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

[Exit Queen.

Imo. O

Dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant
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
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.

gone;

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,
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.

[Putting a bracelet on her arm.

Imo. O, the gods! When shall we see again?

Enter CYMBELINE and Lords.

Post. Alack, the king!

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.

Post. The gods protect you!

And bless the good remainders of the court!

I am gone.

Imo. There cannot be a pinch in death

More sharp than this is.

Cym. O disloyal thing,

That should'st repair my youth; thou heapest

A year's age on me!

Imo. I besecch you, sir,

throne

A seat for baseness.

Imo. No: I rather added

A lustre to it.

Harm not yourself with your vexation; I

Am senseless of your wrath; a touch more rare
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.

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

Cym. O thou vile one!

Imo. Sir,

It is your fault that I have lov'd Posthumus;
You bred him as my play-fellow; and he is

A man, worth any woman; overbuys me

Almost the sum he pays.

[Exit.

were

A neat-herd's daughter! and my Leonatus
Our neighbour shepherd's son !

Cym. What!-art thou mad?

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

Re-enter Queen.

Cym. Thou foolish thing!—
They were again together: you have done

[To the Queen.

Not after our command. Away with her,
And pen her up.

Queen. 'Beseech your patience:--Peace,
Dear lady daughter, peace;-Sweet sovereign,
Leave us to ourselves; and make yourself some com-
fort

Out of your best advice.

Cym. Nay, let her languish

A drop of blood a-day; and, being aged,
Die of this folly!

No harm, I trust, is done?

Pis. There might have been,

But that my master rather play'd than fought,
And had no help of anger: they were parted
By gentlemen at hand.

Enter PISANIO.

Queen. Fye!-you must give way:

Here is your servant.-How now, sir? What news?
Pis. My lord, your son, drew on my master.
Queen. Ha!

[Exit.

part.

To draw upon an exile!-O brave sir!—
I would they were in Afric both together;
Myself by with a needle, that I might prick

Queen. I am very glad on't.

Imo. Your son's my father's friend; he takes his

The goer back. Why came you from your master?
Pis. On his command: He would not suffer me
To bring him to the haven: left these notes
Of what commands I should be subject to,
When it pleas'd you to employ me.

Queen. This hath been

Your faithful servant: I dare lay mine honour,
He will remain so.

Pis. I humbly thank your highness.

Queen. Pray, walk a while.

Imo. About some half hour hence,

I

pray you, speak with me: you shall, at least, Go see my lord aboard: for this time, leave me.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.—A public Place.

Enter CLOTEN, and two Lords.

1 Lord. Sir, I would advise you to shift a shirt; the violence of action hath made you reek as a sacrifice : Where air comes out, air comes in: there's none abroad so wholesome as that you vent.

Clo. If my shirt were bloody, then to shift it-Have I hurt him?

2 Lord. No, faith; not so much as his patience.

[Aside.

1 Lord. Hurt him? his body's a passable carcass, if he be not hurt it is a thoroughfare for steel, if it be not hurt.

2 Lord. His steel was in debt; it went o'the backside the town. [Aside.

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