Cymbeline

Actus Secundus. Scena Prima

Enter Clotten, and the two Lords.

Clot. Was there euer man had such lucke? when I kist the Iacke vpon an vp-cast, to be hit away? I had a hundred pound on't: and then a whorson Iacke-an-Apes, must take me vp for swearing, as if I borrowed mine oathes of him, and might not spend them at my pleasure   1. What got he by that? you haue broke his patewith your Bowle   2. If his wit had bin like him that broke it: it wouldhaue run all out   Clot. When a Gentleman is dispos'd to sweare: it isnot for any standers by to curtall his oathes. Ha?  2. No my Lord; nor crop the eares of them   Clot. Whorson dog: I gaue him satisfaction? wouldhe had bin one of my Ranke2. To haue smell'd like a FooleClot. I am not vext more at any thing in th' earth: a pox on't I had rather not be so Noble as I am: they dare not fight with me, because of the Queene my Mother: euery Iacke-Slaue hath his belly full of Fighting, and I must go vp and downe like a Cock, that no body can match   2. You are Cocke and Capon too, and you crowCock, with your combe on   Clot. Sayest thou?  2. It is not fit your Lordship should vndertake eueryCompanion, that you giue offence too   Clot. No, I know that: but it is fit I should commitoffence to my inferiors2. I, it is fit for your Lordship onelyClot. Why so I say   1. Did you heere of a Stranger that's come to Courtnight?  Clot. A Stranger, and I not know on't?  2. He's a strange Fellow himselfe, and knowes it not   1. There's an Italian come, and 'tis thought one ofLeonatus Friends   Clot. Leonatus? A banisht Rascall; and he's another,whatsoeuer he be. Who told you of this Stranger?  1. One of your Lordships Pages   Clot. Is it fit I went to looke vpon him? Is there noderogation in't?  2. You cannot derogate my LordClot. Not easily I thinke   2. You are a Foole graunted, therefore your Issuesbeing foolish do not derogate   Clot. Come, Ile go see this Italian: what I haue lostto day at Bowles, Ile winne to night of him. Come: go   2. Ile attend your Lordship.Enter.That such a craftie Diuell as is his MotherShould yeild the world this Asse: A woman, thatBeares all downe with her Braine, and this her Sonne,Cannot take two from twenty for his heart,And leaue eighteene. Alas poore Princesse,Thou diuine Imogen, what thou endur'st,Betwixt a Father by thy Step-dame gouern'd,A Mother hourely coyning plots: A Wooer,More hatefull then the foule expulsion isOf thy deere Husband. Then that horrid ActOf the diuorce, heel'd make the Heauens hold firmeThe walls of thy deere Honour. Keepe vnshak'dThat Temple thy faire mind, that thou maist standT' enioy thy banish'd Lord: and this great Land.Exeunt.Scena Secunda

Enter Imogen, in her Bed, and a Lady.

  Imo. Who's there? My woman: Helene?  La. Please you Madam   Imo. What houre is it?  Lady. Almost midnight, Madam   Imo. I haue read three houres then:Mine eyes are weake,Fold downe the leafe where I haue left: to bed.Take not away the Taper, leaue it burning:And if thou canst awake by foure o'th' clock,I prythee call me: Sleepe hath ceiz'd me wholly.To your protection I commend me, Gods,From Fayries, and the Tempters of the night,Guard me beseech yee.Sleepes.Iachimo from the Trunke.  Iach. The Crickets sing, and mans ore-labor'd senseRepaires it selfe by rest: Our Tarquine thusDid softly presse the Rushes, ere he waken'dThe Chastitie he wounded. Cytherea,How brauely thou becom'st thy Bed; fresh Lilly,And whiter then the Sheetes: that I might touch,But kisse, one kisse. Rubies vnparagon'd,How deerely they doo't: 'Tis her breathing thatPerfumes the Chamber thus: the Flame o'th' TaperBowes toward her, and would vnder-peepe her lids.To see th' inclosed Lights, now CanopiedVnder these windowes, White and Azure lac'dWith Blew of Heauens owne tinct. But my designe.To note the Chamber, I will write all downe,Such, and such pictures: There the window, suchTh' adornement of her Bed; the Arras, Figures,Why such, and such: and the Contents o'th' Story.Ah, but some naturall notes about her Body,Aboue ten thousand meaner MoueablesWould testifie, t' enrich mine Inuentorie.O sleepe, thou Ape of death, lye dull vpon her,And be her Sense but as a Monument,Thus in a Chappell lying. Come off, come off;As slippery as the Gordian-knot was hard.'Tis mine, and this will witnesse outwardly,As strongly as the Conscience do's within:To'th' madding of her Lord. On her left brestA mole Cinque-spotted: Like the Crimson dropsI'th' bottome of a Cowslippe. Heere's a Voucher,Stronger then euer Law could make; this SecretWill force him thinke I haue pick'd the lock, and t'aneThe treasure of her Honour. No more: to what end?Why should I write this downe, that's riueted,Screw'd to my memorie. She hath bin reading late,The Tale of Tereus, heere the leaffe's turn'd downeWhere Philomele gaue vp. I haue enough,To'th' Truncke againe, and shut the spring of it.Swift, swift, you Dragons of the night, that dawningMay beare the Rauens eye: I lodge in feare,Though this a heauenly Angell: hell is heere.Clocke strikesOne, two, three: time, time.Enter.Scena Tertia

Enter Clotten, and Lords.

1. Your Lordship is the most patient man in losse, the most coldest that euer turn'd vp AceClot. It would make any man cold to loose1. But not euery man patient after the noble temper of your Lordship; You are most hot, and furious when you winne. Winning will put any man into courage: if I could get this foolish Imogen, I should haue Gold enough: it's almost morning, is't not? 1 Day, my LordClot. I would this Musicke would come: I am aduised to giue her Musicke a mornings, they say it will penetrate. Enter Musitians.Come on, tune: If you can penetrate her with your fingering, so: wee'l try with tongue too: if none will do, let her remaine: but Ile neuer giue o're. First, a very excellent good conceyted thing; after a wonderful sweet aire, with admirable rich words to it, and then let her consider.SONGHearke, hearke, the Larke at Heauens gate sings, and Phoebus gins arise, His Steeds to water at those Springs on chalic'd Flowres that lyes: And winking Mary-buds begin to ope their Golden eyes With euery thing that pretty is, my Lady sweet arise: Arise, arise. So, get you gone: if this penetrate, I will consider your Musicke the better: if it do not, it is a voyce in her eares which Horse-haires, and Calues-guts, nor the voyce of vnpaued Eunuch to boot, can neuer amend. Enter Cymbaline, and Queene.2 Heere comes the King   Clot. I am glad I was vp so late, for that's the reasonI was vp so earely: he cannot choose but take this SeruiceI haue done, fatherly. Good morrow to your Maiesty,and to my gracious Mother   Cym. Attend you here the doore of our stern daughterWill she not forth?  Clot. I haue assayl'd her with Musickes, but she vouchsafesno notice   Cym. The Exile of her Minion is too new,She hath not yet forgot him, some more timeMust weare the print of his remembrance on't,And then she's yours   Qu. You are most bound to'th' King,Who let's go by no vantages, that mayPreferre you to his daughter: Frame your selfeTo orderly solicity, and be friendedWith aptnesse of the season: make denialsEncrease your Seruices: so seeme, as ifYou were inspir'd to do those duties whichYou tender to her: that you in all obey her,Saue when command to your dismission tends,And therein you are senselesseClot. Senselesse? Not so   Mes. So like you (Sir) Ambassadors from Rome;The one is Caius Lucius   Cym. A worthy Fellow,Albeit he comes on angry purpose now;But that's no fault of his: we must receyue himAccording to the Honor of his Sender,And towards himselfe, his goodnesse fore-spent on vsWe must extend our notice: Our deere Sonne,When you haue giuen good morning to your Mistris,Attend the Queene, and vs, we shall haue needeT' employ you towards this Romane.Come our Queene.Exeunt.  Clot. If she be vp, Ile speake with her: if notLet her lye still, and dreame: by your leaue hoa,I know her women are about her: whatIf I do line one of their hands, 'tis GoldWhich buyes admittance (oft it doth) yea, and makesDiana's Rangers false themselues, yeeld vpTheir Deere to'th' stand o'th' Stealer: and 'tis GoldWhich makes the True-man kill'd, and saues the Theefe:Nay, sometime hangs both Theefe, and True-man: whatCan it not do, and vndoo? I will makeOne of her women Lawyer to me, forI yet not vnderstand the case my selfe.By your leaue.Knockes.Enter a Lady.  La. Who's there that knockes?  Clot. A GentlemanLa. No moreClot. Yes, and a Gentlewomans Sonne   La. That's moreThen some whose Taylors are as deere as yours,Can iustly boast of: what's your Lordships pleasure?  Clot. Your Ladies person, is she ready?  La. I, to keepe her Chamber   Clot. There is Gold for you,Sell me your good report   La. How, my good name? or to report of youWhat I shall thinke is good. The Princesse.Enter Imogen.Clot. Good morrow fairest, Sister your sweet hand   Imo. Good morrow Sir, you lay out too much painesFor purchasing but trouble: the thankes I giue,Is telling you that I am poore of thankes,And scarse can spare themClot. Still I sweare I loue you   Imo. If you but said so, 'twere as deepe with me:If you sweare still, your recompence is stillThat I regard it notClot. This is no answer   Imo. But that you shall not say, I yeeld being silent,I would not speake. I pray you spare me, 'faithI shall vnfold equall discourtesieTo your best kindnesse: one of your great knowingShould learne (being taught) forbearance   Clot. To leaue you in your madnesse, 'twere my sin,I will notImo. Fooles are not mad Folkes   Clot. Do you call me Foole?  Imo. As I am mad I do:If you'l be patient, Ile no more be mad,That cures vs both. I am much sorry (Sir)You put me to forget a Ladies mannersBy being so verball: and learne now, for all,That I which know my heart, do heere pronounceBy th' very truth of it, I care not for you,And am so neere the lacke of CharitieTo accuse my selfe, I hate you: which I had ratherYou felt, then make't my boast   Clot. You sinne againstObedience, which you owe your Father, forThe Contract you pretend with that base Wretch,One, bred of Almes, and foster'd with cold dishes,With scraps o'th' Court: It is no Contract, none;And though it be allowed in meaner parties(Yet who then he more meane) to knit their soules(On whom there is no more dependancieBut Brats and Beggery) in selfe-figur'd knot,Yet you are curb'd from that enlargement, byThe consequence o'th' Crowne, and must not foyleThe precious note of it; with a base Slaue,A Hilding for a Liuorie, a Squires Cloth,A Pantler; not so eminent   Imo. Prophane Fellow:Wert thou the Sonne of Iupiter, and no more,But what thou art besides: thou wer't too base,To be his Groome: thou wer't dignified enoughEuen to the point of Enuie. If 'twere madeComparatiue for your Vertues, to be stil'dThe vnder Hangman of his Kingdome; and hatedFor being prefer'd so wellClot. The South-Fog rot him   Imo. He neuer can meete more mischance, then comeTo be but nam'd of thee. His mean'st GarmentThat euer hath but clipt his body; is dearerIn my respect, then all the Heires aboue thee,Were they all made such men: How now Pisanio?Enter Pisanio.Clot. His Garments? Now the diuellImo. To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently   Clot. His Garment?  Imo. I am sprighted with a Foole,Frighted, and angred worse: Go bid my womanSearch for a Iewell, that too casuallyHath left mine Arme: it was thy Masters. Shrew meIf I would loose it for a Reuenew,Of any Kings in Europe. I do think,I saw't this morning: Confident I am.Last night 'twas on mine Arme; I kiss'd it,I hope it be not gone, to tell my LordThat I kisse aught but hePis. 'Twill not be lostImo. I hope so: go and search   Clot. You haue abus'd me:His meanest Garment?  Imo. I, I said so Sir,If you will make't an Action, call witnesse to'tClot. I will enforme your Father   Imo. Your Mother too:She's my good Lady; and will concieue, I hopeBut the worst of me. So I leaue you Sir,To'th' worst of discontent.Enter.  Clot. Ile be reueng'd:His mean'st Garment? Well.Enter.Scena Quarta

Enter Posthumus, and Philario.

  Post. Feare it not Sir: I would I were so sureTo winne the King, as I am bold, her HonourWill remaine her's   Phil. What meanes do you make to him?  Post. Not any: but abide the change of Time,Quake in the present winters state, and wishThat warmer dayes would come: In these fear'd hopeI barely gratifie your loue; they faylingI must die much your debtor   Phil. Your very goodnesse, and your company,Ore-payes all I can do. By this your King,Hath heard of Great Augustus: Caius Lucius,Will do's Commission throughly. And I thinkHee'le grant the Tribute: send th' Arrerages,Or looke vpon our Romaines, whose remembranceIs yet fresh in their griefe   Post. I do beleeue(Statist though I am none, nor like to be)That this will proue a Warre; and you shall heareThe Legion now in Gallia, sooner landedIn our not-fearing-Britaine, then haue tydingsOf any penny Tribute paid. Our CountrymenAre men more order'd, then when Iulius CaesarSmil'd at their lacke of skill, but found their courageWorthy his frowning at. Their discipline,(Now wing-led with their courages) will make knowneTo their Approuers, they are People, suchThat mend vpon the world.Enter Iachimo.Phi. See Iachimo   Post. The swiftest Harts, haue posted you by land;And Windes of all the Corners kiss'd your Sailes,To make your vessell nimblePhil. Welcome Sir   Post. I hope the briefenesse of your answere, madeThe speedinesse of your returne   Iachi. Your Lady,Is one of the fayrest that I haue look'd vpon  Post. And therewithall the best, or let her beautyLooke thorough a Casement to allure false hearts,And be false with themIachi. Heere are Letters for youPost. Their tenure good I trustIach. 'Tis very like   Post. Was Caius Lucius in the Britaine Court,When you were there?  Iach. He was expected then,But not approach'd   Post. All is well yet,Sparkles this Stone as it was wont, or is't notToo dull for your good wearing?  Iach. If I haue lost it,I should haue lost the worth of it in Gold,Ile make a iourney twice as farre, t' enioyA second night of such sweet shortnesse, whichWas mine in Britaine, for the Ring is wonnePost. The Stones too hard to come by   Iach. Not a whit,Your Lady being so easy   Post. Make note SirYour losse, your Sport: I hope you know that weMust not continue Friends   Iach. Good Sir, we mustIf you keepe Couenant: had I not broughtThe knowledge of your Mistris home, I grantWe were to question farther; but I nowProfesse my selfe the winner of her Honor,Together with your Ring; and not the wrongerOf her, or you hauing proceeded butBy both your willes   Post. If you can mak't apparantThat you haue tasted her in Bed; my hand,And Ring is yours. If not, the foule opinionYou had of her pure Honour; gaines, or looses,Your Sword, or mine, or Masterlesse leaue bothTo who shall finde them   Iach. Sir, my CircumstancesBeing so nere the Truth, as I will make them,Must first induce you to beleeue; whose strengthI will confirme with oath, which I doubt notYou'l giue me leaue to spare, when you shall findeYou neede it notPost. Proceed   Iach. First, her Bed-chamber(Where I confesse I slept not, but professeHad that was well worth watching) it was hang'dWith Tapistry of Silke, and Siluer, the StoryProud Cleopatra, when she met her Roman,And Sidnus swell'd aboue the Bankes, or forThe presse of Boates, or Pride. A peece of WorkeSo brauely done, so rich, that it did striueIn Workemanship, and Value, which I wonder'dCould be so rarely, and exactly wroughtSince the true life on't was-  Post. This is true:And this you might haue heard of heere, by me,Or by some other   Iach. More particularsMust iustifie my knowledge   Post. So they must,Or doe your Honour iniury   Iach. The ChimneyIs South the Chamber, and the Chimney-peeceChaste Dian, bathing: neuer saw I figuresSo likely to report themselues; the CutterWas as another Nature dumbe, out-went her,Motion, and Breath left out   Post. This is a thingWhich you might from Relation likewise reape,Being, as it is, much spoke of   Iach. The Roofe o'th' Chamber,With golden Cherubins is fretted. Her Andirons(I had forgot them) were two winking CupidsOf Siluer, each on one foote standing, nicelyDepending on their Brands   Post. This is her Honor:Let it be granted you haue seene all this (and praiseBe giuen to your remembrance) the descriptionOf what is in her Chamber, nothing sauesThe wager you haue laid   Iach. Then if you canBe pale, I begge but leaue to ayre this Iewell: See,And now 'tis vp againe: it must be marriedTo that your Diamond, Ile keepe them   Post. Ioue-Once more let me behold it: Is it thatWhich I left with her?  Iach. Sir (I thanke her) thatShe stript it from her Arme: I see her yet:Her pretty Action, did out-sell her guift,And yet enrich'd it too: she gaue it me,And said, she priz'd it once   Post. May be, she pluck'd it offTo send it me   Iach. She writes so to you? doth shee?  Post. O no, no, no, 'tis true. Heere, take this too,It is a Basiliske vnto mine eye,Killes me to looke on't: Let there be no Honor,Where there is Beauty: Truth, where semblance: Loue,Where there's another man. The Vowes of Women,Of no more bondage be, to where they are made,Then they are to their Vertues, which is nothing:O, aboue measure false   Phil. Haue patience Sir,And take your Ring againe, 'tis not yet wonne:It may be probable she lost it: orWho knowes if one her women, being corruptedHath stolne it from her   Post. Very true,And so I hope he came by't: backe my Ring,Render to me some corporall signe about herMore euident then this: for this was stolneIach. By Iupiter, I had it from her Arme   Post. Hearke you, he sweares: by Iupiter he sweares.'Tis true, nay keepe the Ring; 'tis true: I am sureShe would not loose it: her Attendants areAll sworne, and honourable: they induc'd to steale it?And by a Stranger? No, he hath enioy'd her,The Cognisance of her incontinencieIs this: she hath bought the name of Whore, thus deerlyThere, take thy hyre, and all the Fiends of HellDiuide themselues betweene you   Phil. Sir, be patient:This is not strong enough to be beleeu'dOf one perswaded well of   Post. Neuer talke on't:She hath bin colted by him   Iach. If you seekeFor further satisfying, vnder her Breast(Worthy her pressing) lyes a Mole, right proudOf that most delicate Lodging. By my lifeI kist it, and it gaue me present hungerTo feede againe, though full. You do rememberThis staine vpon her?  Post. I, and it doth confirmeAnother staine, as bigge as Hell can hold,Were there no more but it   Iach. Will you heare more?  Post. Spare your Arethmaticke,Neuer count the Turnes: Once, and a MillionIach. Ile be sworne   Post. No swearing:If you will sweare you haue not done't, you lye,And I will kill thee, if thou do'st denyThou'st made me CuckoldIach. Ile deny nothing   Post. O that I had her heere, to teare her Limb-meale:I will go there and doo't, i'th' Court, beforeHer Father. Ile do something.Enter.  Phil. Quite besidesThe gouernment of Patience. You haue wonne:Let's follow him, and peruert the present wrathHe hath against himselfeIach. With all my heart.Exeunt.Enter Posthumus.  Post. Is there no way for Men to be, but WomenMust be halfe-workers? We are all Bastards,And that most venerable man, which IDid call my Father, was, I know not whereWhen I was stampt. Some Coyner with his ToolesMade me a counterfeit: yet my Mother seem'dThe Dian of that time: so doth my WifeThe Non-pareill of this. Oh Vengeance, Vengeance!Me of my lawfull pleasure she restrain'd,And pray'd me oft forbearance: did it withA pudencie so Rosie, the sweet view on'tMight well haue warm'd olde Saturne;That I thought herAs Chaste, as vn-Sunn'd Snow. Oh, all the Diuels!This yellow Iachimo in an houre, was't not?Or lesse; at first? Perchance he spoke not, butLike a full Acorn'd Boare, a Iarmen on,Cry'de oh, and mounted; found no oppositionBut what he look'd for, should oppose, and sheShould from encounter guard. Could I finde outThe Womans part in me, for there's no motionThat tends to vice in man, but I affirmeIt is the Womans part: be it Lying, note it,The womans: Flattering, hers; Deceiuing, hers:Lust, and ranke thoughts, hers, hers: Reuenges hers:Ambitions, Couetings, change of Prides, Disdaine,Nice-longing, Slanders, Mutability;All Faults that name, nay, that Hell knowes,Why hers, in part, or all: but rather all. For euen to ViceThey are not constant, but are changing still;One Vice, but of a minute old, for oneNot halfe so old as that. Ile write against them,Detest them, curse them: yet 'tis greater SkillIn a true Hate, to pray they haue their will:The very Diuels cannot plague them better.Enter.

Actus Tertius. Scena Prima

Enter in State, Cymbeline, Queene, Clotten, and Lords at one doore, and at another, Caius, Lucius; and Attendants.

  Cym. Now say, what would Augustus Caesar with vs?  Luc. When Iulius Caesar (whose remembrance yetLiues in mens eyes, and will to Eares and TonguesBe Theame, and hearing euer) was in this Britain,And Conquer'd it, Cassibulan thine Vnkle(Famous in Caesars prayses, no whit lesseThen in his Feats deseruing it) for him,And his Succession, granted Rome a Tribute,Yeerely three thousand pounds; which (by thee) latelyIs left vntender'd   Qu. And to kill the meruaile,Shall be so euer   Clot. There be many Caesars,Ere such another Iulius: Britaine's a worldBy it selfe, and we will nothing payFor wearing our owne Noses   Qu. That opportunityWhich then they had to take from's, to resumeWe haue againe. Remember Sir, my Liege,The Kings your Ancestors, together withThe naturall brauery of your Isle, which standsAs Neptunes Parke, ribb'd, and pal'd inWith Oakes vnskaleable, and roaring Waters,With Sands that will not beare your Enemies Boates,But sucke them vp to'th' Top-mast. A kinde of ConquestCaesar made heere, but made not heere his braggeOf Came, and Saw, and Ouer-came: with shame(The first that euer touch'd him) he was carriedFrom off our Coast, twice beaten: and his Shipping(Poore ignorant Baubles) on our terrible SeasLike Egge-shels mou'd vpon their Surges, crack'dAs easily 'gainst our Rockes. For ioy whereof,The fam'd Cassibulan, who was once at point(Oh giglet Fortune) to master Caesars Sword,Made Luds-Towne with reioycing-Fires bright,And Britaines strut with CourageClot. Come, there's no more Tribute to be paid: our Kingdome is stronger then it was at that time: and (as I said) there is no mo such Caesars, other of them may haue crook'd Noses, but to owe such straite Armes, noneCym. Son, let your Mother endClot. We haue yet many among vs, can gripe as hard as Cassibulan, I doe not say I am one: but I haue a hand. Why Tribute? Why should we pay Tribute? If Caesar can hide the Sun from vs with a Blanket, or put the Moon in his pocket, we will pay him Tribute for light: else Sir, no more Tribute, pray you now   Cym. You must know,Till the iniurious Romans, did extortThis Tribute from vs, we were free. Caesars Ambition,Which swell'd so much, that it did almost stretchThe sides o'th' World, against all colour heere,Did put the yoake vpon's; which to shake offBecomes a warlike people, whom we reckonOur selues to be, we do. Say then to Caesar,Our Ancestor was that Mulmutius, whichOrdain'd our Lawes, whose vse the Sword of CaesarHath too much mangled; whose repayre, and franchise,Shall (by the power we hold) be our good deed,Tho Rome be therfore angry. Mulmutius made our lawesWho was the first of Britaine, which did putHis browes within a golden Crowne, and call'dHimselfe a King   Luc. I am sorry Cymbeline,That I am to pronounce Augustus Caesar(Caesar, that hath moe Kings his Seruants, thenThy selfe Domesticke Officers) thine Enemy:Receyue it from me then. Warre, and ConfusionIn Caesars name pronounce I 'gainst thee: LookeFor fury, not to be resisted. Thus defide,I thanke thee for my selfe   Cym. Thou art welcome Caius,Thy Caesar Knighted me; my youth I spentMuch vnder him; of him, I gather'd Honour,Which he, to seeke of me againe, perforce,Behooues me keepe at vtterance. I am perfect,That the Pannonians and Dalmatians, forTheir Liberties are now in Armes: a PresidentWhich not to reade, would shew the Britaines cold:So Caesar shall not finde themLuc. Let proofe speakeClot. His Maiesty biddes you welcome. Make pastime with vs, a day, or two, or longer: if you seek vs afterwards in other tearmes, you shall finde vs in our Saltwater-Girdle: if you beate vs out of it, it is yours: if you fall in the aduenture, our Crowes shall fare the better for you: and there's an endLuc. So sir   Cym. I know your Masters pleasure, and he mine:All the Remaine, is welcome.Exeunt.Scena Secunda

Enter Pisanio reading of a Letter.

  Pis. How? of Adultery? Wherefore write you notWhat Monsters her accuse? Leonatus:Oh Master, what a strange infectionIs falne into thy eare? What false Italian,(As poysonous tongu'd, as handed) hath preuail'dOn thy too ready hearing? Disloyall? No.She's punish'd for her Truth; and vndergoesMore Goddesse-like, then Wife-like; such AssaultsAs would take in some Vertue. Oh my Master,Thy mind to her, is now as lowe, as wereThy Fortunes. How? That I should murther her,Vpon the Loue, and Truth, and Vowes; which IHaue made to thy command? I her? Her blood?If it be so, to do good seruice, neuerLet me be counted seruiceable. How looke I,That I should seeme to lacke humanity,So much as this Fact comes to? Doo't: The Letter.That I haue sent her, by her owne command,Shall giue thee opportunitie. Oh damn'd paper,Blacke as the Inke that's on thee: senselesse bauble,Art thou a Foedarie for this Act; and look'stSo Virgin-like without? Loe here she comes.Enter Imogen.I am ignorant in what I am commanded   Imo. How now Pisanio?  Pis. Madam, heere is a Letter from my Lord   Imo. Who, thy Lord? That is my Lord Leonatus?Oh, learn'd indeed were that AstronomerThat knew the Starres, as I his Characters,Heel'd lay the Future open. You good Gods,Let what is heere contain'd, rellish of Loue,Of my Lords health, of his content: yet notThat we two are asunder, let that grieue him;Some griefes are medcinable, that is one of them,For it doth physicke Loue, of his content,All but in that. Good Wax, thy leaue: blest beYou Bees that make these Lockes of counsaile. Louers,And men in dangerous Bondes pray not alike,Though Forfeytours you cast in prison, yetYou claspe young Cupids Tables: good Newes Gods.Iustice and your Fathers wrath (should he take me in hisDominion) could not be so cruell to me, as you: (oh the deerestof Creatures) would euen renew me with your eyes. Takenotice that I am in Cambria at Milford-Hauen: what yourowne Loue, will out of this aduise you, follow. So he wishes youall happinesse, that remaines loyall to his Vow, and yourencreasingin Loue. Leonatus Posthumus.Oh for a Horse with wings: Hear'st thou Pisanio?He is at Milford-Hauen: Read, and tell meHow farre 'tis thither. If one of meane affairesMay plod it in a weeke, why may not IGlide thither in a day? Then true Pisanio,Who long'st like me, to see thy Lord; who long'st(Oh let me bate) but not like me: yet long'stBut in a fainter kinde. Oh not like me:For mine's beyond, beyond: say, and speake thicke(Loues Counsailor should fill the bores of hearing,To'th' smothering of the Sense) how farre it isTo this same blessed Milford. And by'th' wayTell me how Wales was made so happy, asT' inherite such a Hauen. But first of all,How we may steale from hence: and for the gapThat we shall make in Time, from our hence-going,And our returne, to excuse: but first, how get hence.Why should excuse be borne or ere begot?Weele talke of that heereafter. Prythee speake,How many store of Miles may we well ridTwixt houre, and houre?  Pis. One score 'twixt Sun, and Sun,Madam's enough for you: and too much too   Imo. Why, one that rode to's Execution Man,Could neuer go so slow: I haue heard of Riding wagers,Where Horses haue bin nimbler then the SandsThat run i'th' Clocks behalfe. But this is Foolrie,Go, bid my Woman faigne a Sicknesse, sayShe'le home to her Father; and prouide me presentlyA Riding Suit: No costlier then would fitA Franklins HuswifePisa. Madam, you're best consider   Imo. I see before me (Man) nor heere, nor heere;Nor what ensues but haue a Fog in themThat I cannot looke through. Away, I prythee,Do as I bid thee: There's no more to say:Accessible is none but Milford way.Exeunt.Scena Tertia

Enter Belarius, Guiderius, and Aruiragus.