So, get you gone—if this penetrate, I will consider your musick the better: if it do not, it is a vice in her ears, which horse-hairs, and cats-guts, nor the voice of unpaved eunuch to boot, can never amend.

2 Lord.

Here comes the King.

Clot.

I am glad I was up so late, for that's the reason I was up so early: he cannot chuse but take this service I have done, fatherly. Good-morrow to your Majesty, and to my gracious mother.

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

Clot.

I have assail'd her with musicks, but she vouchsafes no notice.

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.

Queen.
You are most bound to th' King,
Who lets go by no vantages, that may
Prefer you to his daughter. Frame yourself
To orderly sollicits; and be friended
With aptness of the season; make denials
Encrease your services; so seem, as if
You were inspir'd to do those duties, which
You tender to her: that you in all obey her,
Save when command to your dismission tends,
And therein you are senseless.

Clot.
Senseless? not so. Enter a Messenger.

Mes.
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: we must receive him
According to the honour of his sender;
And towards himself, ^{3 note}his goodness forespent on us,
We must extend our notice.—Our dear son,
When you have giv'n good morning to your mistress,
Attend the Queen and us; we shall have need
T' employ you towards this Roman. Come, our Queen. [Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

Clot.
If she be up, I'll speak with her; if not,
Let her lie still, and dream. By your leave, ho! [Knocks.
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, makes
Diana's rangers, false themselves, 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 and 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 taylors 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; the thanks I give,
Is telling you that I am poor of thanks,
And scarce can spare them.

Cleo.
Still, I swear, I love you.

Imo.
If you but said so, 'twere as deep with me:
If you swear still, your recompence 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: ^{4 note}

Clot.
^{5 note}

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
By being ^{6 note}so verbal: and learn now for all,
That I, who know my heart, do here pronounce
By th' very truth of it, I care not for you:
And am so near the lack of charity
T' accuse myself, I hate you: which I had rath
You felt, than make my boast.

Clot.
You sin against
Obedience, which you owe your father; for

^{7 note}

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: thou wert dignify'd enough,
Ev'n to the point of Envy, if 'twere made
Comparative for your virtues, to be stil'd
The under-hangman of his realm; and hated
For being preferr'd so well.

Clot.
The south-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, 's dearer

In my respect, than all the hairs above thee,
Were they all made such men. ^{9 note}


How now, Pisanio! Enter Pisanio.

Clot.
His garment? now, the devil—

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

Clot.
His garment?

Imo.
I am sprighted with a fool,
Frighted, and angred worse—Go, bid my woman
Search for ^{1 note}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 in Europe. I do think,
I saw 't this morning; confident I am,
Last night 'twas on my arm; I kissed it.
I hope, it be not gone, to tell my Lord
That I kiss aught but him.

Pis.
'Twill not be lost.

Imo.
I hope so. Go, and search.

Clot.
You have abus'd me.
His meanest garment?—

Imo.
Ay, I said so, Sir;
If you will make 't an action, call witness to 't.

Clot.
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.

SCENE V. Changes to Rome. Enter Posthumus, and Philario.

Post.
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 throughly. And, I think,
He'll grant the tribute; send th' arrearages,
E'er 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 shall prove a war; and you shall hear
The legions, now in Gallia, sooner landed
In our not-fearing Britain, than have tidings
Of any penny tribute paid. Our Countrymen
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 ^{2 note}

mingled with their courages, will make known

^{3 note}To their approvers, they are people such
That mend upon the world. SCENE VI. Enter Iachimo.

Phil.
See, Iachimo.—

Post.
Sure, the swift 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 of the fairest I e'er look'd upon.

Post.
And, therewithal, the best; or let her beauty
Look through a casement to allure false hearts,
And be false with them.

Iach.
Here are letters for you.

Post.
Their tenour good, I trust.

Iach.
'Tis very like.

Post.
Was Caius Lucius in the Britain 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've 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, which
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
You 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 tapestry of silk and silver; the story
Proud Cleopatra, when she met her Roman,
^{4 note}

So bravely done, so rich, that it did strive
In workmanship, and value; which, I wonder'd,
Could be so rarely and exactly wrought,
Since the true life on't was—

Post.
This is true;
And this you might have heard of here, by 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,
Chast Dian, bathing; never saw I figures
^{5 note}So likely to report themselves; the cutter
^{6 note}

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: Th' andirons,
I had forgot them, were two winking Cupids
Of silver, each on one foot standing, nicely
Depending on their brands.

Post.
^{7 note}

Of what is in her chamber nothing saves
The wager you have laid.

Iach.
Then, ^{8 note}
if you can [Pulling out the Bracelet.
Be pale, I beg but leave to air this jewel. See!—
And now 'tis up again. It must be married
To that your diamond. I'll keep them.

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

Iach.
Sir, I thank her, that.
She stripp'd it from her arm. I see her yet,
Her pretty action did out-sell 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. ^{9 note}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; ^{1 note}


I'm sure,
She could not lose it; her attendants are
All sworn and honourable. They induc'd to steal it!
And, by a stranger!—no, he hath enjoy'd her.
^{2 note}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,
^{3 note}
Worthy the pressing, lies a mole, right proud
Of that most delicate lodging. By my life,
I kist it; and it gave me present hunger
To feed again, though full. 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.
Count not the turns: once, and a million!

Iach.
I'll be sworn—

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

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— [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 VII. Re-enter Posthumus.

Post.
Is there no way for men to be, but women
Must be half-workers? 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 coyner 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 rosy, the sweet view on't
Might well have warm'd old Saturn—that I thought her
As chaste, as unsunn'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,
Cry'd, oh! and mounted; found no opposition
But what he look'd for should oppose, and she
Should from encounter guard. 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't 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 nam'd, nay, that hell knows,
Why, hers, in part, or all; but 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. [Exit.

ACT III. SCENE I. Cymbeline's Palace. Enter, in State, Cymbeline, Queen, Cloten, and Lords at one door; and at another Caius Lucius and attendants.

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

Luc.
When Julius Cæsar, whose remembrance yet
Lives in men's eyes, and will to ears and tongues
Be theme, and hearing ever, was in this Britain,
And conquer'd it, Cassibelan, thine uncle,
Famous in Cæsar's praises, no whit less
Than in his feats deserving it, for him,
And his succession, granted 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 is
A world by 't self; and we will nothing pay
For wearing our own noses.

Queen.
That opportunity,
Which then they had to take from 's, to resume
We have again. Remember, Sir, my Liege,
The Kings your ancestors: together with
The nat'ral Brav'ry of your isle; which stands,
As Neptune's Park, ribbed and paled in
^{4 note}
With rocks unscalable, and roaring waters;

With Sands, that will not bear your enemies' boats,
But suck them up to th' top-mast. A kind of Conquest
Cæsar made here, but made not here his brag
Of, came, and saw, and overcame. With shame,
The first, that ever touch'd him, he was carried
From off our coast, 'twice beaten; and his shipping,
^{5 note}

Clot.

Come, there's no more Tribute to be paid. Our Kingdom is stronger than it was at that time; and, as I said, there is no more such Cæsars; other of them may have crook'd noses, but, to own such strait arms, none.

Cym.

Son, let your mother end.

Clot.

We have yet many among us can gripe as hard as Cassibelan; I do not say, I am one; but I have a hand.—Why, 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, pray you now.

Cym.
You must know,
'Till the injurious Roman did extort
This tribute from us, we were free. Cæsar's ambition,
Which swell'd so much, that it did almost stretch
The sides o' th' world, *against all colour, here
Did put the yoke upon's; which to shake off,

Becomes a warlike people, which we reckon
Ourselves to be. We do. 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: Mulmutius made our laws,
Who was the first of Britain which did put
His brows within a golden Crown, and call'd
Himself a King.

Luc.
I'm sorry, Cymbeline,
That I am to pronounce Augustus Cæsar,
Cæsar, that hath more Kings his servants, than
Thyself domestick Officers, thine enemy.
Receive it from me then.—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'rt welcome, Caius;
Thy Cæsar knighted me; my youth I spent
Much under him: of him I gather'd honour,
Which he to seek of me again, perforce
Behoves me ^{6 note}

Luc.

Let proof speak.

Clot.

His Majesty bids you welcome. Make pastime with us a day or two, or longer: If you seek us afterwards on other terms, you shall find us in our salt-water 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 II. Enter Pisanio, reading a Letter.

Pis.
How? of adultery? wherefore write you not
What monsters her accuse? Leonatus!
Oh master, what a strange infection
Is fall'n into thy ear? ^{8 note}
what false Italian,
As pois'nous-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 ^{9 note}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—the letter, [Reading.
That I have sent her, by her own command
Shall give thee opportunity.—Damn'd paper!
Black as the ink that's on thee: senseless bauble!
Art thou a fœdarie for this act, and look'st
So virgin-like without? Lo, here she comes.

Enter Imogen.
I'm 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.
^{1 note}Oh, learn'd, indeed, were that astrologer,
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;—yet not,
That we two are asunder;—let that grieve him!
Some griefs are medicinable; that is one of them,
^{2 note}For it doth physick love;—of his content,
All but in that. Good wax, thy leave. ^{3 note}

[Reading.

Justice, and your father's wrath, should he take me in his Dominion, could not be so cruel to me; as 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 ^{4 note}loyal to his vow, and your increasing in love;

Leonatus Posthumus.

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. I've heard of riding wagers,

Where horses have been nimbler than the sands
^{5 note}That run i' th' clock's behalf. But this is fool'ry.
Go, bid my woman feign a sickness; say,
She'll home t' her father: and provide me, presently
A riding suit; no costlier than would fit
^{6 note}A Franklin's housewife.

Pis.
Madam, you'd best consider.

Imo.
^{7 note}

SCENE III. Changes to a Forest with a Cave, in Wales. Enter Bellarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus.

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 jet through
And keep ^{8 note}their impious Turbants 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, heaven!

Arv.
Hail, heaven!

Bel.
Now for our mountain sport, up to yond 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,
^{9 note}This 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, ^{1 note}

Guid.
Out of your proof you speak; we, poor, unfledg'd,
Have never wing'd from view o'th' nest; nor know not
What air's from home. Haply, 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 ign'rance; travelling a-bed;
A prison, for a debtor that not dares
^{2 note}To stride a limit.

Arv.
^{3 note}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;
We're beastly; subtle as the fox for prey,

Like warlike as the wolf, for what we eat;
Our valour is to chase what flies; our cage
We make a quire, as doth the prison'd bird,
And sing our bondage freely.

Bel.
How you speak!
Did you but know the city's usuries,
And felt them knowingly; the art o'th' Court,
As hard to leave, as keep, whose top to climb,
Is certain falling, or so slipp'ry, that
The fear's as bad as falling; the toil of war,
A pain, that only seems to seek out danger
I' th' name of fame and honour, which dies i' th' search,
And hath as oft a sland'rous epitaph,
As record of fair act; nay, many time,
Doth ill deserve, by doing well: what's worse,
Must curt'sy at the censure. Oh, boys, this story
The world may read in me: my body's mark'd
With Roman swords; and my Report was once
First with the best of note; Cymbeline lov'd me,
And when a soldier was the theam, my name
Was not far off; then was I as a tree,
Whose boughs did bend with fruit, but, in one night,
A storm, or robbery, call it what you will,
Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves,
And left me bare to weather.

Guid.
Uncertain favour!

Bel.
My fault being nothing, as I have told you oft,
But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail'd
Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline,
I was confed'rate with the Romans; so,
Follow'd my banishment; and, these twenty years,
This rock and these demeasnes have been my world;
Where I have liv'd at honest freedom; pay'd
More pious debts to heaven, than in all

The fore-end of my time.—But, up to th' mountains!
This is not hunters' language; he, that strikes
The venison first, shall be the lord o' th' feast;
To him the other two shall minister,
And we will fear no poison, which attends
In place of greater State.
I'll meet you in the valleys. [Exeunt Guid. and Arvir.
  How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature!
These boys know little they are Sons to th' King;
Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive.
They think, they're mine: and tho' train'd up thus meanly
^{4 note}

In simple and low things, to prince it, much
Beyond the trick of others. This Paladour,
The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, whom
The King his father call'd Guiderius, 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 Cadwal,
Once, Arviragus, in as like a figure
Strikes life into my speech, and shews much more
His own conceiving. Hark, the game is rouz'd.—
Oh Cymbeline! heav'n and my conscience know,
Thou didst unjustly banish me; whereon,
At three and two years old ^{5 note}

SCENE IV. Enter Pisanio, and Imogen.

Imo.
Thou told'st me, when we came from horse, the place
Was near at hand. Ne'er long'd my mother so
To see me first, as I have now. Pisanio, Man,
Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind,
That makes thee stare thus? wherefore breaks that sigh
From th' inward of thee? one, but painted thus,
Would be interpreted a thing perplex'd
Beyond self-explication. Put thyself
Into a 'haviour of less fear, ere wildness
Vanquish my staider senses. What's the matter?
Why tender'st thou that paper to me, with
A look untender? if't be summer news,
Smile to 't before; if winterly, thou need'st
But keep that count'nance still. My husband's hand?
That ^{6 note}drug-damn'd Ialy hath out-craftied him,
And he's at some hard point. Speak, man; thy tongue
May take off some extremity, which to read
Would be e'en 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 lie 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 breach of hers, let thine hands 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. Kings, Queens, and ^{7 note}states,
Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the Grave
This viperous slander enters. What chear, Madam?

Imo.
False to his bed! what is it 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'dst like a villain: now, methinks,
Thy favour's good enough. ^{8 note}Some Jay of Italy,
^{9 note}

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; not born where 't grows;
But worn, a bait for ladies.

Pis.
Good Madam, hear me—

Imo.
True honest men being heard, like false Æneas,
Were in his time thought false: and Sinon's Weeping
Did scandal many a holy tear; took pity
From most true wretchedness. ^{1 note}

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.

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. 'Gainst self-slaughter
There is a prohibition so divine,
That cravens my weak hand: come, here's my heart—
^{2 note}Something's afore 't—soft, soft, we'll no defence; [Opening her breast.
Obedient as the scabbard!—What is here?
The Scriptures of the loyal Leonatus
All turn'd to Heresy? away, away, [Pulling his letters out of her bosom.
Corrupters of my faith! you shall no more
Be stomachers to my heart: thus may poor fools
Believe false teachers: tho' those, that are betray'd,
Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor
Stands in worse case of woe. And thou, Posthumus,
That set'st my disobedience 'gainst the King,
And mad'st me put into contempt the suits
Of princely fellows, shalt hereafter find,
It is no act of common passage, but
A strain of rareness: and I grieve myself,
To think, when thou shalt be disedg'd by her
^{3 note}Whom now thou tir'st on, how thy memory
Will then be pang'd by me.—Pr'ythee, dispatch;
The lamb entreats the butcher. Where's thy knife?
Thou art too slow to do thy master's bidding,
When I desire it too.

Pis.
O gracious Lady!

Since I receiv'd command to do this business,
I have not slept one wink.

Imo.
Do 't, and to bed then.

Pis.
^{4 note}

Imo.
Wherefore then
Didst undertake it? why hast thou abus'd
So many miles, with a pretence? this place?
Mine action? and thine own? our horses' labour?
The time inviting thee? the perturb'd Court,
For my being absent? whereunto I never
Purpose Return. Why hast thou gone so far,
^{5 note}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've heard, I am a strumpet; and mine ear,
Therein false struck, can take no greater wound,
Nor tent to bottom that. But, speak.

Pis.
Then, Madam,
I thought, you would not back again.

Imo.
Most like,
Bringing me here to kill me.

Pis.
Not so, neither;
But if I were as wise as honest, then
My purpose would prove well. It cannot be,
But that my master is abus'd; some villain,
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; nor no more ado
With that harsh, noble, simple, Nothing,
That Cloten, whose love-suit hath been to me
As fearful as a siege.

Pis.
If not at Court,
Then not in Britain must you 'bide.

Imo.
Where then?
Hath Britain all the Sun that shines? Day, night,
Are they not but in Britain? I' th' world's volume
Our Britain seems as of it, but not in it;
In a great pool, a swan's nest. Pr'ythee, think,
There's livers out of Britain.

Pis.
I'm most glad,
You think of other place: th' Ambassador,
Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford-Haven
To-morrow. ^{6 note}

Dark as your fortune is, and but disguise
That, which, t'appear itself, must not yet be,
But by self-danger; you should tread a course
Pretty, and ^{7 note}full of view; yea, haply, near
The residence of Posthumus; so nigh, at least,
That though his actions were not visible,
Report should render him hourly to your ear,
As truly as he moves.

Imo.
Oh! for such means,
^{8 note}

Pis.
Well then, here's the point:
You must forget to be a woman; change
Command into obedience; fear and niceness,
The handmaids of all women, or, more truly,
Woman its pretty self, to waggish courage;
Ready in gybes, quick-answer'd, saucy, and
As quarrellous as the weazel: ^{9 note}

You made great Juno angry.

Imo.
Nay, be brief:
I see into thy end, and am almost
A man already.

Pis.
First, make yourself but like one.
Fore-thinking this, I have already fit,
'Tis in my 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; ^{1 note}

Imo.
Thou 'rt all the comfort
The Gods will diet me with. Pr'ythee, away.
There's more to be consider'd; but ^{2 note}
we'll even
All that good time will give us. ^{3 note}
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 box; I had it from the Queen,

What 's in 't is precious: if you're sick at sea,
Or stomach-qualm'd at land, a dram 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. SCENE V. Changes to the Palace of Cymbeline. Enter Cymbeline, Queen, Cloten, Lucius, and Lords.

Cym.
Thus far, and so farewel.

Luc.
Thanks, royal Sir.
My Emperor hath wrote; I must from hence,
And am right sorry, that I must report ye
My master's enemy.

Cym.
Our Subjects, Sir,
Will not endure his yoke; and for ourself
To shew less Sovereignty than they, must needs
Appear un-kinglike.

Luc.
So, Sir: I desire of you
A conduct over land, to Milford-Haven.
Madam, all joy befal your Grace, and you!

Cym.
My Lords, you are appointed 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.
Th' event
Is yet to name the winner. Fare you well.

Cym.
Leave not the worthy Lucius, good my Lords,
'Till he have crost the Severn. Happiness! [Exit Lucius, &c.

Queen.
He goes hence frowning; but it honours us,
That we have giv'n him cause.

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

Cym.
Lucius hath wrote already to the Emperor,
How it goes here. It fits us therefore ripely,
Our chariots and our horsemen be in readiness;
The Powers, that he already hath in Gallia,
Will soon be drawn to head, from whence he moves
His war for Britain.

Queen.
'Tis not sleepy business;
But must be look'd 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 us 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 a Servant.

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. She's a lady
So tender of rebukes, that words are strokes,
And strokes death to her. Re-enter the Servant.

Cym.
Where is she, Sir? how
Can her contempt be answer'd?

Serv.
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 mem'ry.

Cym.
Her doors lock'd?
Not seen of late? grant heav'ns, 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, that stands so for Posthumus,
He hath 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 fervor 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. Re-enter Cloten.
How now, my son?

Clot.
'Tis certain, she is fled.
Go in and cheer the King, he rages, none
Dare come about him.

Queen.
All the better; may
This night fore-stall him of the coming day! [Exit Queen.

Clot.
I love, and hate her;—for she's fair and royal,
^{4 note}

Than lady, ladies, woman; from each one
The best she hath, and she of all compounded
Outsells them all: I love her therefore;—but,
Disdaining me, and throwing favours on
The low Posthumus, slanders so her judgment,
That what's else rare, is chok'd; and in that point
I will conclude to hate her, nay, indeed,
To be reveng'd upon her. For when fools
Shall— SCENE VI. Enter Pisanio.

Who is here? what! are you packing, sirrah?
Come hither. Ah! you precious pander, villain,
Where is thy lady? In a word, or else
Thou'rt straightway with the fiends. [Drawing his sword.

Pis.
Oh, my good 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?
From whose so many weights of baseness cannot
A dram of worth be drawn.

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

He is in Rome.

Clot.
Where is she, Sir? Come nearer;
No further halting. Satisfy me home,
What is become of her?

Pis.
Oh, my all-worthy Lord!

Clot.
All-worthy villain!
Discover where thy mistress is,—at once,—
—At the next word. No more of worthy Lord.
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' throne.

Pis. [Aside.
^{5 note}

Clot.
Humh.

Pis. [Aside.
I'll write to my Lord, she's dead. Oh, Imogen,
Safe may'st thou wander, safe return again!

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 do me true service; undergo those employments, wherein I should have cause to use thee, with a serious industry; that is, what villany 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.

Wilt thou serve me? for since patiently and constantly thou hast stuck to the bare fortune of that beggar Posthumus, thou can'st not in the course of gratitude but be a diligent follower of mine. Wilt thou serve me?

Pis.

Sir, I will.

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, at my lodging, the same suit he wore when he took leave of my lady and mistress.

Clot.

The first service thou dost me, fetch that suit hither. Let it be thy first service. Go.

Pis.

I shall, my Lord.

Clot.

Meet thee at Milford-Haven?—I forgot to ask him one thing, I'll remember 't anon—Even there, thou villain Posthumus, will I kill thee. I would, these garments were come. She said upon a time, the bitterness of it I now belch from my heart, that she held the very garment of Posthumus in more respect than my noble and natural person, together with the adornment of my qualities. With that suit upon my back will I ravish her; first kill him, and in her eyes. There shall she see my valour, which will then be a torment to her contempt. He on the ground, my speech of insultment ended on his dead body; and when my lust hath dined, which, as I say, to vex her, I will execute in the clothes that she so prais'd, to the court I'll knock her back, foot her home again. She hath despised me rejoicingly, and I'll be merry in my revenge.

Be those the garments?

Pis.

Ay, my noble Lord.

Clot.

How long is 't since she went to Milford-Haven?

Pis.

She can scarce be there yet.

Clot.

Bring this apparel to my chamber, that is the second thing that I have commanded thee. The third is, that thou wilt be a voluntary Mute to my design. Be but duteous, and true preferment shall tender itself to thee. My revenge is now at Milford, 'would I had wings to follow it! Come and be true.

Pis.
Thou bidd'st me to my loss: for true to thee,
Were to prove false, which I will never be,
To him that is most true. To Milford go,
And find not her, whom thou pursu'st. Flow, flow,
You heav'nly Blessings on her! This fool's speed
Be crost with slowness. Labour be his meed! [Exit. SCENE VII. Changes to the Forest and Cave. Enter Imogen, in boy's clothes.

Imo.
I see, a man's life is a tedious one:
I've tir'd myself; and for two nights together
Have made the ground my bed. I should be sick,
But that my resolution helps me. Milford,
When from the mountain top Pisanio shew'd thee,
Thou wast within a ken. O Jove, I think,
Foundations fly the wretched; such, I mean,
Where they should be reliev'd. Two beggars told me,
I could not miss my way. Will poor folks lye,
That have afflictions on them, knowing 'tis
A punishment, or trial? yes; no wonder,
When rich ones scarce tell true. To lapse in fullness
^{6 note}Is sorer, than to lye for need; and falshood
Is worse in Kings, than Beggars. My dear Lord!
Thou'rt one o' th' false ones; now I think on thee,

My hunger's gone; but ev'n before, I was
At point to sink for food. But what is this? [Seeing the Cave.
Here is a path to it—'tis some savage hold;
It were best, not call; I dare not call; yet famine,
Ere clean it o'er-throw nature, makes it valiant,
Plenty, and peace, breeds cowards; hardness ever
Of hardiness is mother. Ho! who's here?
^{7 note}