Cym.
Again; and bring me word, how 'tis with her.

A fever with the absence of her son;
A madness, of which her life's in danger:—Heavens,
How deeply you at once do touch me! 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 enforce it from thee
By a sharp torture.

Pis.
Sir, my life is yours,
I humbly set it at your will: But, for my mistress,
I nothing know where she remains, why gone,
Nor when she purposes return. 'Beseech your highness,
Hold me your loyal servant.

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 Cloten,—
There wants no diligence in seeking him,
^{1 note}
And will, no doubt, be found.

Cym.
The time is troublesome;
We'll slip you for a season; but ^{2 note}
our jealousy [To Pis.
Does yet depend.

Lord.
So please your majesty,
The Roman legions, all from Gallia drawn,
Are landed on your coast; with a supply
Of Roman gentlemen, by the senate sent.

Cym.
Now for the counsel of my son, and queen!—
I am amaz'd with matter^{3 note}.

Lord.
Good my liege,
^{5 note}Your preparation can affront no less
Than what you hear of: come more, for more you're ready:
The want is, but to put these powers in motion,
That long to move.

Cym.
I thank you: 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.
^{5 note}