'T is in my cloak-bag-doublet, hat, hose, all That answer to them. Would you in their serving, From youth of such a season, fore noble Lucius Wherein you 're happy,-which you 'll make him know, Beginning nor supplyment. Imogen. 170 Thou art all the comfort 180 but we 'll even The gods will diet me with. Prithee, away : There's more to be consider'd; All that good time will give us. This attempt I am soldier to, and will abide it with Pisanio. Well, madam, we must take a short farewell, Your carriage from the court. My noble mistress, What 's in 't is precious; if you are sick at sea, Imogen. Amen! I thank thee. [Exeunt, severally. SCENE V. A Room in Cymbeline's Palace. Enter CYMBELINE, QUEEN, CLOTEN, LUCIUS, Lords, and At tendants. Cymbeline. Thus far; and so farewell. Lucius. Thanks, royal sir. My emperor hath wrote, I must from hence; And am right sorry that I must report ye My master's enemy. Cymbeline. Our subjects, sir, Will not endure his yoke; and for ourself To show less sovereignty than they, must needs Cymbeline. My lords, you are appointed for that office; The due of honour in no point omit.— So farewell, noble Lucius. Lucius. Your hand, my lord. Cloten. Receive it friendly; but from this time forth I wear it as your enemy. Lucius. Sir, the event Is yet to name the winner; fare you well. Cymbeline. Leave not the worthy Lucius, good my lords, Till he have cross'd the Severn.-Happiness! ΙΟ [Exeunt Lucius and Lords. Queen. He goes hence frowning; but it honours us That we have given him cause. 'T is all the better; Cloten. Cymbeline. Lucius hath wrote already to the emperor The powers that he already hath in Gallia Will soon be drawn to head, from whence he moves Queen. is not sleepy business, But must be look'd to speedily and strongly. Cymbeline. Our expectation that it would be thus Hath made us forward. But, my gentle queen, 20 Where is our daughter? She hath not appear'd 30 We have been too slight in sufferance. [Exit an Attendant. Queen. Royal sir, Since the exile of Posthumus, most retir’d Cymbeline. Re-enter Attendant. Where is she, sir? How Can her contempt be answer'd? Attendant. Please you, sir, Her chambers are all lock'd; and there 's no answer She wish'd me to make known, but our great court Cymbeline. Her doors lock'd? Not seen of late? Grant, heavens, that which I fear Queen. Son, I say, follow the king. Cloten. That man of hers, Pisanio, her old servant, I have not seen these two days 40 50 [Exit. Go, look after.-[Exit Cloten. Queen. He hath a drug of mine; I pray his absence But for her, Where is she gone? Haply, despair hath seiz'd her, 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, How now, my son ! Cloten. Re-enter CLOTEN. 'T is certain she is fled. Go in and cheer the king: he rages; none Dare come about him. Queen. [Aside] All the better; may This night forestall him of the coming day! Cloten. 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 every one The best she hath, and she, of all compounded, The low Posthumus slanders so her judgment To be reveng'd upon her. For when fools Shall Enter PISANIO. Who is here? What, are you packing, sirrah? Pisanio. [Exit. O, good my lord! Cloten. Where is thy lady? or, by Jupiter, 60 70 80 I will not ask again. Close villain, I'll have this secret from thy heart, or rip Thy heart to find it. Is she with Posthumus? From whose so many weights of baseness cannot Pisanio. Alas, my lord, How can she be with him? When was she miss'd? He is in Rome. Cloten. Where is she, sir? Come nearer; No further halting: satisfy me home What is become of her. Pisanio. O, my all-worthy lord! All-worthy villain! Discover where thy mistress is at once, Pisanio. This paper is the history of my knowledge Touching her flight. Cloten. 90 Then, sir, [Presenting a letter. [Aside] Or this, or perish. Even to Augustus' throne. Pisanio. She's far enough; and what he learns by this May prove his travel, not her danger. Cloten. Hum! Pisanio. [Aside] I'll write to my lord she's dead. O Imo gen, Safe mayst thou wander, safe return again! Cloten. Sirrah, is this letter true? Pisanio. Sir, as I think. Cloten. It is Posthumus' hand; I know 't.—Sirrah, if thou wouldst not be a villain, but do me true service, undergo those employments wherein I should have cause to use thee with a serious industry, that is, what villany soe'er I bid thee |