Bel.
You are not well: remain here in the cave,
We'll come t'you after hunting.

Arv.
Brother, stay here:
Are we not brothers?

Imo.
So man and man should be,
But clay and clay differs in dignity,
Whose dust is both alike. I'm very sick.

Guid.
Go you to hunting, I'll abide with him.

Imo.
So sick I am not, yet I am not well,
But not so citizen a wanton, as
To seem to die, ere sick: so please you leave me,
Stick to your journal course; the breach of custom,
Is breach of all. I'm ill, but your being by me
Cannot amend me. Society is no comfort
To one not sociable: I'm not very sick,
Since I can reason of it. Pray you trust me here,
I'll rob none but my self, and let me die
Stealing so poorly.

Guid.
I love thee: I have spoke it,
How much the quantity, the weight as much,
As I do love my father.

Bel.
What? how? how?

Arv.
If it be sin to say so, Sir, I yoak me
In my good brother's fault: I know not why
I love this youth, and I have heard you say,
Love reasons without reason. The bier at door,
And a demand who is't shall die, I'd say
“My father, not this youth.

Bel.
Oh noble strain!
O worthiness of nature, breed of greatness!* ^note




I'm not their father, yet who this should be
Doth miracle it self; lov'd before me!
'Tis the ninth hour o'th' morn.

Arv.
Brother, farewell.

Imo.
I wish ye sport.

Arv.
You health—so please you, Sir.

Imo.
These are kind creatures. Gods, what lies I've heard!
Our courtiers say, all's savage, but at court:* ^note





I am sick still, heart-sick—Pisanio,
I'll now taste of thy drug. [Drinks out of the viol.

Guid.
I could not stir him;
He said that he was gentle, but unfortunate;
Dishonestly afflicted, but yet honest.

Arv.
Thus did he answer me; yet said, hereafter
I might know more.

Bel.
To th' field, to th' field:
We'll leave you for this time; go in, and rest.

Arv.
We'll not be long away.

Bel.
Pray be not sick,
For you must be our housewife.

Imo.
Well or ill,
I am bound to you. [Exit Imogen.

Bel.
And shalt be ever.
This youth, howe'er distress'd, appears to have had

Good ancestors.

Arv.
How angel-like he sings?

Guid.
But his neat cookery?

Arv.
He cut our roots in characters,
And sauc'd our broth, as Juno had been sick,
And he her dieter.

Arv.
Nobly he yokes
A smiling with a sigh.* ^note

Guid.
I do note,
That grief and patience rooted in him both,
Mingle their ^{a note}pow'rs together.* ^note

Bel.
It is great morning. Come away: who's there?

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