Imatges de pàgina
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Though this a heav'nly angel, hell is here. [Clock strikes, One, two, three: time, time!

[Goes into tbe trunk, the Scene closes.

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Without the Palace under Imogen's Apartment.

Enter Cloten and Lords. i Lord. Your Lordship is the most patient man in

loss, the coldest that ever turn'd up ace. Clot. It would make any man cold to lose.

i Lord. But not every man patient, after the noble temper of your Lordship ; you are most hot and furious when you win.

Clot. Winning will put any man into courage : If I could get this foolish Imogen, I shall have gold enough: It's almoft morning, is't not?

i Lord. Day, my Lord.

Clot. I would this musick would come : I am advised to give her musick a-mornings, they say it will penetrate.

Enter Musicians. Come on, tune; if you can penetrate here with your fingering, so; 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 sweet air with admirable rich words to it ; and then let her consider.

SON G.
Hark, bark, the lark at beav'n's gate fings,

And Phæbus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those Springs

s' Each chalic'd flower supplies ;'
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes,

6 Witb 5 On chalie'd powers that lies:

6With all the things that pretty bin :
My Lady sweet, arise :

Arise, arise.

So, get you gone — if this penetrate, I will consider your

musick the better : if it do not, it is a vice in her ears; which horse-hairs, and cats-guts, 7'with the voice of unpav'd eunuch to boot, can never amend.

[Exeunt Musicians. Enter Queen and Cymbeline. 2 Lord. Here comes the King.

Clot. I am glad I was up so late, for that's the reason I was up so early : he cannot chuse but take this service I have done, fatherly. Good-morrow to your Majesty, and to my gracious mother.

Cym. Attend you here the door of our stern daughter ? Will she not forth?

Clot. I have affaild her with musick, but she vouchsafes no notice.

Cym. The exile of her minion is too new.
She hath not yet forgot him : some more time
Must wear the print of his remembrance out,
And then she's yours.

Queen. You are most bound to th' King,
Who lets go by no vantages, that may
Prefer you to his daughter. Frame your self
To orderly solicits ; and befriended
With aptness of the season, make denials
Encrease your services ; so seem, as if
You are inspir’d to do those duties which
You tender to her : that you in all obey her,
Save when command to your dismission tends,
And therein you are senseless.

Clot. Senseless ? not fo.
6 With every thing that pretty is :

7 nor

Enter

Enter a Messenger.
Mef. So like you, Sir, ambassadors from Rome ;
One's' Caius Lucius.

Cym. A worthy fellow,
Albeit he comes on angry purpose now ;
But that's no fault of his: we must receive him
According to the honour of his sender ;
And towards himself, 9 'for’s' goodness fore-spent on us,
We must extend our notice : our dear fon,
When you have giv'n good-morning to your mistress,
Attend the Queen and us į we shall have need
T'employ you towards this Roman. Come, our Queen.

[Exeunt.

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Clot. If she be up, I'll speak with her ; if not, Let her lye still, and dream. By your leave, ho ! I know her woinen are about her what If I do Jine one of their hands? mi 'cis gold Which buys admittance, oft it doth, yea, makes Diana's rangers false themselves, and yield Their deer to th' stand o' th' ftealer : and 'tis gold Which makes the true man kill'd, and saves the thief; Nay, sometimes hangs both thief and true man : what Can it not do, and undo? I will make One of her women lawyer to me, for I yet not understand the case myself. By your leave.

[Knocks. Enter a Lady. Lady. Who's there that knocks? Clot. A gentleman. Lady. No more? Clot. Yes, and a gentlewoman's son. Lady. That's more Vol. VI.

K

Than 8 the one is 9 his

Than some, whose tailors are as dear as yours,
Can justly boast of : what's your Lordship's pleasure ?

Clot. Your Lady's person, is she ready?

Lady. Ay,
To keep her chamber.

Clot. There is gold for you,
Sell me your good report.

Lady, How, my good name?
Or to report of you what ''I think good?'
The Princess

Enter Imogen.
Clot. Good-morrow, faireft ; fifter, your sweet hand.

Imo. Good morrow, Sir ; you lay out too much pains
For purchasing but trouble : the thanks I give
Is telling you that I am poor of thanks,
And scarce can spare them.

Clot. Still I swear I love you.

Imo. If you but faid so, 'twere as deep with me:
If you swear ftill, your recompence is still
That I regard it not.

Clot. This is no answer.

Imo. But that you shall not say I yield, being filent, I would not speak. I pray you, spare me ; 'faith, I shall unfold equal discourtesie To your best kindness : one of your great knowing Should learn, being taught, forbearance.

Clot. To leave you in your madness, 'cwere my fin; I will not do't.

Imo. Fools 2 'cure' not mad folks, Sir.
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 so verbal: and learn now for all,
That I who know my heart, do here pronounce

By

i I Mall think is good ?

2 are . . . old edit. Warb. emend.

By th' very truth of it, I care not for you :
And am so near the lack of charity
T'accuse my felf, I hate you : which I had rather
You felt, than make my boast.

Clot. 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'th' Court,) ie is no contract, none :
And though it be allow'd in meaner parties,
(Yet who than he more mean?) to knit their fouls,
On whom there is no more dependency
But brats and beggary, in self-figur'd knoť ;.
Yet you are curb'd from that enlargement by
The consequence o' th’crown, and must not foil
The precious note of it with a base Nave,
A hilding for a livery, a squire's cloth,
A pantler ; not so eminent.

Imo. Prophane fellow !
Wert thou the son of Jupiter, and no more
But what thou art besides, thou were too base
To be his groom : thou were dignify'd enough,
Ev'n to the point of envy, if 'cwere made
Comparative for your virtues to be ftild
The under-hangman of his realm ; and hated
For being preferr'd so well.

Clot. The south-fog rot him !

Imo. He never can meet more mischance, than come
To be but nam'd of thee. His meanest garment
That ever hath but clipt his body, 's dearer
In my respect, than all the hairs above thee,
3/Were they all made fuch men.

Clot. How now ?
Imo. Pifanio !

Enter Pisanio.
Clot. His garment ? now, the Devil

Imo, 3 Were they all made such men. How now, Pifanio ?

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