Cym.
Again; and bring me word how 'tis with her.
A fever with the absence of her son;

Madness, of which her life's in danger. Imogen,
The great part of my comfort, gone! My queen,
Upon a desperate bed, and in a time
When fearful wars point at me! Her son gone,
So needful for this present! It strikes me, past
The hope of comfort. But for thee, fellow,
Who needs must know of her departure, and
Dost seem so ignorant, we'll inforce it from thee,
By a sharp torture.

Pis.
Sir, my life is yours, set it at your will.

2 Lord.
Good, my liege,
The day that she was missing, he was here;
I dare be bound he's true, and shall perform
All parts of his subjection loyally. For Lord Cloten,
There wants no diligence in seeking him,
He will, no doubt, be found.

Cym.
The time is troublesome;
We'll slip you for a season, but our jealousy
Does yet depend.

2 Lord.
So please your majesty,
The Roman legions, all from Gallia drawn,
Are landed on your coast.

Cym.
Now for the counsel of my son and queen:
I am amaz'd with matter; let's withdraw,
And meet the time, as it seeks us; we fear not
What can from Italy annoy us, but
We grieve at chances here—away— [Exeunt.

Pis.
I've had no letter from my master since,
I wote him Imogen was slain; 'tis strange!
Nor hear I from my mistress, who did promise
To yield me often tidings. Neither know I
What is betide to Cloten, but remain
Perplex'd in all. The heav'ns still must work.
Wherein I'm false, I'm honest; not true, to be true.
These present wars shall find I love my country,
Ev'n to the note of th' king, or I'll fall in them.
All other doubts, by time, let 'em be clear'd,
Fortune brings in some boats that are not steer'd. [Exit.

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