Cymbeline | Page 4

may be truly read
What kind of man he is.
SECOND GENTLEMAN.
I honour him
Even out of your report.
But, pray you, tell me,
Is she sole child to the King?
FIRST GENTLEMAN.
His only child.
He had two sons,--if this
be worth your hearing,
Mark it--the eldest of them at three years old,

I' the swathing-clothes the other, from their nursery
Were stolen,
and to this hour no guess in knowledge
Which way they went.
SECOND GENTLEMAN.
How long is this ago?
FIRST GENTLEMAN. Some twenty years.
SECOND GENTLEMAN.
That a king's children should be so
convey'd,
So slackly guarded, and the search so slow,
That could
not trace them!

FIRST GENTLEMAN.
Howsoe'er 'tis strange,
Or that the
negligence may well be laugh'd at,
Yet is it true, sir.
SECOND GENTLEMAN.
I do well believe you.
FIRST GENTLEMAN.
We must forbear; here comes the gentleman,

The Queen, and Princess.
[Exeunt.]
[Enter the QUEEN, POSTHUMUS, and IMOGEN.]
QUEEN.
No, be assur'd you shall not find me, daughter,
After the
slander of most stepmothers,
Evil-ey'd unto you. You're my prisoner,
but
Your gaoler shall deliver you the keys
That lock up your
restraint. For you, Posthumus,
So soon as I can win the 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.
POSTHUMUS.
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.]
IMOGEN.
O dissembling courtesy! 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.
POSTHUMUS.
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 loyal'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.
[Aside.]
Yet I'll move him
To walk this way. I never do him wrong
But he
does buy my injuries, to be friends;
Pays dear for my offences.
[Exit.]
POSTHUMUS.
Should we be taking leave
As long a term as yet
we have to live,
The loathness to depart would grow. Adieu!
IMOGEN.
Nay, stay a little.
Were you but riding forth to air
yourself,
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.
POSTHUMUS.
How, how! another?
You gentle gods, give me but
this I have,
And cere up my embracements from a next
With bonds
of death! Remain, remain thou here
[Putting on the ring.]
While sense can keep it 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


Upon this fairest prisoner.
[Putting a bracelet upon her arm.]
IMOGEN.
O the gods!
When shall we see again?
[Enter CYMBELINE and LORDS.]
POSTHUMUS.
Alack, the King!
CYMBELINE.
Thou basest thing, avoid! Hence, from my sight!
If
after this command thou fraught the court
With thy unworthiness,
thou diest. Away!
Thou'rt poison to my blood.
POSTHUMUS.
The gods protect you!
And bless the good
remainders of the court!
I am gone.
[Exit.]
IMOGEN.
There cannot be a pinch in death
More sharp than this
is.
CYMBELINE.
O disloyal thing,
That shouldst repair my youth,
thou heap'st
A year's age on me!
IMOGEN.
I beseech you, sir,
Harm not yourself with your
vexation.
I am senseless of your wrath; a touch more rare
Subdues
all pangs, all fears.
CYMBELINE.
Past grace? obedience?
IMOGEN.
Past hope, and in despair; that way, past grace.
CYMBELINE.
That mightst have had the sole son of my queen!
IMOGEN.
O blest, that I might not! I chose an eagle,
And did
avoid a puttock.

CYMBELINE.
Thou took'st a beggar; wouldst have made my throne

A seat for baseness.
IMOGEN.
No; I rather added
A lustre to it.
CYMBELINE.
O thou vile one!
IMOGEN.
Sir, It is your fault that I have lov'd Posthumus.
You
bred him as my playfellow, and he is
A man worth any woman;
overbuys me
Almost the sum he pays.
CYMBELINE.
What, art thou mad?
IMOGEN.
Almost, sir; heaven restore me! Would I were
A
neat-herd's daughter, and my Leonatus
Our neighbour shepherd's son!
[Re-enter QUEEN.]
CYMBELINE. Thou foolish thing!
--They were again together; you
have done
Not after our command. Away with her,
And pen her up.
QUEEN.
Beseech your patience. Peace,
Dear lady daughter, peace!
Sweet sovereign,
Leave us to ourselves, and make yourself some
comfort
Out of your best advice.
CYMBELINE.
Nay, let her languish
A drop of blood a day; and,
being aged,
Die