Imogen.
A father cruel, and a stepdame false,
A foolish suitor to a wedded lady,
That hath her husband banish'd—O, that husband!
My supreme crown of grief, and those repeated
Vexations of it—Had I been thief stol'n,
As my two brothers, happy! but most miserable
Is the degree that's glorious. Blessed be those,

How mean soe'er, that have their honest wills,
Which seasons comfort. Who may this be? Enter Pisanio and Iachimo.

Pis.
Madam, a noble gentleman of Rome,
Comes from my lord, with letters.

Iach.
Change you, madam?
The worthy Leonatus is in safety,
And greets your highness, dearly.

Imo.
Thanks, good sir,
You're kindly welcome. [Reads aside.

Iach.
All of her that is out of door, most rich!
If she be furnish'd with a mind so rare,
She is alone th' Arabian bird; and I
Have lost the wager. Boldness, be my friend;
Arm me, audacity, from head to foot. [Aside.

Imogen reads.

He is one of the noblest note, to whose kindnesses I am most infinitely tyed. Reflect upon him, accordingly, as you value your trust.

Leonatus.

Iach.
Thanks, fairest lady.
What! are men mad? Hath nature given them eyes
To see this vaulted arch, and the rich scope
Of sea and land, which can distinguish 'twixt
The fiery orbs above, and the twinn'd stones
Upon the humbled beach? and can we not
Partition make, 'twixt fair and foul?

Imo.
What makes your admiration?

Iach.
It cannot be i'th' eye; for apes and monkeys,

'Twixt two such she's, would chatter this way, and
Contemn with mowes the other.

Imo.
What is the matter, trow?

Iach.
The cloyed will,
That satiate yet unsatisfy'd desire,
Ravening first the lamb,
Longs after for the garbage—

Imo.
What, dear sir,
Thus raps you? Are you well?

Iach.
Thanks, madam, well. Beseech you, sir,
Desire my man's abode, where I did leave him;
He's strange and sheepish.

Pis.
I was going, sir,
To give him welcome. [Exit Pis.

Imo.
Continues well my lord
His health, beseech you?

Iach.
Well, madam.

Imo.
Is he disposed to mirth? I hope he is.

Iach.
Exceeding pleasant; none a stranger there,
So merry, and so gamesome. He is call'd
The Britain reveller.

Imo.
When he was here,
He did incline to sadness; and oft times
Not knowing why.

Iach.
I never saw him sad.
There is a Frenchman, his companion,
That it seems much loves
A Gallian girl, at home. He furnaces
The thick sighs from him, while the jolly Britain,
(Your lord, I mean) laughs from's free lungs, cries oh!—
Can my sides hold, to think, that man who knows
By history, report, or his own proof,
What woman is, yea, what she cannot chuse
But must be, will his free hours languish out,
For assur'd bondage?

Imo.
Will my lord say so?

Iach.
Ay, madam, with his eyes in flood with laughter.

It is a recreation to be by,
And hear him mock the Frenchman.
But Heaven knows, some men are much to blame.

Imo.
Not he, I hope.

Iach.
Not he. But yet, Heav'n's bounty towards him might
Be us'd more thankfully. In himself 'tis much;
In you, whom I account his, beyond all talents,
Whilst I am bound to wonder, I am bound
To pity, too.

Imo.
What do you pity, sir?

Iach.
Two creatures, heartily.

Imo.
Am I one, sir?
You look on me. What wrack discern you in me,
Deserves your pity?

Iach.
Lamentable! What
To hide me from the radiant sun, and solace
I'th' dungeon by a snuff?

Imo.
'Pray you, sir,
Deliver with more openness, your answers
To my demands. Why do you pity me?

Iach.
That others do,
I was about to say, enjoy your—but,
It is an office of the Gods to venge it,
Not mine to speak on't.

Imo.
You do seem to know
Something of me, or what concerns me. Pray you,
(Since doubting things go ill, often hurts more,
Than to be sure they do;) discover to me
What doth you spur and stop.

Iach.
Had I this cheek,
To bathe my lips upon; this hand, whose touch,
Whose very touch would force the feeler's soul
To th' oath of loyalty; this object, which
Takes prisoner the wild motion of mine eye,
Fixing it only here; should I, (damn'd then)
Slaver with lips, as common as the stairs,
That mount the capitol! join gripes with hands,
Made hard with hourly falshood, as with labour;
It were fit

That all the plagues of hell should, at one time,
Encounter such revolt.

Imo.
My lord, I fear,
Has forgot Britain.

Iach.
And himself; not I,
Inclin'd to this intelligence, pronounce
The beggary of his change; But 'tis your graces,
That from my mutest conscience to my tongue
Charm this report out.

Imo.
Let me hear no more.

Iach.
O, dearest soul! your cause doth strike my heart
With pity. A lady,
So fair, and fastened to an empiry,
Would make the great'st king double! to be partner'd
With tomboys, hir'd with that self-exhibition,
Which your own coffers yield!
Be reveng'd,
Or she that bore you was no queen, and you
Recoil from your great stock.

Imo.
Reveng'd!
How should I be reveng'd, if this be true?
As I have such a heart, that both mine ears
Must not in haste abuse. If it be true,
How shall I be reveng'd?

Iach.
Shou'd he make me
Live like Diana's priestess, 'twixt cold sheets;
Whiles he is vaulting variable ramps
In your despight? Revenge it. [Kneels.
I dedicate myself to your sweet pleasure,
More noble than that runagate to your bed,
And will continue fast to your affection,
Still close, as sure.

Imo.
What ho, Pisanio!—* ^note

Iach.
Let me my service tender on your lips.

Imo.
Away, I do condemn mine ears that have
So long attended thee. If thou wert honourable,
Thou wouldst have told this tale for virtue, not
For such an end thou seek'st; as base as strange.
Thou wrong'st a gentleman, who is as far
From thy report, as thou from honour; and
Solicit'st here a lady, that disdains
Thee, and the devil alike. What, ho, Pisanio!—
The king, my father, shall be made acquainted
Of thy assault; if he shall think it fit,
A sawcy stranger in his court, to mart
As in a Romish stew, and to expound
His beastly mind to us; he hath a court
He little cares for, and a daughter, whom
He not respects at all. What, ho, Pisanio!—

Iach.
O, happy Leonatus, I may say!
The credit, that thy lady hath of thee,
Deserves thy trust; and thy most perfect goodness,
Her assur'd credit: blessed live you long,
A lady to the worthiest sir, that ever
Country call'd his; and you his mistress, only* ^note
For the most worthiest fit. Give me your pardon.
I have spoke this, to know if your affiance
Were deeply rooted, and shall make your lord,
That which he is new o'er; and he is one
The truest manner'd; such a holy witch,
That he enchants societies unto him.
Half all men's hearts are his.

Imo.
You make amends.

Iach.
He sits 'mongst men like a descended god;
He hath a kind of honour sets him off,
More than a mortal seeming. Be not angry,
Most mighty princess, that I have adventur'd
To try your taking of a false report;
The love I bear him,

Made me to fan you thus, but the gods made you,
Unlike all others, chaffless. Pray, your pardon.

Imo.
All's well, sir; take my power i'th' court for yours.

Iach.
My humble thanks; I had almost forgot
T' intreat your grace, but in a small request,
And yet of moment too, for it concerns
Your lord; myself, and other noble friends,
Are partners in the business.

Imo.
Pray, what is't?

Iach.
Some dozen Romans of us, and your lord,
(The best feather of our wing) have mingled sums,
To buy a present for the emperor:
Which I, the factor for the rest, have done,
In France. 'Tis plate of rare device, and jewels
Of rich and exquisite form, their values great;
And I am something curious, being strange,
To have them in safe stowage. May it please you
To take them in protection.

Imo.
Willingly;
And pawn mine honour for their safety; since
My lord hath interest in them, I will keep them
In my chamber.

Iach.
They are in a coffer,
Attended by my men. I will make bold
To send them to you, only for this night;
I must abroad, to-morrow.

Imo.
O no, no.

Iach.
Yes, I beseech you: or I shall short my word,
By lengthening my return. From Gallia,
I crost the seas on purpose, and on promise
To see your grace.

Imo.
I thank you, for your pains;
But not away, to-morrow.

Iach.
O, I must, madam;
Therefore, I shall beseech you, if you please,
To greet your lord with writing, do't to-night:
I have out-staid my time, which is material,
To th' tender of our present.

Imo.
I will write:
Send your coffer to me, it shall be safe kept,
And truly yielded you. You're very welcome. [Exeunt.* ^note Scene SCENE a Palace. Enter Cloten, and two Lords.

Clot.

Was there ever man had such luck?† ^note When I kiss'd the Jack, upon an up-cast, to be hit away! I had an hundred pounds on't; and then a whorson jack-an-apes must take me up for swearing, as if I had borrow'd mine oaths of him, and might not spend them at my pleasure.

1 Lord.

What got he by that? you have broke his pate with your bowl.

2 Lord.

If his wit had been like him that broke it, it would have run all out.

Clot.

When a gentleman is disposed to swear, it is not for any standers-by to curtail his oaths. Ha!

2 Lord.

No, my lord: nor crop the ears of them.

Clot.

Whoreson dog! I give him satisfaction! Would he had been one of my rank. Pox on't, I had rather not be so noble as I am; they dare not fight with me, because of the queen, my mother. Every jack-slave hath his belly full of fighting, and I must go up and down, like a cock that no body can match.

2 Lord.

It is not fit your lordship should undertake every companion, that you give offence to.

Clot.

No; I know that: but it is fit I should commit offence to my inferiors.

2 Lord.

Ay, it is fit for your lordship, only.

Clot.

Why, so I say.

2 Lord.

Here comes the king.

Clot.

Good-night to your majesty, and gracious mother.

Cym.

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

Clot.

She vouchsafes no notice; but I will assail her, before morning, with mask and music.

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. Enter Messenger, and whispers the first Lord.

Queen.
You are most bound to the king,
Who lets go by no 'vantages, that may
Prefer you to his daughter.

1 Lord.
So like you, sir, ambassadors 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; our dear son,
When you have given good morning to your mistress,
Attend the queen and us, we shall have need
T'employ you towards this Roman.
Betimes to-morrow we'll hear th' embassy.
Come, our queen. [Exeunt King and Queen.

1 Lord.

Did you hear of another stranger that's come to court, to-night.

Clot.

Another stranger, and I not know on't?

2 Lord.

He's a strange fellow himself, and knows it not.

1 Lord.

There's an Italian come, and 'tis thought one of Leonatus' friends.

Clot.

Leonatus! a banish'd rascal; and he's another, wheresoever he be. Who told you of this stranger?

1 Lord.

One of your lordship's pages.

Clot.

Is it fit I went to look upon him? Is there no derogation in't?

2 Lord.

You cannot derogate, my lord.

Clot.

Not easily, I think.

2 Lord.

You are a fool granted, therefore cannot derogate.

Clot.
Come, I'll go see this Italian, and if he'll play,
I'll game with him, and to-morrow, with our
Father, we'll hear the ambassador—Come, let's go.

1 Lord.
I'll attend your lordship. [Exeunt Clot. and 1 Lord.

2 Lord.
That such a crafty devil as is his mother,
Should yield the world this ass; a woman that
Bears all down with her brain, and this her son
Cannot take two from twenty, for his heart,
And leave eighteen. Alas, poor princess,
Thou divine Imogen, what thou endur'st! [Exit. Scene SCENE, a manificent Bed-chamber, in one part of it a large Trunk. Imogen is discovered reading in her Bed, a Lady attending.

Imo.
Who's there? My woman, Helen?

Lady.
Please you, madam—

Imo.
What hour is it?

Lady.
Almost midnight, madam.

Imo.
I have read three hours, then, mine eyes are weak,
Fold down the leaf where I have left. To bed—
Take not away the taper, leave it burning:
And if thou canst awake by four o'clock,
I pr'ythee call me—Sleep hath seiz'd me wholly. [Exit Lady.
From fairies, and the tempters of the night,
Guard me, beseech ye.

To your protection I commend me, gods. [Sleeps. [Iachimo rises from the Coffer.

Iach.
The crickets sing, and man's o'er-labour'd sense
Repairs itself by rest. Our Tarquin thus
Did softly press the rushes, ere he waken'd
The chastity he wounded. Cytherea,
How bravely thou becom'st thy bed! fresh lily,
And whiter than the sheets! That I might touch,
But kiss, one kiss—'Tis her breathing
Perfumes the chamber thus: the flame o'th' taper
Bows toward her, and would under-peep her lids,
To see th' inclosed lights now canopy'd
Under the windows, white and azure, lac'd
With blue of heav'ns own tinct—but my design's
To note the chamber—I will write all down:
Such, and such pictures—there the window,—such
Th' adornment of her bed—the arras, figures—
Why such, and such—and the contents o'th' story—
Ah, but some natural notes about her body,
Above ten thousand meaner moveables,
Would testify, t'enrich my inventory.
O sleep, thou ape of death, lye dull upon her,
And be her sense but as a monument,
Thus in a chapel lying. Come off, come off,— [Taking off her Bracelet.
As slippery as the gordian knot was hard.
'Tis mine, and this will witness outwardly,
As strongly as the conscience does within,
To th' madding of her lord. On her left breast
A mole, cinque spotted—Like the crimson drops
I' th' bottom of a cowslip. Here's a voucher,
Stronger than ever law could make.
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 shut the spring of it.
Swift, swift, you dragons of the night, that dawning
May bear its raven's eye: I lodge in fear,

Tho' this a heav'nly angel, hell is here. [Clock strikes.
One, two, three: time, time.* ^note [He goes into the trunk, the Scene closes. Scene SCENE the Palace. Enter Cloten, and Lords.

1 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 so to lose.

1 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 almost morning, is't not.

1 Lord.

It is, my lord.

Clot.

I would the maskers and musicians were come; I am advised to give her music, a'mornings, they say it will penetrate.

1 Lord.

Here they are, my lord.

Clot.

Come let's join them.