Imatges de pÓgina
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Breeds him, and makes him of his bed-chamber:
Puts him to all the learnings that his time
Could make him the receiver of; which he took,
As we do air, fast as 'twas minister'd, and
In his spring became a harvest: Liv'd in court,
(Which rare it is to do,) most prais'd, most lov'd :
A sample to the youngest; to the more mature,
A glass that feated' them; and to the graver,
A child that guided dotards: to his mistress,
For whom he now is banish'd,-her own price
Proclaims how she esteem'd him and his virtue ;
By her election may be truly read,

What kind of man he is.

2 Gent.

I honour him

Even out of your report. But, 'pray you, tell me, Is she sole child to the king?

His only child.

1 Gent. He had two sons, (if this be worth your hearing, Mark it,) the eldest of them at three years old, I' the swathing clothes the other, from their nursery Were stolen: and to this hour, no guess in knowledge Which way they went.

2 Gent.

How long is this ago?

1 Gent. Some twenty years.

2 Gent. That a king's children should be so convey'd! So slackly guarded! And the search so slow,

That could not trace them!

1 Gent.

Howsoe'er 'tis strange,

Or that the negligence may well be laugh'd at,

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2 Gent.

I do well believe you.

1 Gent. We must forbear: Here comes the

and princess.

queen, [Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The same.

Enter the Queen, POSTHUMUS, and IMOGEN.

Queen. No, be assur'd, you shall not find me, daughter,

After the slander of most step-mothers,

Evil-ey'd unto you: you are my prisoner, but
Your gaoler shall deliver you the keys

That lock up your restraint. For you, Posthumus,
So soon as I can win the offended king,

I will be known your advocate: marry, yet
The fire of rage is in him; and 'twere good,
You lean'd unto his sentence, with what patience
Your wisdom may inform you.

Post.

I will from hence to-day.

Queen.

Please your highness,

You know the peril :

I'll fetch a turn about the garden, pitying

The pangs of barr'd affections; though the king
Hath charg'd you should not speak together.

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Can tickle where she wounds!-My dearest husband, I something fear my father's wrath; but nothing, (Always reserv'd my holy duty,) what

His rage can do on me: You must be gone;
And I shall here abide the hourly shot
Of angry eyes; not comforted to live,
But that there is this jewel in the world,
That I may see again.

Post.

My queen! my mistress!
O, lady, weep no more; lest I give cause
To be suspected of more tenderness.

Than doth become a man! I will remain
The loyal'st husband that did e'er plight troth.
My residence in Rome at one Philario's ;.
Who to my father was a friend, to me

Known but by letter: thither write, my queen,
And with mine eyes I'll drink the words you send,
Though ink be made of gall.

Re-enter Queen.

Queen.

Be brief, I pray you:

If the king come, I shall incur I know not

How much of his displeasure :-Yet I'll move him

[Aside.

To walk this way: I never do him wrong,
But he does buy my injuries, to be friends;
Pays dear for my offences.

[Exit.

Post.

Should we be taking leave

As long a term as yet we have to live,

The loathness to depart would grow: Adieu!

Imo. Nay, stay a little :

Were you but riding forth to air yourself,

Such parting were too petty. Look here, love;
This diamond was my mother's: take it, heart;

But keep it till you woo another wife,
When Imogen is dead.

Post.

How! how! another?

You gentle gods, give me but this I have,

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And sear up my embracements from a next

With bonds of death!-Remain thou here

[Putting on the Ring. While sense can keep it on! And sweetest, fairest,

As I my poor self did exchange for you,

To your so infinite loss; so, in our trifles

I still win of you: For my sake, wear this;
It is a manacle of love; I'll place it

Upon this fairest prisoner.

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Cym. Thou basest thing, avoid! hence, from my

sight!

If, after this command, thou fraught the court
With thy unworthiness, thou diest: Away!

Thou art poison to my blood.

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I beseech you, sir,

A year's age on me!

Imo.

Harm not yourself with your vexation; I

Am senseless of your wrath; a touch more rare9
Subdues all pangs, all fears.

Cym.
Past grace? obedience?
Imo. Past hope, and in despair; that way, past grace.
Cym. That might'st have had the sole' son of my
queen!

Imo. O bless'd, that I might not! I chose an eagle, And did avoid a puttock.2

Cym. Thou took'st a beggar; would'st have made my throne

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It is your fault that I have lov'd Posthumus:
You bred him as my playfellow; and he is
A man, worth any woman; overbuys me
Almost the sum he pays.

Сут.

What!-art thou mad!

Imo. Almost, sir: Heaven restore me!-'Would

I were

A neat-herd's3 daughter! and my Leonatus

Our neighbour shepherd's son!

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