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 Cat's-Guts, nor the Voice of unpav'd 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 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 your self
To orderly Solicits, 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, his Goodness fore-spent on us
We must extend our Notice: Our dear Son,
When you have given good Morning to your Mistress,
Attend the Queen, and us, we shall have need
T' employ you towards this Roman. Come, our Queen. [Exeunt.

Clot.
If she be up, I'll speak with her, if not,
Let her lye still, and dream: By your leave ho!
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, and makes
Diana's Rangers false themselves, and 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 the Case my self,
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 Tailors 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.

Clot.
Still I swear I love you.

Imo.
If you'd 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 Discourtesie
To your best Kindness: One of your great knowing
Should learn, being taught, Forbearance.

Clot.
To leave you in your Madness, 'twere my Sin,
I will not.

Imo.
Fools are 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 so verbal: And learn now, for all,
That I which 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
To accuse my self, I hate you: which I had rather
You felt, than make't my boast.

Clot.
You sin against
Obedience, which you owe your Father; for
The Contract you pretend with that base Wretch,
One, bred of Alms, and foster'd with cold Dishes,
With scraps o'th' Court, it is no Contract, none;
And though it be allow'd in meaner Parties,
Yet who than he more mean, to knit their Souls
On whom there is no more dependancy
But Brats and Beggary, in self-figur'd knot,
Yet you are curb'd from that Enlargement, by
The consequence o'th' Crown, and must not foil
The precious Note of it; with a base Slave,
A Hilding for a Livery, a Squire's Cloth,
A Pantler; not so eminent.

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 Kingdom; 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, is dearer
In my respect, than all the Hairs above thee,
Were they all made such Men. How now, Pisanio? Enter Pisanio.

Clot.
His Garment? Now the Devil.

Imo.
To Dorothy, my Woman, hye thee presently.

Clot.
His Garment?

Imo.
I am sprighted with a Fool,
Frighted, and angred worse—Go bid my Woman
Search for 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 Kings in Europe. I do think,

I saw't this morning; confident I am,
Last Night 'twas on my Arm; I kiss'd it,
I hope it be not gone, to tell my Lord
That I kiss ought 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.

Previous section

Next section