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 then they, must needs
Appear un-kinglike.

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.
Th'event
Is yet to name the winner. Fare you well.

Cym.
Leave not the worthy Lucius, good my lords,
'Till he have crost the Severn. Happiness! [Exit Lucius, &c.

Queen.
He goes hence frowning; but it honours us
That we have giv'n him cause.

Clot.
'Tis all the better,
Your valiant Britons 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've noted it. Call her before us, for
We've been too light in sufferance.

Queen.
Royal Sir,
Since th' 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? 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 giv'n 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 mem'ry.

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 fervor of her love, she's flown
To her desir'd 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.

Re-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 Queen.

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 each 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
The 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—

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