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.

Previous section

Next section