1st LORD.
In truth, my lord, her throwing favours on
So low a thing as Leonatus is,
Slanders her judgment much; it doth subtract
From her else princely qualities—

CLOTEN.
I think so—

2d LORD.
Is there a spell in Leonatus' name?
What is he in his person, nature, fortune,
That you are not, and more?—Say, is he young?
You reap'd your chin since he did—is he valiant?
By Mars, you fear him not—handsome? you read
Your faithful glass with more content than he—
For birth and fortune the proportion is
As top to th' bottom.

CLOTEN.
Oh! your pardon, sir,
His lady's smile has tutor'd him a pride

That ranks him with the highest—and though Rome
His body holds, he hath a heart and hope
In Britain still; which nothing can cut off,
But something that may give a mortal wound
Or to his life, or love. Enter Cymbeline, and other Lords.

1st LORD.
My lord, the king.

CYMBELINE.
Await you here our daughter, noble Cloten?
Will she not forth?

CLOTEN.
She will vouchsafe no notice.

CYMBELINE.
The exile of her minion is too new,
She hath not yet forgot him: some more time
May wear the print of his remembrance out,
And then she's yours.

CLOTEN.
Never, I fear, my lord.
O I have proved her heart impregnable;
I should, my liege, your patience overstretch
To tell in course the labours of my love;
Denials but increas'd my services;
I have put by my nature, crouch'd and fawn'd;
I seem'd as if inspir'd to do the duties
I tender'd to her; if she had forsworn
All commerce with mankind, I'd been content;

But Leonatus' suit had witchcraft in't,
While mine she heard as does the ruthless rock
The drowning seaman's moan.

CYMBELINE.
It must be humour:
The stubborn tendency of woman's will,
Still pliant or resisting 'gainst all rules
Of virtue and discretion—Let her suffer—
I have a child in thee—

CLOTEN.
A thankful one.

CYMBELINE.
Call her before us, sirs, (exeunt Lords) for we would make
A last demand to her unduteous spirit,
Ere yet we take the field—and here we swear
By the great sov'reign of th'immortal Gods,
If she consent not fully to the act,
Whereby we late have sentenc'd her divorce
From that base slave, whose vileness must not soil
The lustre of our crown, we reconfirm
Our royal grant to thee, adopted son
Of our dear love; and her blot out for ever
From all connection with our blood, and title
To this imperial diadem—How now? Re-enter Lords.

1st LORD.
So please you, sir, her chambers all are lock'd,
Nor answer will be given to the noise
Our loudest clamours make.

CYMBELINE.
Hah! fled! escap'd!
How may this be?—Cloten, the guard is yours—
Have you not surety of their faith?

CLOTEN.
My liege,
They are the pick'd of my affection, and
I stand amaz'd at this.

CYMBELINE.
Where is Philario?

2d LORD.
My liege, some two hours since, I saw him take
The road that windeth round the castle grove,
And by his side a comely youth that seem'd
A page o'th' court.

CYMBELINE.
My life it must be she;
Wing'd with the fervor of her love she's flown
To Leonatus, and Philario is
The pander of her folly. We're abus'd;
All Italy in arms would hurt us less
Than what aggrieves us here—Our dear son Cloten,
Head thou the search for these vile runagates,
With thy best faculties of diligence;
Then follow to the field—We must be gone;
But we will carry our displeasure with us,
And Rome shall feel we're angry.—Come away. [Exeunt.

Manet Cloten with some Lords.
To horse, sirs—mark me—I am dead to love,
And vengeance speeds me now. [Exit with Lords.

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