Queen.
No, be assur'd, you shall not find me, daughter,
After the slander of most step-mothers,
I'll-ey'd unto you: You're my pris'ner, 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.
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. Re-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 does 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 sear up my embracements from a next
With bonds of death. Remain, remain thou here, [Putting on the ring.
While sense can keep thee 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 pris'ner.

Imo.
O, the Gods!
When shall we see again?

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