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.

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