Bows toward her, and would under-peep her Lids,
To fee th' inclofed Lights, now Canopy'd
Under the Windows, White and Azure, lac'd
With Blue of Heav'ns own tinct-but my Defign's
To Note the Chamber-I will write all down,
Such, and fuch Pictures- there the Window,such
Th' Adornment of her Bed-the Arras, Figures.
Why fuch, and fuch-and the Contents o'th' Story-
Ah, but fome natural Notes about her Body,
Above ten thousand meaner Moveables
Would teftifie, t' enrich mine Inventory.
O Sleep, thou Ape of Death, lye dull upon
And be her Senfe but as a Monument,
Thus in a Chappel lying. Come off, come off,

her,

[Taking off her Bracelet.

As flippery as the Gordian-knot was hard.
'Tis mine, and this will witnefs outwardly,
As ftrongly as the Confcience do's within,
To th' madding of her Lord. On her left Breaft
A Mole Cinque-spotted--Like the Crimson Drops
I' th' bottom of a Cowflip. 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 rivetted,
Screw'd to my Memory. She hath been reading late,
The Tale of Tereus, here the Leaf's turn'd down
Where Philomele gave up ---I have enough,
To th' Trunk again, and fhut the Spring of it.
Swift, swift, you Dragons of the Night, that dawning
May bear the Raven's Eye: I lodge in fear,

Though this a heav'nly Angel, Hell is here. [Clock ftrikes.
One, two, three: Time, time.

[He goes into the Trunk, the Scene closes.

SCENE III. The.Palace.

Enter Cloten, and Lords.

1 Lord. Your Lordship is the most patient Man in lofs, the most coldeft that ever turn'd up Ace.

Clot. It would make any Man cold to lose.

í Lord.

1 Lord. But not every Man patient, after the noble Temper of your Lordship; You are moft hot and furious, when you win.

Clot. Winning will put any Man into Courage: If I could get this foolish Imogen, I fhould have Gold enough: It's almoft Morning, is't not?

I Lord. Day, my Lord.

Clot. I would this Mufick would come: I am advifed to give her Musick a Mornings, they fay it will penetrate. Enter Muficians.

Come on, Tune; if you can penetrate here with your Fingering, fo; 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 fweet Air, with admirable rich Words to it, and then let her confider.

Song.

Hark, hark, the Lark at Heav'n's Gate fings,
And Phoebus 'gins arife,

His Steeds to Water at thofe Springs

On chalic'd Flow'rs that lyes:

And winking Mary-buds begin to ope their Golden Eyes
With every thing that pretty is, my Lady sweet arife:
Arife, arife.

So, get you gone---if this penetrate, I will confider your
Mufick the better: If it do not, it is a Vice in her Ears,
which Horfe-hairs, and Cat's-Guts, nor the Voice of unpav'd
Eunuch to boot, can never amend.

Enter Queen and Cymbeline.

2 Lord. Here comes the King.

Clot. I am glad I was up fo late, for that's the reason I was up fo early: He cannot chufe but take this Service I have done, Fatherly. Good Morrow to your Majefty, and gracious Mother.

Cym. Attend you here the Door of our ftern Daughter? Will the not forth?

Clot. I have affail'd her with Muficks, but the vouchsafes no Notice.

Cym. The Exile of her Minion is too new. She hath not yet forgot him, fome more time

Muft

Muft wear the print of his Remembrance out,
And then he's yours.

Queen. You are moft bound to th' King,
Who lets go by no Vantages, that may
Prefer you to his Daughter: frame your felf
To orderly Solicits, and be friended
With aptnefs of the Seafon; make Denials
Encrease your Services; fo feem, as if
You were infpir'd to do thofe Duties which
You tender to her: That you in all obey her,
Save when Command to your Difmiffion tends,
And therein you are senseless.

Clot. Senfelefs? not fo.

Enter a Messenger.

Mef. So like you, Sir, Ambaffadors 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 muft receive him
According to the Honour of his Sender,

And towards himself, his Goodness fore-spent on us
We must extend our Notice: Our dear Son,

When you have given good Morning to your Miftrefs,
Attend the Queen, and us, we fhall have need

T'employ you towards this Roman. Come, our Queen.

And 'tis Gold

Clot. If the be up, I'll speak with her, if not,
Let her lye ftill, and dream: 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 falfe themselves, and yield up
Their Deer to th' ftand o'th' Stealer:
Which makes the True-man kill'd,
Nay, fometimes hangs both Thief,
Can it not do, and undo? I will make
One of her Women Lawyer to me, for
yet not understand the Cafe my felf.
By your leave.

I

[Exeunt.

and faves the Thief; and True-man: What

[Knocks.

Enter

Clot. Yes, and a Gentlewoman's Son.

Lady. That's more

Than fome whofe Tailors are as dear as yours,
Canjuftly boast of: What's your Lordship's Pleasure?
Clot. Your Lady's Perfon, is the ready?
Lady. Ay, to keep her Chamber.

Clot. There is Gold for

Sell me your good Report.

you,

Lady. How, my good Name? or to report of you What I fhall think is good. The Princefs.

Enter Imogen.

Clot.Good Morrow Faireft, Sifter your sweet Hand. Imo. Good Morrow, Sir, you lay out too much Pains For purchafing but trouble: the Thanks I give,

Is telling you that I am poor of Thanks,

And scarce can fpare them.

Clot. Still I fwear I love you.

Imo. If you'd but said so, 'twere as deep with me:
If you fwear ftill, your Recompence is ftill
That I regard it not.

Clot. This is no answer.

Imo. But that you shall not fay, I yield being filent,
I would not fpeak. I pray you spare me, Faith
I fhall unfold equal Difcourtefie

To your best Kindness: One of your great knowing
Should learn, being taught, Forbearance.

Clot. To leave you in your Madnefs, 'twere my Sin,
I will not.

Imo. Fools are not mad Folks.

Clot. Do you call me Fool?

Imo. As I am mad I do:

If you'll be patient, I'll no more be mad,
That cures us both. I am much forry, Sir,
You put me to forget a Lady's Manners
By being fo verbal: And learn now, for all,
That I which know my Heart, do here pronounce
By th' very truth of it, I care not for
you,

And

And am fo near the lack of Charity

To accufe my felf, I hate you: which I had rather You felt, than make't my boaft.

Clot. You fin against

Obedience, which you owe your Father; for
The Contract you pretend with that base Wretch,
One, bred of Alms, and fofter'd with cold Dishes,
With fcraps o'th' 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 dependancy
But Brats and Beggary, in felf-figur'd knot,
Yet you are curb'd from that Enlargement, by
The confequence o'th' Crown, and muft not foil
The precious Note of it; with a bafe Slave,
A Hilding for a Livery, a Squire's Cloth,
A Pantler; not fo eminent.

Imo. Prophane Fellow:

Wert thou the Son of Jupiter, and no more,
But what thou art, befides, thou wert too base,
To be his Groom: thou wert dignify'd enough
Ev'n to the point of Envy, if 'twere made
Comparative for your Virtues, to be ftil'd
The under Hangman of his Kingdom; and hated
For being preferr'd fo well.

Clot. The South-fog rot him.

Imo. He never can meet more Mifchance, than come To be but nam'd of thee. His meaneft Garment That ever hath but clipt his Body, is dearer In my refpect, than all the Hairs above thee, Were they all made fuch Men. How now, Pifanio? Enter Pifanio.

Clot. His Garment? Now the Devil.

Imo. To Dorothy, my Woman, hye thee presently. Clot. His Garment ?

Imo. I am fprighted with a Fool,

Frighted, and angred worfe-Go bid my Woman Search for a Jewel, that too cafually

Hath left mine Arm---it was thy Mafter's. Shrew me If I would lofe it for a Revenue

Of any Kings in Europe. I do think,