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

Arv.
Brother, stay here: [To Imogen.
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 myself; 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 yoke 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.
O noble strain!

O worthiness of nature, breed of greatness!
Cowards father cowards, and base things sire the base:
Nature hath meal and bran; contempt and grace.
I'm not their father; yet who this should be,
Doth miracle itself, lov'd before me!—
'Tis the ninth hour o' th' morn.

Arv.
Brother, farewel.

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:
Experience, oh, how thou disprov'st report,—
Th' imperious seas breed monsters; for the dish,
Poor tributary rivers as sweet fish;
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, 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, to the Cave.

Bel.
And shall 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, as if the sigh
Was that it was, for not being such a smile:
The smile mocking the sigh, that it would fly
From so divine a temple, to commix
With winds that sailors rail at.

Guid.
I do note,
That grief and patience, rooted in him both,
^{2 note}Mingle their spurs together.

Arv.
Grow, Patience!
And let the stinking Elder, Grief, untwine
His perishing root, with the encreasing vine!

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

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