And winking mary-buds begin
  To ope their golden eyes,
With every thing that pretty bin,
  My lady sweet, arise,
Arise, arise!

So, get you gone—if this penetrate, I will consider your music the better; if it do not, it is a vice in her ears, which horse-hairs, and cats-guts, nor the voice of unpav'd eunuch* ^note to boot, can never amend. Come, now to our dancing, and if she is immoveable with this, she is an immoveable princess, and not worth my notice.

Clot.
Leave us to ourselves. [Exeunt Lords, &c.
If she be up, I'll speak with her; it not,
Let her lie still, and dream. By your leave, hoa!
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 false themselves, and yield up
Their deer to th' stand o'th' stealer: 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
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 shall think is good. The princess. Enter Imogen.

Clot.
Good-morrow, fairest; sister, your sweet hand.

Imo.
Good-morrow, sir, you lay out too much pains,
For purchasing but trouble.

Clot.
Still I swear I love you.

Imo.
If you'd but said so, 'twere as deep with me:
If you swear still, your recompense is still,
That I regard it not.

Clot.
This is no answer.

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

Clot.
To leave you in your madness, 'twere my sin.
I will not.

Imo.
Fools cure 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 sorry, sir,
You put me to forget a lady's manners;
But I, who know my heart, do here pronounce
By th' very truth of it, I care not for you.

Clot.
The contract you pretend with that base wretch,
(One, bred of alms, and foster'd with cold dishes,
With scraps o'th' court) it is no contract; none.

Imo.
Prophane fellow!
Wert thou the son of Jupiter, and no more
But what thou art besides, thou wert too base,
To be his groom.

Clot.
The fourth-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, is dearer
In my respect, than all thou hast to boast of.
How now, Pisanio! [Missing her Bracelet.

Enter Pisanio.

Clot.
His garment? Now the devil.

Imo.
To Dorothy, my woman, hye thee presently.

Clot.
His garment? Now the devil.

Imo.
I am sprighted with a fool,
Fretted, and angered worse—Go bid my woman
Search for a jewel, that too casually
Hath left mine arm—it was thy master's. Shrew me
If I would lose it, for a revenue
Of any king's in Europe. I do think,
I saw't this morning; confident I am,
Last night 'twas on my arm; I kiss'd it then—

Pis.
'Twill not be lost.

Imo.
I hope so; go and search. [Exit Pisanio.

Clot.
You have abus'd me—His meanest garment!—
I will inform your father.

Imo.
Your mother, too;
She's my good lady; and will conceive, I hope,
But the worst of me. So I leave you, sir,
To th' worst of discontent. [Exit.

Clot.
I'll be reveng'd.
His meanest garment!—Well. [Exit.* ^note End of the Second Act. ACT III. Scene SCENE, a Chamber in Rome. Enter Posthumus and Philario.

Posthumus.
Fear it not, sir; I would I were so sure
To win the king, as I am bold, her honour
Will remain hers.

Phil.
What means do you make to him?

Post.
Not any, but abide the change of time,
Quake in the present winter's state, and wish
That warmer days would come, in these fear'd hopes,
I barely gratify your love; they failing,
I must die much your debtor.

Phil.
Your very goodness, and your company,
O'erpays all I can do. By this your king,
Hath heard of great Augustus; Caius Lucius
Will do's commission thoroughly. And I think
He'll grant the tribute; or your countrymen,
Will look upon our Romans, whose remembrance
Is yet fresh in their grief.

Post.
I do believe,
Statist though I am none, nor like to be,
That this will prove a war; they'll send no tribute;
Our countrymen, the Britons,
Are men more order'd, than when Julius Cæsar
Smil'd at their lack of skill, but found their courage
Worthy his frowning at. Their discipline,
Now mingled with their courage, will make known
To their approvers, they are people, such
As mend upon the world; and more than that,
They have a king, whose love and justice to them,
May ask and have their treasures, and their blood.* ^note Enter Iachimo.

Phil.
See, Iachimo.

Post.
The swiftest harts have posted you by land;
And winds of all the corners kiss'd your sails,
To make your vessel nimble.

Phil.
Welcome, sir.

Post.
I hope the briefness of your answer made
The speediness of your return.

Iach.
Your lady,
Is one of the fairest that ever I look'd upon.

Post.
And therewithal the best, or let her beauty

Look thro' a casement to allure false hearts,
And be false with them.

Iach.
Here are letters for you.

Post.
Their tenor good, I trust.

Iach.
'Tis very like. [Posthumus reads the Letters.

Phil.
Was Caius Lucius in the British court,
When you were there?

Iach.
He was expected then,
But not approach'd.

Post.
All is well, yet.
Sparkles this stone as it was wont? or is't not
Too dull for your good wearing?

Iach.
If I'd lost it,
I should have lost the worth of it in gold;
I'll make a journey twice as far, t'enjoy
A second night of such sweet shortness, as
Was mine in Britain; for the ring is won.

Post.
The stone's too hard to come by.

Iach.
Not a whit,
Your lady being so easy.

Post.
Make not, sir,
Your loss, your sport; I hope you know that we
Must not continue friends.

Iach.
Good sir, we must,
If you keep covenant; had I not brought
The knowledge of your mistress home, I grant
We were to question farther; but I now
Profess myself the winner of her honour,
Together with your ring; and not the wronger
Of her, or you, having proceeded but
By both your wills.

Post.
If you can make't apparent,
That you have tasted her in bed; my hand,
And ring is yours. If not, the foul opinion
You had of her pure honour, gains, or loses
Your sword or mine, or masterless leaves both,
To who shall find them.

Iach.
Sir, my circumstances
Being so near the truth, as I will make them,
Must first induce you to believe; whose strength

I will confirm with oath, which I doubt not
You'll give me leave to spare, when you shall find
They need it not.

Post.
Proceed.

Iach.
First her bed-chamber,
Where I confess I slept not, but profess
Had that was well worth watching; it was hang'd
With richest stuff, the colours blue and silver:
A piece of work
So bravely done, so rich, that it did strive
In workmanship and value.

Post.
This is true;
And this you might have heard of here, by him or me,
Or by some other.

Iach.
More particulars
Must justify my knowledge.

Post.
So they must,
Or do your honour injury.

Iach.
The chimney
Is south the chamber, and the chimney-piece
Chaste Dian, bathing; never saw I figures
So likely to report themselves; the painting
Was as another nature dumb, out-went her,
Motion and breath left out.

Post.
This is a thing
Which you might from relation likewise reap,
Being, as it is, much spoke of.

Iach.
The roof o'th' chamber
With golden cherubims is fretted.

Post.
What's this t' her honour?
Let it be granted you have seen all this,
(Praise be your rememberance) the description
Of what is in her chamber, nothing saves
The wager you have laid.

Iach.
Then if you can [Pulling out the Bracelet.
Be pale, I beg, but leave to air this jewel: see!—
And now 'tis up again.

Post.
Jove!
Once more let me behold it: Is it that
Which I left with her?

Iach.
Sir, I thank her, that
She strip'd it from her arm, I see her yet.
Her pretty action did out-self her gift,
And yet enrich'd it, too; she gave it me,
And said she priz'd it, once.

Post.
May be, she pluck'd it off, to send it me.

Iach.
She writes so to you? Doth she?

Post.
O no, no, no, 'tis true. Here, take this too, [Gives the Ring.
It is a basilisk unto mine eye,
Kills me to look on't: let there be no honour,
Where there is beauty; truth, where semblance; love,
Where there's another man. The vows of women
Of no more bondage be, to where they're made,
Than they are to their virtues, which is nothing;
O, above measure false!—

Phil.
Have patience, sir!
And take your ring again: 'tis not yet won;
It may be probable she lost it; or
Who knows, one of her women, being corrupted,
Hath stol'n it from her.

Post.
Very true,
And so, I hope, he came by't; back my ring,
Render to me some corporal sign about her,
More evident than this; for this was stole.

Iach.
By Jupiter, I had it from her arm.

Post.
Hark you, he swears; by Jupiter, he swears.
'Tis true—nay keep the ring—'tis true; I am sure
She could not lose it; her attendants are
All honourable; they induc'd to steal it!
And by a stranger!—No, he hath enjoyed her;
The cognizance of her incontinency,
Is this; she hath bought the name of whore, thus dearly.
There, take thy hire, and all the fiends of Hell
Divide themselves between you!

Phil.
Sir, be patient;
This is not strong enough to be believ'd,
Of one persuaded well of—

Post.
Never talk on't;
She hath been colted by him.

Iach.
If you seek
For further satisfying; under her breast,
Worthy the pressing, lies a mole, right proud
Of that most delicate lodging. By my life
I kist it. You do remember
This stain upon her?

Post.
Ay, and it doth confirm
Another stain, as big as Hell can hold,
Were there no more but it.

Iach.
Will you hear more?

Post.
Spare your arithmetick.
Ne'er count the turns: once, and a million.

Iach.
I'll be sworn—

Post.
No swearing:
If you will swear you have not don't, you lye,
And I will kill thee, if thou dost deny
Thou'st made her strumpet.

Iach.
I'll deny nothing.

Post.
O that I had her here, to tear her limb-meal;
I will go there, and do't i'th' court, before
Her father—I'll do something—* ^note [Exit.

Phil.
Quite besides
The government of patience. You have won:
Let's follow him, and pervert the present wrath
He hath against himself.

Iach.
With all my heart. [Exeunt. Scene SCENE, a Chamber. Enter Posthumus.

Post.
Is there no way for men to be without
These vipers, women? We are bastards all;

And that most venerable man, which I
Did call my father, was I know not where,
When I was stampt. “Some coiner with his tools,
“Made me a counterfeit,” yet my mother seem'd
The Dian of that time; so doth my wife,
The non-pareil of this—Oh vengeance, vengeance!
Me of my lawful pleasure she restrain'd,
And pray'd me oft forbearance; did it with
A pudency so rosie, the sweet view on't
Might well have warm'd old Saturn—
That I thought her
As chaste as unsun'd snow. Oh, all the devils!
This yellow Iachimo in an hour—was't not?—
Or less: at first? Perchance he spoke not, but
Like a full acorn'd boar, a German one,—
O, torture to my mind! Could I find out
The woman's part in me! For there's no motion,
That tends to vice in man, but I affirm
It is the woman's part; be it lying, note it
The woman's; flattering, hers; deceiving, hers;
Lust, and rank thoughts, hers, hers; revenges, hers;
Ambitions, covetings, change of prides, disdain,
Nice-longings, slanders, mutability:
All faults that may be named, nay, that Hell knows,
Why hers, in part, or all; or rather all. For even to vice
They are not constant; but are changing still,
One vice, but of a minute old, for one
Not half so old as that. I'll write against them,
Detest them, curse them—yet 'tis greater skill,
In a true hate, to pray they have their will:
The very devils cannot plague them better.* ^note [Exit.

Scene SCENE, a Palace. [A Flourish of Trumpets. Cymbeline, Queen, Cloten, and Lords discovered. Enter Caius Lucius, and Attendants.

Cym.
Now say, what would Augustus Cæsar with us?

Luc.
When Julius Cæsar was in Britain,
Cassibelan, thine uncle, did for him,
And his succession, grant to Rome a tribute,
Yearly three thousand pounds; which by thee, lately,
Is left untender'd.

Queen.
And to kill the marvel,
Shall be so ever.

Clot.
There be many Cæsars,
Ere such another Julius: Britain's a world,
By itself, and we will nothing pay,
For wearing our own noses.† ^note

Tribute! Why should we pay tribute? If Cæsar can hide the sun from us with a blanket, or put the moon in his pocket, we will pay him tribute for light; else, sir, no more tribute.

Cym.
You must know,
'Till the injurious Romans did extort
This tribute, we were free. Say then to Cæsar,
Our ancestor was that Mulmutius, which
Ordain'd our laws, whose use the sword of Cæsar
Hath too much mangled; whose repair and franchise,
Shall, by the power we hold, be our good deed,
Though Rome be therefore angry.

Luc.
I am sorry,
That I am to pronounce Augustus Cæsar,
Cymbeline's enemy. War and confusion,
In Cæsar's name, pronounce I 'gainst thee: look

For fury, not to be resisted. Thus defy'd,
I thank thee for myself.

Cym.
Thou art welcome, Caius.

Clot.

His majesty bids you welcome. Make pastime with us, a day or two, or longer. If you seek us afterwards, in other terms, you shall find us in our saltwater girdle: if you beat us out of it, it is yours; if you fall in the adventure, our crows shall fare the better for you. And there's an end.

Luc.

So, sir.

Cym.
I know your master's pleasure, and he mine.
All the remain is welcome. [Exeunt. Scene SCENE, a Chamber. Enter Pisanio, reading a Letter.* ^note

Pis.
How! of adultery! Wherefore write you not
What monsters have accused her, Leonatus!
Oh, master, what a strange infection
Is fall'n into thine ear? What false Italian,
As poisonous tongu'd as handed, hath prevail'd
On thy too ready hearing? Disloyal! No,
She's punish'd for her truth; and undergoes
More goddess-like, than wife-like, such assaults,
As would take in some virtue. Oh, my master,
Thy mind to her is now as low, as were
Thy fortunes. How! That I should murder her,
Upon the love, and truth, and vows, which I
Have made to thy command!—I her!—Her blood!
If it be so to do good service, never
Let me be counted serviceable. How look I,
That I should seem to lack humanity,

So much as this fact comes to? Do't— [Reading the Letter.
That I have sent her, by her own command,
Shall give the opportunity. Damn'd paper!
Black as the ink that's on thee.—Lo, here she comes. Enter Imogen.
I am ignorant in what I am commanded.

Imo.
How now, Pisanio?

Pis.
Madam, here is a letter from my lord.

Imo.
Who! thy lord? that is my lord Leonatus!
Oh, learn'd indeed were that astronomer,
That knew the stars, as I his characters;
He'd lay the future open. You good gods,
Let what is here contain'd, relish of love,
Of my lord's health, of his content.
Good wax, thy leave: blest be
You bees that make these locks of counsel.† ^note
Good news, gods! Reading.

JUSTICE, and your father's wrath, should he take me in his dominion, could not be so cruel to me, but you, oh the dearest of creatures, would even renew me with your eyes. Take notice that I am in Cambria, at Milford-Haven: What your own love will out of this advise you, follow. So he wishes you all happiness, that remains loyal to his vow, and you, increasing in love.

Leonatus Posthumus.

How many score of miles may we well ride,
'Twixt hour and hour?

Pis.
One score, 'twixt sun and sun,
Madam's enough for you: and too much, too.

Imo.
Why, one that rode to's execution, man,
Could never go so slow: but this is foolery.
Go, bid my women feign a sickness, say
She'll home to her father, and provide me, present,
A riding suit; no costlier than would fit
A Franklin's housewife.

Pis.
Madam, you'd best consider.

Imo.
I see before me man, nor here, nor here,
Nor what ensues, but have a fog in them,
That I cannot look thro'. Away, I pr'ythee,
Do as I bid thee; there's no more to say;
Accessible is none but Milford way. [Exeunt. Scene SCENE, a Forest, with a Cave. Enter Bellarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus.* ^note

Bel.
A goodly day! not to keep house with such,
Whose roof's as low as ours. See, boys! this gate
Instructs you how t'adore the Heav'ns; and bows you
To morning's holy office. Gates of monarchs
Are arch'd so high, that giants may get through,
And keep their impious turbans on, without
Good-morrow to the sun. Hail, thou fair Heav'n!
We house i'th' rock, yet use thee not so hardly,
As prouder livers do.

Guid.
Hail, Heav'n!

Arv.
Hail, Heav'n!

Bel.
Now for our mountain sport, up to yon hill,

Your legs are young: I'll tread these flats. Consider,
When you above perceive me like a crow,
That it is place which lessens and sets off,
And you may then revolve what tales I told you,
Of courts of princes, of the tricks in war,
That service is not service, so being done,
But being so allow'd. To apprehend thus,
Draws us a profit from all things we see;
And often, to our comfort, shall we find
The sharded beetle in a safer hold,
Than is the full-wing'd eagle. Oh, this life
Is nobler than attending for a check;
Richer, than doing nothing for a bauble;
Prouder, than rustling in unpaid-for silk.
Such gain the cap of him that makes them fine,
Yet keeps his book uncross'd; no life to ours.

Guid.
Out of your proof, you speak; we, poor unfledg'd,
Have never wing'd from view o'th' nest; nor know
What air's from home. Hap'ly this life is best,
If quiet life is best; sweeter to you,
That have a sharper known: well corresponding
With your stiff age. But unto us it is
A cell of ignorance;
A prison for a debtor, that not dares
To stride a limit.

Arv.
What should we speak of,
When we are old as you? when we shall hear
The rain and wind beat dark December? How,
In this, our pinching cave, shall we discourse
The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing.

Bel.
How you speak!* ^note

—But up to th' mountains;
This is not hunter's language. He that strikes
The venison first, shall be lord o'th' feast;
To him the other two shall minister,
And we will fear no poison, which attends
In place of greater state. Up, up,
I'll meet you in the valleys. [Exeunt Guid. and Arv.
How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature!
These boys know little they are sons to th' king,
And Cymbeline dreams not they are alive.
They think they are mine, and, tho' train'd up thus meanly,
I'th' cave, there on the brow, their thoughts do hit
The roofs of palaces, and nature prompts them,
In simple and low things, to prince it much
Beyond the trick of others. This Cadwall,
(The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, whom
The king, his father, call'd Arviragus) Jove!

When on my three-foot stool I sit, and tell
The warlike feats I've done, his spirits fly out
Into my story, say, “thus mine enemy fell,
“And, thus I set my foot on's neck,” even then,
The princely blood flows in his cheek; he sweats,
Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture
That acts my words. The younger brother, Paladour,
(Once Guiderius) in as like a figure,
Strikes life into my speech, and shews much more
His own conceiving. [A Horn sounds.
Hark, the game is rouz'd—* ^note
O, Cymbeline! Heav'n and my conscience know
Thou did'st unjustly banish me, whereon,
At three and two years old, I stole these babes,
Thinking to bar thee of succession, as
Thou reft'st me of my lands. Euriphile,
Thou wast their nurse, they take thee for their mother,
And every day do honour to her grave.
Myself Belarius, that am Morgan call'd,
They take for natural father. [Horn sounds again.
The game is up. [Exit. Scene SCENE, the Palace. Enter Cymbeline, Queen, Cloten, Lucius, and Lords.

Cym.
Thus far, and so farewel.

Luc.
Thanks, royal sir;
I am right sorry, that I must report you
My master's enemy. I desire of you,
A conduct over land, to Milford-Haven.

Cym.
My lords, you are appended for that office;

The due of honour in no point omit;
So farewel, noble Lucius.

Luc.
Your hand, my lord.

Clot.
Receive it friendly, but, from this time forth,
I wear it as your enemy.

Luc.
Sir, the event
Is yet to name the winner. Fare you well. [Exit Lucius, &c.

Queen.
He goes hence, frowning: but it honours us,
That we have given him cause.

Clot.
'Tis all the better,
Your valiant Britons have their wishes in it.

Queen.
'Tis not sleepy business,
But must be looked to speedily, and strongly.

Cym.
Our expectation that it should be thus,
Hath made us forward. But, my gentle queen,
Where is our daughter? She hath not appear'd
Before the Roman, nor to us hath tender'd
The duty of the day. She looks as like
A thing more made of malice than of duty;
We've noted it. Call her before us, for
We've been too light in sufferance. [Exit 1 Lord.

Queen.
Royal sir,
Since the exile of Posthumus, most retir'd
Hath her life been; the cure whereof, my lord,
'Tis time must do. Beseech your majesty,
Forbear sharp speeches to her. Re-enter 1 Lord.

Cym.
Where is she, sir? How
Can her contempt be answer'd?

1 Lord.
Please you, sir,
Her chambers are all lock'd, and there's no answer
That will be given 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 memory.

Cym.
Her doors lock'd!
Not seen of late! Grant Heavens, that which I fear
Prove false. [Exit.

Queen.
Son, I say; follow the king.

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

Queen.
Go, look after—
Pisanio, he that stand'st so for Posthumus!—
He has a drug of mine; I pray his 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 servor 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. [Exeunt. Scene SCENE, a Wood. Enter Pisanio and Imogen.* ^note

Imo.
Thou told'st me, when we came from horse, the place
Was near at hand. O, where is Posthumus'
Say, good Pisanio? What is in thy mind,
That makes thee stare thus? One but painted thus,
Would be interpreted a thing perplex'd,
Beyond self-explication. What's the matter?
Why tender'st thou that paper to me?
If it be summer news,
Smile to't before, if winterly, thou need'st
But keep that count'nance still. My husband's hand!

That drug-damn'd Italy, hath out-crafted him,
And he's at some hard point. Speak, man; thy tongue
May take off some extremity, which to read
Would be even mortal to me.

Pis.
Please you, read,
And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing
The most disdain'd of fortune. Imogen reads.

Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath play'd the strumpet in my bed: the testimonies whereof lye bleeding in me. I speak not out of weak surmises, but from proof, as strong as my grief, and as certain as I expect my revenge. That part thou, Pisanio, must act for me, if thy faith be not tainted with the breath of hers. Let thine own hand take away her life: I shall give thee opportunity, at Milford-Haven. She hath my letter for the purpose: where, if thou fear to strike, and to make me certain it is done, thou art the pander to her dishonour, and equally to me disloyal.

Pis.
What, shall I need to draw my sword, the paper
Hath cut her throat, already! No, 'tis slander,
Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue
Out-venoms all the worms of Nile; whose breath
Rides on the posting winds, and doth belye
All corners of the world.
What cheer, madam?

Imo.
False to his bed! What is to be false?
To lie in watch there, and to think on him?
To weep 'twixt clock and clock? If sleep charge nature,
To break it with a fearful dream of him,
And cry myself awake! that's false to's bed! Is't?

Pis.
Alas, good lady!

Imo.
I false! thy conscience witness, Iachimo,
Thou didst accuse him of incontinency,
Thou then look'st like a villain. Now, methinks,

Thy favour's good enough. Some jay of Italy,
Whose feathers were her painting, hath betray'd him:
Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion;
I must be ript; to pieces with me. Oh,
Men's vows are women's traitors. All good seeming,
By thy revolt, oh, husband, shall be thought
Put on for villainy.

Pis.
Good madam, hear me—

Imo.
Come, fellow, be thou honest,
Do thou thy master's bidding. When thou seest him,
A little witness my obedience. Look,
I draw the sword myself; take it, and hit
The innocent mansion of my love, my heart;
Fear not, 'tis empty of all things, but grief;
Thy master is not there, who was, indeed,
The riches of it. Do his bidding, strike,
Thou may'st be valiant in a better cause,
But, now thou seem'st a coward.* ^note

Pis.
Hence, vile instrument,
Thou shalt not damn my hand.

Imo.
Why, I must die.
And if I do not by thy hand, thou art
No servant of thy master's. Against self slaughter
There is a prohibition so divine,
That cravens my weak hand. Come, here's my heart—
Something's afore't—Soft, soft, we'll no defence.
What's here? [Opening her Breast.
The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus,
All turn'd to heresie? Away, away, [Pulling his Letter out of her Bosom.
Corrupters of my faith, you shall no more
Be stomachers to my heart. Pry'thee, dispatch,
The lamb intreats the butcher. Where's the knife?

Thou art too slow to do thy master's bidding,
When I desire it too.

Pis.
O gracious lady!
Since I have receiv'd command to do this business,
I have not slept one wink.

Imo.
Do't, and to bed then.

Pis.
I'll break mine eye-balls, first.

Imo.
Wherefore, then, didst undertake it?
Why hast thou gone so far,
To be unbent, when thou hast ta'en thy stand,
Th' elected deer before thee?

Pis.
But to win time,
To lose so bad employment, in the which
I have consider'd of a course. Good lady,
Hear me with patience.

Imo.
Talk thy tongue weary, speak;
I have heard I am a strumpet, and mine ear,
Therein false struck, can take no greater wound,
Nor tent, to bottom that. But speak.

Pis.
It cannot be,
But that my master is abused; some villain,
Ay, and singular in his art, hath done you both
This cursed injury.

Imo.
Some Roman courtezan?

Pis.
No, on my life.
I'll give him notice you are dead, and send him
Some bloody sign of it, for 'tis commanded
I should do so. You shall be miss'd at court,
And that will well confirm it.

Imo.
Why, good fellow;
What shall I do the while? Where bide? How live?
Or in my life what comfort, when I am
Dead to my husband?

Pis.
If you'll back to th' court.

Imo.
No court, no father.

Pis.
If not at court,
Then not in Britain must you bide. Where then?

Imo.
Hath Britain all the sun that shines?
There's living out of Britain.

Pis.
I am most glad
You think of other place. Th' ambassador,
Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford-Haven,
To-morrow. Now, if you could wear a mien,
Dark as your fortune is, you should tread a course,
Pretty, and full of view; yea, happily, near
The residence of Posthumus; so nigh, at least,
That though his action were not visible, yet
Report should render him hourly to your ear,
As truly as he moves.

Imo.
Oh for such means,
Though peril to my modesty, not death on't,
I would adventure.

Pis.
Well then, here's the point.
You must forget to be a woman, change
Command into obedience.
Fore-thinking this, I have already fit,
('Tis in your cloak-bag) doublet, hat, hose, all
That answer to them. Would you in their serving,
And with what imitation you can borrow
From youth of such a season, 'fore noble Lucius
Present yourself, desire his service, tell him
Wherein you're happy, which will make him so,
(If that his head have ear in music) doubtless,
With joy he will embrace you; for he's honourable,
And doubling that, most holy. For means abroad?
You have me rich, and I will never fail
Beginning, nor supply.

Imo.
Thou art all the comfort
The gods will diet me with. This attempt
I'm soldier to, and will abide it, with
A prince's courage. Away, I pr'ythee.

Pis.
Well, madam, we must take a short farewel,
Lest being miss'd, I be suspected of
Your carriage from the court. My noble mistress,
Here is a phial glass,* ^note

What's in't is precious. If you are sick at sea,
Or stomach qualm'd at land, a taste of this
Will drive away distemper. To some shade,
And fit you to your manhood. May the gods
Direct you to the best.

Imo.
Amen! I thank thee. [Exeunt severally. ^note End of the Third Act. ACT IV. Scene SCENE, a Palace. Enter Cloten.

Cloten.
I love and hate her; for she's fair and royal,
I love her; but,
Disdaining me, and throwing favours on
The low Posthumus, slanders so her judgment,
I will conclude to hate her. Enter Pisanio.
Who is here? Ah, you precious pander! Villain,
Where is thy lady? In a word, or else
Thou art straightway with the fiends.

Pis.
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?

Pis.
Alas, my lord,
How can she be with him? When was she miss'd?

Clot.
Where is she, sir? satisfy me home,
What is become of her?

Pis.
Oh, my all worthy lord!

Clot.
All-worthy villain!
Speak, or thy silence on the instant is
Thy condemnation and thy death.

Pis.
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's throne.

Pis.
Or this, or perish. [Aside.
She's far enough, and what he learns by this,
May prove his travel, not her danger.

Clot.
Sirrah, is this letter true?

Pis.
Sir, as I think.

Clot.

It is Posthumus's hand, I know't. Sirrah, if thou wouldst not be a villain, but to do me true service; that is, what villainy soe'er I bid thee do, to perform it directly, and truly, I would think thee an honest man: thou shouldst neither want my means for thy relief; nor my voice for thy preferment.

Pis.

Well, my good lord.

Clot.

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

Pis.

I have, my lord, one at my lodging, which he forgot to take with him; it was a favourite of my lady and mistress.

Clot.

The first service thou dost me, fetch that suit hither.

Pis.

I shall, my lord.

Clot.

Meet thee at Milford-Haven? Even there, thou villain, Posthumus, will I kill thee. She said,

upon a time, that she held the very garment of Posthumus, in more respect, than my noble and natural person. With that suit upon my back, will I attack her; and when my appetite hath dined, to the court I'll foot her home again. My revenge is now at Milford; would I had wings to follow it.