake in the present winter’s state and wish That warmer days would come: in these sear’d hopes, I barely gratify your love; they failing, I must die much your debtor.
Philario	Your very goodness and your company O’erpays all I can do. By this, your king Hath heard of great Augustus: Caius Lucius Will do’s commission throughly: and I think He’ll grant the tribute, send the arrearages, Or look upon our Romans, whose remembrance Is yet fresh in their grief.
Posthumus	I do believe, Statist though I am none, nor like to be, That this will prove a war; and you shall hear The legions now in Gallia sooner landed In our not-fearing Britain than have tidings Of any penny tribute paid. Our countrymen Are men more order’d than when Julius Caesar Smiled at their lack of skill, but found their courage Worthy his frowning at: their discipline, Now mingled with their courages, will make known To their approvers they are people such That mend upon the world.
	Enter Iachimo.
Philario	See! Iachimo!
Posthumus	The swiftest harts have posted you by land; And winds of all the comers kiss’d your sails, To make your vessel nimble.
Philario	Welcome, sir.
Posthumus	I hope the briefness of your answer made The speediness of your return.
Iachimo	Your lady Is one of the fairest that I have look’d upon.
Posthumus	And therewithal the best; or let her beauty Look through a casement to allure false hearts And be false with them.
Iachimo	Here are letters for you.
Posthumus	Their tenour good, I trust.
Iachimo	’Tis very like.
Philario	Was Caius Lucius in the Britain court When you were there?
Iachimo	He was expected then, But not approach’d.
Posthumus	All is well yet. Sparkles this stone as it was wont? or is’t not Too dull for your good wearing?
Iachimo	If I had lost it, I should have lost the worth of it in gold. I’ll make a journey twice as far, to enjoy A second night of such sweet shortness which Was mine in Britain, for the ring is won.
Posthumus	The stone’s too hard to come by.
Iachimo	Not a whit, Your lady being so easy.
Posthumus	Make not, sir, Your loss your sport: I hope you know that we Must not continue friends.
Iachimo	Good sir, we must, If you keep covenant. Had I not brought The knowledge of your mistress home, I grant We were to question further: but I now Profess myself the winner of her honour, Together with your ring; and not the wronger Of her or you, having proceeded but By both your wills.
Posthumus	If you can make’t apparent That you have tasted her in bed, my hand And ring is yours; if not, the foul opinion You had of her pure honour gains or loses Your sword or mine, or masterless leaves both To who shall find them.
Iachimo	Sir, my circumstances, Being so near the truth as I will make them, Must first induce you to believe: whose strength I will confirm with oath; which, I doubt not, You’ll give me leave to spare, when you shall find You need it not.
Posthumus	Proceed.
Iachimo	First, her bedchamber⁠— Where, I confess, I slept not, but profess Had that was well worth watching⁠—it was hang’d With tapesty of silk and silver; the story Proud Cleopatra, when she met her Roman, And Cydnus swell’d above the banks, or for The press of boats or pride: a piece of work So bravely done, so rich, that it did strive In workmanship and value; which I wonder’d Could be so rarely