1 GENTLEMAN.
You do not meet a Man but frowns. Our Bloods
No more obey the Heav'ns than our Courtiers;
But seem, as do's the King's.

2 Gent.
But what's the matter?

1 Gent.
His Daughter, and the Heir of's Kingdom (whom
He purpos'd to his Wife's sole Son, a Widow
That late he married) hath referr'd her self
Unto a poor, but worthy Gentleman. She's wedded.
Her Husband banish'd; she imprison'd, all
Is outward sorrow, though I think the King
Be touch'd at very Heart.

2 Gent.
None but the King?

1 Gent.
He that hath lost her too: so is the Queen,
That most desir'd the Match. But not a Courtier,
Although they wear their Faces to the bent
Of the King's looks, hath a Heart, that is not
Glad at the thing they scoul at.

2 Gent.
And why so?

1 Gent.
He that hath miss'd the Princess, is a thing
Too bad, for bad report: And he that hath her,
(I mean, that marry'd her, alack good Man,
And therefore banish'd) is a Creature, such,
As to seek through the Regions of the Earth
For one, his like; there would be something failing
In him, that should compare. I do not think,
So fair an outward, and such stuff within
Endows a Man, but him.

2 Gent.
You speak him fair.

1 Gent.
I do extend him, Sir, within himself,
Crush him together, rather than unfold
His Measure fully.

2 Gent.
What's his Name and Birth?

1 Gent.
I cannot delve him to the Root: his Father
Was call'd Sicillius, who did join his Honour
Against the Romans, with Cassibelan,
But had his Titles by Tenantius, whom
He serv'd with Glory and admir'd Success:
So gain'd the Sur-addition, Leonatus.
And had, besides this Gentleman in question,
Two other Sons, who in the Wars o'th' time
Dy'd with their Swords in Hand. For which their Father,
Then old, and fond of Issue, took such Sorrow
That he quit Being; and his gentle Lady
Big of this Gentleman, our Theam, deceas'd,
As he was born. The King, he takes the Babe
To his Protection, calls him Posthumus Leonatus;
Breeds him, and makes him of his Bed-chamber,
Puts to him all the Learnings that his time
Could make him the receiver of, which he took
As we do Air, fast as 'twas ministred,
And in's Spring, became a Harvest: Liv'd in Court,
Which rare it is to do, most prais'd, most lov'd,
A Sample to the youngest; to th' more Mature,
A Glass that featur'd them; and to the Graver,
A Child that guided Dotards. To his Mistress,
For whom he now is banish'd, her own Price
Proclaims how she esteem'd him; and his Virtue
By her Election may be truly read,
What kind of Man he is.

2 Gent.
I honour him, even out of your report.
But pray you tell me, is she sole Child to th'King?

1 Gent.
His only Child.
He had two Sons (if this be worth your hearing,
Mark it) the eldest of them, at three Years old,
I'th' swathing Cloaths the other, from their Nursery
Were stoll'n, and to this Hour, no guess in knowledge
Which way they went.

2 Gent.
How long is this ago?

1 Gent.
Some twenty Years.

2 Gent.
That a King's Children should be so convey'd!
So slackly Guarded, and the Search so slow
That could not trace them—

1 Gent.
Howsoe'er 'tis strange,
Or that the Negligence may well be laugh'd at,
Yet is it true, Sir.

2 Gent.
I do well believe you.

1 Gent.
We must forbear. Here comes the Gentleman,
The Queen, and Princess. [Exeunt. Enter the Queen, Posthumus, Imogen, and Attendants.

Queen.
No, be assur'd you shall not find me, Daughter,
After the Slander of most Step-Mothers,
Evil-ey'd unto you: You're my Prisoner, but
Your Goaler shall deliver you the Keys
That lock up your Restraint. For you, Posthumus,
So soon as I can win th' offended King,
I will be known your Advocate: marry yet
The fire of Rage is in him, and 'twere good
You lean'd unto his Sentence, with what Patience
Your Wisdom may inform you.

Post.
Please your Highness,
I will from hence to Day.

Queen.
You know the peril:
I'll fetch a turn about the Garden, pitying
The Pangs of barr'd Affections, though the King
Hath charg'd you should not speak together. [Exit.

Imo.
O dissembling Courtesie! How fine this Tyrant
Can tickle where she wounds! My dearest Husband,
I something fear my Father's Wrath, but nothing,
Always reserv'd my holy Duty, what

His Rage can do on me. You must be gone,
And I shall here abide the hourly shot
Of angry Eyes: Not comforted to live,
But that there is this Jewel in the World,
That I may see again.

Post.
My Queen! my Mistress!
O Lady, weep no more, lest I give cause
To be suspected of more Tenderness
Than doth become a Man. I will remain
The loyall'st Husband, that did e'er plight Troth.
My Residence in Rome, at one Philario's
Who to my Father was a Friend, to me
Known but by Letter; thither write, my Queen,
And with mine Eyes, I'll drink the Words you send,
Though Ink be made of Gall. Enter Queen.

Queen.
Be brief, I pray you;
If the King come, I shall incur, I know not
How much of his Displeasure—yet I'll move him [Aside.
To walk this way; I never do him wrong,
But he do's buy my Injuries, to be Friends,
Pays dear for my Offences. [Exit.

Post.
Should we be taking leave,
As long a term as yet we have to live,
The lothness to depart, would grow; Adieu.

Imo.
Nay, stay a little:
Were you but riding forth to Air your self,
Such parting were too petty. Look here, Love,
This Diamond was my Mother's; take it, Heart,
But keep it 'till you woo another Wife,
When Imogen is dead.

Post.
How, how? Another!
You gentle Gods, give me but this I have,
And fear up my Embracements from a next,
With Bonds of Death. Remain, remain thou here, [Putting on the Ring.
While Sense can keep it on: And sweetest, fairest,
As I, my poor self, did exchange for you
To your so infinite loss: So in our Trifles
I still win of you. For my sake wear this,
It is a Manacle of Love, I'll place it [Putting a Bracelet on her Arm.

Upon this fairest Prisoner.

Imo.
O the Gods!
When shall we see again? Enter Cymbeline, and Lords.

Post.
Alack, the King!

Cym.
Thou basest thing, avoid, hence, from my Sight:
If after this command thou fraught the Court
With thy Unworthiness, thou dyest. Away!
Thou'rt Poison to my Blood.

Post.
The Gods protect you,
And bless the good Remainders of the Court:
I am gone. [Exit.

Imo.
There cannot be a pinch in death
More sharp than this is.

Cym.
O disloyal thing,
That should'st repair my Youth, thou heap'st
A Year's age on me.

Imo.
I beseech you, Sir,
Harm not your self with your Vexation,
I am senseless of your Wrath; a touch more rare
Subdues all Pangs, all Fears.

Cym.
Past Grace? Obedience?

Imo.
Past Hope, and in Despair, that way past Grace.

Cym.
That might'st have had the sole Son of my Queen.

Imo.
O blessed that I might not: I chose an Eagle,
And did avoid a Puttock.

Cym.
Thou took'st a Beggar, would'st have made my Throne
A Seat for Baseness.

Imo.
No, I rather added a Lustre to it.

Cym.
O thou vile one!

Imo.
Sir,
It is your fault that I have lov'd Posthumus:
You bred him as my Play-fellow, and he is
A Man, worth any Woman; over-buys me
Almost the Sum he pays.

Cym.
What? art thou Mad?

Imo.
Almost, Sir; Heav'n restore me: would I were
A Neat-herds Daughter, and my Leonatus
Our Neighbour-Shepherd's Son. Enter Queen.

Cym.
Thou foolish thing;
They were again together, you have done

Not after our Command. Away with her,
And pen her up.

Queen.
Beseech your Patience; Peace,
Dear Lady Daughter, peace. Sweet Sovereign,
Leave us to our selves, and make your self some Comfort
Out of your best Advice.

Cym.
Nay let her languish
A drop of Blood aday, and being aged
Die of this Folly. [Exit. Enter Pisanio.

Queen.
Fie, you must give way:
Here is your Servant. How now, Sir? What News?

Pis.
My Lord your Son, drew on my Master.

Queen.
Hah!
No harm, I trust, is done?

Pis.
There might have been,
But that my Master rather play'd than fought,
And had no help of Anger: they were parted
By Gentlemen, at hand.

Queen.
I am very glad on't.

Imo.
Your Son's my Father's Friend, he takes his part
To draw upon an Exile; O brave Sir,
I would they were in Africk both together,
My self by with a Needle, that I might prick
The goer back. Why came you from your Master?

Pis.
On his command; he would not suffer me
To bring him to the Haven: Left these Notes
Of what Commands I should be subject to,
When't please you to employ me.

Queen.
This hath been
Your faithful Servant: I dare lay mine Honour
He will remain so.

Pis.
I humbly thank your Highness.

Queen.
Pray walk a while.

Imo.

About some half Hour hence, pray you speak with me;

1 Lord.

Sir, I would advise you to shift a Shirt; the Violence of Action hath made you reek as a Sacrifice: Where

Air comes out, Air comes in: There's none abroad so wholsome as that you vent.

Clot.

If my Shirt were bloody, then to shift it— Have I hurt him?

2 Lord.

No faith: Not so much as his Patience.

1 Lord.

Hurt him? His Body's a passable Carkass if he be not hurt. It is a through-fare for Steel if it be not hurt.

2 Lord.

His Steel was in debt, it went o'th'Back-side the Town.

Clot.

The Villain would not stand me.

2 Lord.

No, but he fled forward still, toward your Face.

1 Lord.
Stand you? you have Land enough of your own:
But he added to your having, gave you some ground.

2 Lord.
As many Inches, as you have Oceans, Puppies!

Clot.
I would they had not come between us.

2 Lord.

So would I, 'till you had measur'd how long a Fool you were upon the Ground.

Clot.

And that she should love this Fellow, and refuse me!

2 Lord.

If it be a Sin to make a true Election, she is damn'd.

1 Lord.

Sir, as I told you always, her Beauty and her Brain go not together. She's a good Sign, but I have seen small reflection of her Wit.

2 Lord.
She shines not upon Fools, lest the reflection
Should hurt her.

Clot.

Come, I'll to my Chamber: would there had been some hurt done.

2 Lord.

I wish not so, unless it had been the fall of an Ass, which is no great hurt.

Clot.

You'll go with us?

1 Lord.

I'll attend your Lordship.

Clot.

Nay come, let's go together.

2 Lord.

Well, my Lord.