Imatges de pÓgina

Enter a Messenger.
Cym. Where is she? how
Can her contempt be answerd?

Mes. Please you Sir,
Her chambers are all lock'd, and there's no answer
That will be giv’n to th’ loudest noise we make.

Queen. My lord, when last I went to visit her,
She pray'd me to excuse her keeping close,
Whereto constrain'd by her infirmity,
She should that duty leave unpaid to you
Which daily she was bound to proffer ; this
She wish'd me to make known; but our great court
Made me to blame in mem'ry.

Cym. Her doors lock’d?
Not seen of late? grant heav'ns, that which I fear
Prove false!

Queen. Son, I say; follow the king.

Clot. That man of hers, Pifanio, her old servant,
I have not seen these two days.

Queen. Go, look after ---
Pifanio, thou that stand'st so for Posthumus ! -
He hath a drug of mine; I pray, bis absence
Proceed by swallowing that; for he believes
It is a thing most precious. But for her,
Where is she gone? haply despair hath seiz'd her;
Or wing’d with fervor of her love, she's flown
To her desir'd Posthumus ; gone she is
To death, or to dishonour, and my end
Can make good use of either. She being down,
I have the placing of the British crown.



Re-enter Re-enter Cloten.

How now, my son ?

Clot. 'Tis certain she is fled.
Go in and cheer the king, he rages, none
Dare come about him.

Queen. All the better ; may
This night fore-stall him of the coming day! [Exit Queen.

Clot. I love and hate her; for she's fair and royal,
And that she hath all courtly parts more exquisite
Than lady, ladies, woman; from each one
The best she hath, and she of all compounded
Out-sells them all. I love her therefore ; but
Disdaining me, and throwing favours on
The low Posthumus, Nanders so her judgment,
That what's else rare, is choak’d, and in that point
I will conclude to hate her, nay indeed
To be reveng’d upon her. For when fools-


Enter Pisanio.

Who is here? what are you packing, firrah?
Come hither; ah you precious pandar, villain,
Where is thy lady? in a word, or else
Thou’rt straightway with the fiends.

Pif. Oh, good my lord!

Clot. Where is thy lady? or, by Jupiter,
I will not ask again. Close villain,
I'll have this secret from thy heart, or rip
Thy heart to find it. Is she with Posthumus ?
From whose so many weights of baseness, cannot
A dram of worth be drawn.
Vol. VI.

A a


Pif. Alas, my lord,
How can she be with him when was she miss’d?
He is in Rome.

Clot. Where is she, Sir? come nearer;
No farther halting; satisfie me home,
What is become of her.

Pis. Oh, my all-worthy lord!

Clot. All-worthy villain!
Discover where thy mistress is, at once,
At the next word; no more of worthy lord.
Speak, or thy silence on the instant is
Thy condemnation and thy death.

Pif. Then, Sir,
This paper is the history of my knowledge
Touching her flight.

Clot. Let's see’t; I will pursue her
Even to Augustus' throne.
Pif. Or this, or perish.

[afide. She's far enough, and what he learns by this, May prove his travel, not her danger.

Clot. Humh.

Pis. I'll write to my lord she’s dead. Oh, Imogen,
Safe may'st thou wander, safe return again.

Clot. Sirrah, is this letter true?
Pif. Sir, as I think.

Clot. It is Posthumus's hand, I know't. Sirrah, if thou would'st not be a villain, but to do me true service; undergo those employments wherein I should have cause to use thee with a serious industry, that is, what villany foe’er I bid thee do to perform it, directly and truly; I would think thee an honest man, thou shouldlt neither want my means for thy relief, nor my voice for thy preferment. Pif. Well, my good lord.


Clot. Wilt thou serve me? for since patiently and constantly thou hast stuck to the bare fortune of that beggar Posthumus, thou can’st not in the course of gratitude but be a diligent follower of mine. Wilt thou serve me?

Pif. Sir, I will.

Clot. Give me thy hand, here's my purse. Hast any of thy late master's garments in thy possession ?

Pif. I have, my lord, at the lodging, the same suit hewore when he took leave of my lady and mistress.

Clot. The first service thou dost me, fetch that suit hither; let it be thy first service, go. Pif. I shall, my lord.

[Exit. Clot. Meet thee at Milford-Haven? I forgot to ask him one thing, I'll remember’t anon; even there, thou villain Pofthumus, will I kill thee. I would these garments were come. She said upon a time, (the bitterness of it I now belch from my heart,) that she held the very garment of Pofthumus in more respect than my noble and natural person, together with the adornment of my qualities. With that suit upon my back will I ravish her; first kill him, and in her eyes --- there shall she see my valour, which will then be a torment to her contempt. He on the ground, my speech of insultment ended on his dead body, and when


lust hath dined, (which as I say, to vex her, I will execute in the cloaths that she so prais’d) to the court I'll knock her back, foot her home again. She hath despis’d me rejoycingly, and I'll be merry in my revenge.

Enter Pisanio, with a suit of cloaths.
Be those the garments ?

Pif. Ay, my noble lord.
Clot. How long is’t since she went to Milford-Haven?
Pif. She can scarce be there yet.

Clot. Bring this apparel to my chamber, that is the second thing that I have commanded thee. The third is, that thou wile Аа 2


be a voluntary mute to my design." Be but duteous, and true preferment shall tender 'it self to thee. My revenge is now at Milford, would I had wings to follow it! come and be true. [Ex.

Pif. Thou bidd'It me to my loss: for true to thee,
Were to prove false, which I will never be,
To him that is most true. To Milford go,
And find not her, whom thou pursu'st. Flow, Aow,
You heav'nly blessings on her! this fool's speed
Be crost with slowness; labour be his meed!


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The Forest and Cave.

Enter Imogen in boys cloaths. Imo. See a man's life is a tedious one:

I've tired my self; and for two nights together Have made the ground my bed. I should be sick, But that my resolution helps me. Milford, When from the mountain top Pifanio shew'd thee, Thou wast within a ken. Oh Jove, I think Foundations fly the wretched, such I mean, Where they should be reliev’d. Two beggars told me, I could not miss my way. Will poor folks lie That have afflictions on them, knowing 'tis A punishment, or tryal? yes no wonder, When rich ones scarce tell true. To lapse in fullness Is sorer, than to lye for need; and fallhood Is worse in kings, than beggars. My dear lord ! Thou’rt one o’th' false ones; now I think on thee, My hunger's gone; but ev’n before, I was At point to sink for food. But what is this? [Seeing the cave. Here is a path to't -----’tis some savage hold;


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