Clot.
^{5 note}If she be up, I'll speak with her; if not,
Let her lye still, and dream. By your leave, ho! [Knocks.
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, makes
Diana's rangers false themselves, 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 myself.
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 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: ^{6 note}

Clot.
^{7 note}

Imo.
Fools cure 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, who 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
T' accuse my self, I hate you: which I had rather
You felt, than make 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 dependency
But brats and beggary,) ^{8 note}

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 realm; 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 had but clipt his body, 's 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 ^{9 note}
a jewel, that too casually
Hath left mine arm—it was thy master's. ^{1 note}
'Shrew me,
If I would lose it for a revenue
Of any King in Europe. I do think,
I saw't this morning; confident I am,
Last night 'twas on my arm; I kissed it.
^{2 note}
I hope, it be not gone, to tell my lord
That I kiss aught 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.

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