An Ante-chamber adjoining IMOGEN’S Apartments. | |
| |
Enter CLOTEN and Lords. | |
| First Lord. Your lordship is the most patient man in loss, the most coldest that ever turned up ace. | |
| Clo. It would make any man cold to lose. | 4 |
| First Lord. But not every man patient after the noble temper of your lordship. You are most hot and furious when you win. | |
| Clo. Winning will put any man into courage. If I could get this foolish Imogen, I should have gold enough. It’s almost morning, is ’t not? | |
| First Lord. Day, my lord. | |
| Clo. I would this music would come. I am advised to give her music o’ mornings; they say it will penetrate. | 8 |
| |
Enter Musicians. | |
| Come on; tune. If you can penetrate her with your fingering, so; we’ll try with tongue too: if none will do, let her remain; but I’ll never give o’er. First, a very excellent good-conceited thing; after, a wonderful sweet air, with admirable rich words to it: and then let her consider. | |
| |
| SONG. |
| Hark! hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings, |
| And Phœbus ’gins arise, |
| His steeds to water at those springs |
| On chalic’d flowers that lies; |
| And winking Mary-buds begin |
| To ope their golden eyes: |
| With every thing that pretty is, |
| My lady sweet, arise: |
| Arise, arise! |
| |
| So, get you gone. If this penetrate, I will consider your music the better; if it do not, it is a vice in her ears, which horse-hairs and calves’-guts, nor the voice of unpaved eunuch to boot, can never amend. [Exeunt Musicians. | 12 |
| Sec. Lord. Here comes the king. | |
| Clo. I am glad I was up so late, for that’s the reason I was up so early; he cannot choose but take this service I have done fatherly. | |
| |
Enter CYMBELINE and QUEEN. | |
| Good morrow to your majesty and to my gracious mother. | 16 |
| Cym. Attend you here the door of our stern daughter? | |
| Will she not forth? | |
| Clo. I have assail’d her with musics, but she vouchsafes no notice. | |
| Cym. The exile of her minion is too new, | 20 |
| She hath not yet forgot him; some more time | |
| Must wear the print of his remembrance out, | |
| And then she’s yours. | |
| Queen. You are most bound to the king, | 24 |
| Who lets go by no vantages that may | |
| Prefer you to his daughter. Frame yourself | |
| To orderly soliciting, and be friended | |
| With aptness of the season; make denials | 28 |
| Increase your services; so seem as if | |
| You were inspir’d to do those duties which | |
| You tender to her; that you in all obey her | |
| Save when command to your dismission tends, | 32 |
| And therein you are senseless. | |
| Clo. Senseless! not so. | |
| |
Enter a Messenger. | |
| Mess. So like you, sir, ambassadors from Rome; | 36 |
| The one is Caius Lucius. | |
| Cym. A worthy fellow, | |
| Albeit he comes on angry purpose now; | |
| But that’s no fault of his: we must receive him | 40 |
| According to the honour of his sender; | |
| And towards himself, his goodness forespent on us, | |
| We must extend our notice. Our dear son, | |
| When you have given good morning to your mistress, | 44 |
| Attend the queen and us; we shall have need | |
| To employ you towards this Roman. Come, our queen. [Exeunt all but CLOTEN. | |
| Clo. If she be up, I’ll speak with her; if not, | |
| Let her lie still, and dream. By your leave, ho! [Knocks. | 48 |
| 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, and makes | |
| Diana’s rangers false themselves, yield up | 52 |
| Their deer to the stand o’ the stealer; and ’tis gold | |
| Which makes the true man kill’d and saves the thief; | |
| Nay, sometime hangs both thief and true man. What | |
| Can it not do and undo? I will make | 56 |
| One of her women lawyer to me, for | |
| I yet not understand the case myself. | |
| By your leave. [Knocks. | |
| |
Enter a Lady. | 60 |
| Lady. Who’s there, that knocks? | |
| Clo. A gentleman. | |
| Lady. No more? | |
| Clo. Yes, and a gentlewoman’s son. | 64 |
| Lady. [Aside.] That’s more | |
| Than some whose tailors are as dear as yours | |
| Can justly boast of. What’s your lordship’s pleasure? | |
| Clo. Your lady’s person: is she ready? | 68 |
| Lady. Ay, | |
| To keep her chamber. | |
| Clo. There’s gold for you; sell me your good report. | |
| Lady. How! my good name? or to report of you | 72 |
| What I shall think is good?—The princess! | |
| |
Enter IMOGEN. | |
| Clo. Good morrow, fairest; sister, your sweet hand. [Exit Lady. | |
| Imo. Good morrow, sir. You lay out too much pains | 76 |
| For purchasing but trouble; the thanks I give | |
| Is telling you that I am poor of thanks | |
| And scarce can spare them. | |
| Clo. Still, I swear I love you. | 80 |
| Imo. If you but said so, ’twere as deep with me: | |
| If you swear still, your recompense is still | |
| That I regard it not. | |
| Clo. This is no answer. | 84 |
| 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 discourtesy | |
| To your best kindness. One of your great knowing | 88 |
| Should learn, being taught, forbearance. | |
| Clo. To leave you in your madness, ’twere my sin: | |
| I will not. | |
| Imo. Fools cure not mad folks. | 92 |
| Clo. 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, | 96 |
| You put me to forget a lady’s manners, | |
| By being so verbal; and learn now, for all, | |
| That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce | |
| By the very truth of it, I care not for you; | 100 |
| And am so near the lack of charity,— | |
| To accuse myself,—I hate you; which I had rather | |
| You felt than make ’t my boast. | |
| Clo. You sin against | 104 |
| 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’ the court, it is no contract, none; | 108 |
| 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 dependancy | |
| But brats and beggary—in self-figur’d knot; | 112 |
| Yet you are curb’d from that enlargement by | |
| The consequence o’ the crown, and must not soil | |
| The precious note of it with a base slave, | |
| A hilding for a livery, a squire’s cloth, | 116 |
| A pantler, not so eminent. | |
| Imo. Profane fellow! | |
| Wert thou the son of Jupiter, and no more | |
| But what thou art besides, thou wert too base | 120 |
| To be his groom; thou wert dignified enough, | |
| Even to the point of envy, if ’twere made | |
| Comparative for your virtues, to be styl’d | |
| The under-hangman of his kingdom, and hated | 124 |
| For being preferr’d so well. | |
| Clo. The south-fog rot him! | |
| Imo. He never can meet more mischance than come | |
| To be but nam’d of thee. His meanest garment | 128 |
| That ever hath but clipp’d his body, is dearer | |
| In my respect than all the hairs above thee, | |
| Were they all made such men. How now, Pisanio! | |
| |
Enter PISANIO. | 132 |
| Clo. ‘His garment!’ Now, the devil— | |
| Imo. To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently,— | |
| Clo. ‘His garment!’ | |
| Imo. I am sprighted with a fool, | 136 |
| Frighted, and anger’d worse. Go, bid my woman | |
| Search for a jewel that too casually | |
| Hath left mine arm; it was thy master’s, ’shrew me | |
| If I would lose it for a revenue | 140 |
| Of any king’s in Europe. I do think | |
| I saw ’t this morning; confident I am | |
| Last night ’twas on mine arm, I kiss’d it; | |
| I hope it be not gone to tell my lord | 144 |
| That I kiss aught but he. | |
| Pis. ’Twill not be lost. | |
| Imo. I hope so; go, and search. [Exit PISANIO. | |
| Clo. You have abus’d me: | 148 |
| ‘His meanest garment!’ | |
| Imo. Ay, I said so, sir: | |
| If you will make ’t an action, call witness to ’t. | |
| Clo. I will inform your father. | 152 |
| 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 the worst of discontent. [Exit. | 156 |
| Clo. I’ll be reveng’d. | |
| ‘His meanest garment!’ Well. [Exit. | |
