Cymbeline | Page 8

is an earnest of a further good?That I mean to thee. Tell thy mistress how?The case stands with her; do't as from thyself.?Think what a chance thou changest on; but think?Thou hast thy mistress still; to boot, my son,?Who shall take notice of thee. I'll move the King?To any shape of thy preferment such?As thou'lt desire; and then myself, I chiefly,?That set thee on to this desert, am bound?To load thy merit richly. Call my women.?Think on my words.
[Exit PISANIO.]
A sly and constant knave,?Not to be shak'd; the agent for his master?And the remembrancer of her to hold?The hand-fast to her lord. I have given him that?Which, if he take, shall quite unpeople her?Of liegers for her sweet, and which she after,?Except she bend her humour, shall be assur'd?To taste of too.
[Re-enter PISANIO and LADIES.]
So, so; well done, well done.?The violets, cowslips, and the primroses,?Bear to my closet. Fare thee well, Pisanio;?Think on my words.
[Exeunt QUEEN and LADIES.]
PISANIO.?And shall do;?But when to my good lord I prove untrue,?I'll choke myself. There's all I'll do for you.
[Exit.]
SCENE VI.
The same. Another room in the palace.
[Enter IMOGEN.]
IMOGEN.?A father cruel, and a step-dame false;?A foolish suitor to a wedded lady,?That hath her husband banish'd;--O, that husband!?My supreme crown of grief! and those repeated?Vexations of it! Had I been thief-stolen,?As my two brothers, happy! but most miserable?Is the desire that's glorious. Blessed be those,?How mean soe'er, that have their honest wills,?Which seasons comfort. Who may this be? Fie!
[Enter PISANIO and IACHIMO.]
PISANIO.?Madam, a noble gentleman of Rome?Comes from my lord with letters.
IACHIMO.?Change you, madam??The worthy Leonatus is in safety?And greets your Highness dearly.
[Presents a letter]
IMOGEN.?Thanks, good sir;?You're kindly welcome.
IACHIMO.
[Aside.]
All of her that is out of door most rich!?If she be furnish'd with a mind so rare,?She is alone, the Arabian bird, and I?Have lost the wager. Boldness be my friend!?Arm me, audacity, from head to foot!?Or, like the Parthian, I shall flying fight;?Rather, directly fly.
IMOGEN.
[Reads]
"--He is one of the noblest note, to whose?kindnesses I am most infinitely tied. Reflect upon him?accordingly, as you value your trust-- LEONATUS"
So far I read aloud--?But even the very middle of my heart?Is warm'd by the rest--and take it thankfully.?You are as welcome, worthy sir, as I?Have words to bid you; and shall find it so?In all that I can do.
IACHIMO.?Thanks, fairest lady.?What, are men mad? Hath nature given them eyes?To see this vaulted arch, and the rich crop?Of sea and land, which can distinguish 'twixt?The fiery orbs above and the twinn'd stones?Upon the number'd beach, and can we not?Partition make with spectacles so precious?'Twixt fair and foul?
IMOGEN.?What makes your admiration?
IACHIMO.?It cannot be i' the eye, for apes and monkeys?'Twixt two such shes would chatter this way and?Contemn with mows the other; nor i' the judgement,?For idiots in this case of favour would?Be wisely definite; nor i' the appetite;?Sluttery to such neat excellence oppos'd?Should make desire vomit emptiness,?Not so allur'd to feed.
IMOGEN.?What is the matter, trow?
IACHIMO.?The cloyed will,--?That satiate yet unsatisfi'd desire, that tub?Both fill'd and running,--ravening first the lamb,?Longs after for the garbage.
IMOGEN.?What, dear sir,?Thus raps you? Are you well?
IACHIMO.?Thanks, madam; well.
[To PISANIO.]
Beseech you, sir, desire?My man's abode where I did leave him.?He is strange and peevish.
PISANIO.?I was going, sir,?To give him welcome.
[Exit.]
IMOGEN.?Continues well my lord? His health, beseech you?
IACHIMO.?Well, madam.
IMOGEN.?Is he dispos'd to mirth? I hope he is.
IACHIMO.?Exceeding pleasant; none a stranger there?So merry and so gamesome. He is call'd?The Briton reveller.
IMOGEN.?When he was here,?He did incline to sadness, and oft-times?Not knowing why.
IACHIMO.?I never saw him sad.?There is a Frenchman his companion, one?An eminent monsieur, that, it seems, much loves?A Gallian girl at home. He furnaces?The thick sighs from him; whiles the jolly Briton--?Your lord, I mean--laughs from's free lungs, cries "O,?Can my sides hold, to think that man, who knows?By history, report, or his own proof,?What woman is, yea, what she cannot choose?But must be, will his free hours languish for?Assured bondage?"
IMOGEN.?Will my lord say so?
IACHIMO.?Ay, madam, with his eyes in flood with laughter.?It is a recreation to be by?And hear him mock the Frenchman. But, heavens know,?Some men are much to blame.
IMOGEN.?Not he, I hope.
IACHIMO.?Not he; but yet heaven's bounty towards him might?Be used more thankfully. In himself, 'tis much;?In you--which I account his--beyond all talents.?Whilst I am bound to wonder, I am bound?To pity too.
IMOGEN.?What do you pity, sir?
IACHIMO.?Two creatures heartily.
IMOGEN.?Am I one, sir??You look on me; what wreck discern you in me?Deserves your pity?
IACHIMO.?Lamentable! What,?To hide me from the radiant sun, and solace?I' the dungeon by a snuff?
IMOGEN.?I pray you, sir,?Deliver with more openness your answers?To my demands. Why do you pity me?
IACHIMO.?That others do,?I was about to say, enjoy your--But?It is an office of the gods to venge it,?Not mine to speak on't.
IMOGEN.?You do seem to know?Something of me, or what concerns me: pray you,--?Since doubting things go ill often hurts more?Than to be