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

Luc.
When Julius Cæsar, whose remembrance yet
Lives in Mens Eyes, and will to Ears and Tongues
Be Theam, 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 marvail,
Shall be so ever.

Clot.
There be many Cæsars,
E'er such another Julius: Britain's a World
By it 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 natural Bravery of your Isle, which stands
As Neptune's Park ribb'd, and pal'd in
With Oaks unskaleable, and roaring Waters,
With Sand 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,
Poor ignorant Baubles, on our terrible Seas,
Like Egg-shells, mov'd upon their Surges, crack'd
As easily 'gainst our Rocks. For Joy whereof,
The fam'd Cassibelan, who was once at point,
Oh giglet Fortune! to master Cæsar's Sword,
Made Lud's-Town with rejoicing Fires bright,
And Britains strut with Courage.

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 owe 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 Romans 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 Yoak upon's; which to shake off
Becomes a warlike People, whom we reckon
Our selves 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 am sorry, Cymbeline,
That I am to pronounce Augustus Cæsar,
Cæsar that hath more Kings his Servants, than
Thy self 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 my self.

Cym.
Thou art 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,
Behooves me keep at utterance. I am perfect,
That the Pannonians and Dalmatians, for
Their Liberties are now in Arms: A Precedent
Which not to read, would shew the Britains cold:
So Cæsar shall not find them.

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 in 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. Enter Pisanio reading of 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? What false Italian,
As poisonous 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 take in some Virtue. Oh my Master,
Thy Mind to her, is now as low, as were
Thy Fortunes. How? That I should Murther 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 the Opportunity. Oh damn'd Paper!
Black as the Ink that's on thee: Senseless Bauble!
Art thou a Fœdarie for this act; thou look'st
So Virgin-like without? Lo here she comes. Enter Imogen.
I am 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?
Oh, learn'd indeed were that Astronomer
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,
For it doth physick Love, of his Content,
All but in that. Good Wax, thy leave: blest be
You Bees that make these Locks of Counsel. Lovers,
And Men in dangerous Bonds pray not alike.
Though Forfeitures you cast in Prison, yet
You clasp young Cupid's Tables: good News, Gods. Reading.

Jvstice, 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 Loyal to his Vow, and your increasing in Love,

Leonatus Posthumus.

To th' smothering of the Sense, how far it is
To this same blessed Milford. And by th' way
Tell me how Wales was made so Happy, as
T' inherit such a Haven. But first of all,
How may we steal from hence: And for the Gap
That we shall make in time, from our hence-going,
And our return, to excuse—but first, how get hence.
Why should Excuse be born or e'er begot?
We'll talk of that hereafter. Prithee speak,
How many Score of Miles may we well ride
'Twixt Hour and Hour?

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 have heard of riding Wagers,
Where Horses have been nimbler than the Sands
That run i' th' Clocks behalf. But this is Foolery,
Go, bid my Woman feign a Sickness, say
She'll home to her Father, and provide me presently
A riding Suit: No costlier than would fit
A Franklin's Houswife.

Pis.
Madam, you're best consider.

Imo.
I see before me, Man, nor here, nor here,
Nor what ensues but have a Fog in them,
That I cannot look through. Away, I prithee,
Do as I bid thee; there's no more to say;
Accessible is none but Milford way. [Exeunt. SCENE II. A Forest with a Cave. 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 a Morning's holy Office. The Gates of Monarchs
Are Arch'd so high, that Giants may jet through
And keep their impious Turbands 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, Heav'n!

Arv.
Hail, Heav'n!

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 have told you,
Of Courts of Princes, of the Tricks in War,
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, than doing nothing for a Bauble;
Prouder, than rustling in unpaid-for Silk:
Such gain the Cap of him, that makes them fine,
Yet keeps his Book uncross'd; no Life to ours.

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. Hap'ly 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 Ignorance; travelling a Bed,
A Prison, or a Debtor, that not dares
To stride a limit.

Arv.
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 are 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 o' th' 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 times
Doth ill deserve, by doing well: what's worse
Must curt'sie 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 Theme, 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 Confederate with the Romans: So
Follow'd my Banishment, and this Twenty years,
This Rock, and these Demesnes, have been my World,
Where I have liv'd at honest freedom, pay'd
More pious Debts to Heav'n, 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.
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 are mine, and though train'd up thus meanly
I'th'Cave, where, on the Bow, their Thoughts do hit
The Roofs of Palaces, and Nature prompts them
In simple and low things, to Prince it, much
Beyond the trick of others. This Polydor,

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 have 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 Cadwall,
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 knows
Thou didst unjustly banish me: whereon
At three, and two Years old, I stole these Babes,
Thinking to bar thee of Succession, as
Thou reft'st me of my Lands. Euriphile,
Thou wast their Nurse, they took thee for their Mother,
And every day do Honour to her Grave;
My self Belarius, that am Morgan call'd,
They take for natural Father. The Game is up. [Exit. 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, One, but painted thus
Would be interpreted a thing perplex'd
Beyond Self-explication. Put thy self
Into a 'haviour of less Fear, e'er Wildness
Vanquish my staieder 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 Drug-damn'd Italy, 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 even 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 lye 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 own 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 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 lye 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 my self awake? that's false to's Bed; is it?

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. Some Jay of Italy,
Whose Wother was her Painting, hath betray'd him:
Poor I am stale, a Garment out of Fashion,
And for I am richer than to hang by th' Walls,
I must be ript; To Pieces with me: Oh!
Mens Vows are Womens Traitors. All good seeming
By thy Revolt, oh Husband, shall be thought
Put on for Villany: 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 Synon's weeping
Did scandal many a holy Tear; took pity
From most true Wretchedness. So thou Posthumus,
Wilt lay the leven to all proper Men;
Goodly, and Gallant, shall be False and Perjur'd,
From thy great fail: Come, Fellow, be thou honest,
Do thou thy Master's bidding. When thou seest him,
A little witness my Obedience. Look,
I draw the Sword my self, take it, and hit
The innocent Mansion of my Love, my Heart,
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 shall 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. Against Self-slaughter,
There is a Prohibition so divine
That cravens my weak Hand: Come, here's my Heart—
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 Heresie? Away, away, [Pulling his Letter out of her Bosom.
Corrupters of my Faith, you shall no more
Be Stomachers to my Heart: Thus may poor Fools
Believe false Teachers: Though those that are betray'd
Do feel the Treason sharply, yet the Traitor
Stands in worse case of Woe. And thou Posthumus,
That didst set up my Disobedience 'gainst the King
My Father, 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 my self,
To think, when thou shalt be disedg'd by her,
That now thou tirest on, how thy Memory

Will then be pang'd by me. Prethee dispatch,
The Lamb entreats the Butcher. Where's the 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.
I'll break mine Eye-balls first.

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
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 have heard I am a Strumpet, and mine ear
Therein false strook, 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,
Ay, and singular in his Art, hath done you both
This cursed Injury.

Imo.
Some Roman Curtezan?

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't;
In a great Pool a Swan's Nest, prethee think
There's Livers out of Britain.

Pis.
I am most glad
You think of other Place: Th' Ambassador
Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford-Haven
To morrow. Now, if you could wear a mind
Dark as your Fortune is, and but Disguise
That which t'appear it self, must not yet be,
But by self-danger, you should tread a Course
Pretty, and full of view; yea, happily, near
The Residence of Posthumus; so nigh, at least,
That though his Action were not visible, yet
Report should render him hourly to your Ear,
As truly as he moves.

Imo.
Oh for such means,
Though Peril to my Modesty, not Death on't,
I would adventure.

Pis.
Well then, there'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 it's pretty self, into a waggish Courage,
Ready in Gybes, quick-answer'd, sawcy, and
As quarrellous as the Weazel: Nay, you must
Forget that rarest Treasure of your Cheek,
Exposing it (but oh the harder Heart,
Alack no remedy) to the greedy Touch

Of common-kissing Titan; and forget
Your laboursome and dainty trims, wherein
You made great Juno angry.

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

Pis.
First, make your self 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 your self, desire his Service; tell him
Wherein you're happy, which will make him know,
If that his Head have ear in Musick, doubtless
With Joy he will embrace you; for he's honourable,
And doubling that, most holy. Your means abroad;
You have me rich, and I will never fail
Beginning, nor supplyment.

Imo.
Thou art all the Comfort
The Gods will diet me with. Prethee away.
There's more to be consider'd; but we'll even
All that good time will give us. This attempt
I am Soldier too, and will abide it with
A Prince's Courage. Away, I prethee.

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 are 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. SCENE III. The Palace. 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 Yoak; and for our self
To shew less Soveraignty than they, must needs
Appear un-King like.

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.
Sir, the Event
Is yet to name the Winner. Fare you well.

Cym.
Leave not the worthy Lucius, good my Lords,
Till he have crost Severn. Happiness. [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 Britains 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 as like
A thing more made of Malice, than of Duty,
We have noted it. Call her before us, for
We have been too light in sufferance.

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. Enter a Messenger.

Cym.
Where is she, Sir? How
Can her Contempt be answer'd?

Mes.
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 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, thou that stand'st 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 Fervour of her Love, she's flown
To her desired 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. 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 Qu.

Clot.
I love and hate her; for she's fair and Royal,
And that she hath all courtly Parts more exquisite
Than Lady, Ladies, Woman, from every one
The best she hath, and she of all Compounded
Out-sells them all; I love her therefore; but
Disdaining me, and throwing Favours on
To low Posthumus, slanders so her Judgment,
That what's else rare, is choak'd; and in that point
I will conclude to hate her, nay indeed,
To be reveng'd upon her. For, when Fools— 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 art straightway with the Fiends.

Pis.
Oh, good my 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 farther halting; satisfie 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.
Or this, or perish. [Aside.
She's far enough, and what he learns by this,
May prove his travel, not her danger.

Clot.
Humh.

Pis.
I'll write to my Lord she is dead. Oh, Imogen,
Safe may'st thou wander, safe return agen.

Clot.

Sirrah, is this Letter true?

Pis.

Sir, as I think.

Clot.

It is Posthumus's Hand, I know't. Sirrah, if thou would'st not be a Villain, but to 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 the 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 Cloaths that she so prais'd; to the Court

I'll knock her back, foot her home again. She hath despis'd me rejoycingly, and I'll be merry in my Revenge.

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 it self 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 pursuest. Flow, flow,
You Heav'nly Blessings on her: This Fool's speed
Be-crost with slowness; Labour be his meed. [Exit. SCENE IV. The Forest and Cave. Enter Imogen in Boy's Cloaths.

Imo.
I see a Man's Life is a tedious one,
I have tired my self; 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. Oh, 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 lie
That have Afflictions on them, knowing 'tis
A Punishment, or Trial? Yes; no wonder,
When rich ones scarce tell true. To lapse in Fulness
Is sorer, than to lie for Need; and Falshood
Is worse in Kings, than Beggars. My dear Lord,
Thou art one o'th' false ones; now I think on thee,
My hunger's gone; but even before, I was
At point to sink for Food. But what is this? [Seeing the Cave.
Here is a Path to't—'tis some savage hold;

I were best not call; I dare not call; yet Famine
E'er it clean o'er-throw Nature, makes it valiant.
Plenty and Peace breeds Cowards, Hardness ever
Of Hardiness is Mother. Ho! who's here?
If any thing that's civil, speak, if savage,
Take, or lend—Ho! no answer? then I'll enter,
Best draw my Sword; and if mine Enemy
But fear the Sword like me, he'll scarcely look on't.
Such a Foe, good Heav'ns. [She goes into the Cave. Enter Bellarius, Guiderius, and Arviragus.

Bel.
You Polidore have prov'd best Woodman, and
Are Master of the Feast; Cadwall and I
Will play the Cook, and Servant, 'tis our match:
The sweat of Industry would dry, and die
But for the end it works to. Come, our Stomachs
Will make what's homely, savoury; Weariness
Can snore upon the Flint, when resty Sloth
Finds the Down-pillow hard. Now peace be here,
Poor House, that keep'st thy self.

Guid.
I am throughly weary.

Arv.
I am weak with Toil, yet strong in Appetite.

Guid.
There is cold Meat i'th'Cave, we'll brouze on that
Whilst what we have kill'd be Cook'd.

Bel.
Stay, come not in— [Looking in.
But that it eats our Victuals, I should think
Here were a Fairy.

Guid.
What's the matter, Sir?

Bel.
By Jupiter an Angel! or if not,
An Earthly Paragon. Behold Divineness
No elder than a Boy. Enter Imogen.

Imo.
Good Master, harm me not;
Before I enter'd here, I call'd, and thought
To have begg'd, or bought, what I have took: good Troth
I have stoln nought, nor would not, though I had found
Gold strew'd i'th' Floor. Here's Mony for my Meat,
I would have left it on the Board so soon
As I had made my Meal: and parted
With Prayers for the Provider.

Guid.
Mony, Youth?

Arv.
All Gold and Silver rather turn to Dirt,
As 'tis no better reckon'd, but of those
Who worship dirty Gods.

Imo.
I see you're angry:
Know, if you kill me for my Fault, I should
Have dy'd, had I not made it.

Bel.
Whither bound?

Imo.
To Milford-Haven.

Bel.
What's your Name?

Imo.
Fidele, Sir; I have a Kinsman, who
Is bound for Italy: He embark'd at Milford,
To whom being going, almost spent with Hunger,
I am faln in this offence.

Bel.
Prithee, fair Youth,
Think us no Churls; nor measure our good Minds
By this rude Place we live in. Well-encounter'd,
'Tis almost Night, you shall have better Cheer
E'er you depart, and thanks to stay and eat it:
Boys, bid him welcome.

Guid.
Were you a Woman, Youth,
I should woe hard, but be your Groom in honesty;
I bid for you, as I do buy.

Arv.
I'll make't my Comfort
He is a Man, I'll love him as my Brother:
And such a welcome as I'd give to him,
After long absence, such is yours. Most welcome:
Be sprightly, for you fall 'mongst Friends.

Imo.
'Mongst Friends, [Aside.
If Brothers: would it had been so, that they
Had been my Father's Sons, then had my Prize
Been less, and so more equal ballasting
To thee, Posthumus.

Bel.
He wrings at some Distress.

Guid.
Would I could free't.

Arv.
Or I, what e'er it be,
What Pain it cost, what Danger; Gods!

Bel.
Hark, Boys. [Whispering.

Imo.
Great Men
That had a Court no bigger than this Cave,
That did attend themselves, and had the Virtue
Which their own Conscience seal'd them; laying by
That Nothing-gift of differing Multitudes

Could not out-piece these twain. Pardon me Gods,
I'd change my Sex to be Companion with them,
Since Leonatus's false.

Bel.
It shall be so:
Boys, we'll go dress our Hunt. Fair, you come in;
Discourse is heavy, fasting; when we have supp'd
We'll mannerly demand thee of thy Story.
Sofar as thou wilt speak it.

Guid.
Pray draw near.

Arv.
The Night to th' Owl,
And Morn to th' Lark less welcome.

Imo.
Thanks, Sir.

Arv.
I pray draw near. [Exeunt. SCENE V. Rome. Enter two Roman Senators, and Tribunes.

1 Sen.
This is the Tenor of the Emperor's Writ;
That since the common Men are now in Action
'Gainst the Pannonians, and Dalmatians,
And that the Legions now in Gallia, are
Full weak to undertake our Wars against
The faln-off Britains, that we do incite
The Gentry to this Business. He creates
Lucius Pro-Consul: and to you the Tribunes
For this immediate Levy, he commands
His absolute Commission. Long live Cæsar.

Tri.
Is Lucius General of the Forces?

2 Sen.
Ay.

Tri.
Remaining now in Gallia?

1 Sen.
With those Legions
Which I have spoke of, whereunto your Levy
Must be suppliant: the words of your Commission
Will tie you to the Numbers and the Time
Of their dispatch.

Tri.
We will discharge our Duty. [Exeunt.

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