Post. 'Please your Highnesse, I will from hence to day
Qu. You know the perill: Ile fetch a turne about the Garden, pittying The pangs of barr'd Affections, though the King Hath charg'd you should not speake together.
Exit
Imo. O dissembling Curtesie! How fine this Tyrant Can tickle where she wounds? My deerest Husband, I something feare my Fathers wrath, but nothing (Alwayes reseru'd my holy duty) what His rage can do on me. You must be gone, And I shall heere abide the hourely shot Of angry eyes: not comforted to liue, But that there is this Iewell in the world, That I may see againe
Post. My Queene, my Mistris: O Lady, weepe no more, least I giue cause To be suspected of more tendernesse Then doth become a man. I will remaine The loyall'st husband, that did ere plight troth. My residence in Rome, at one Filorio's, Who, to my Father was a Friend, to me Knowne but by Letter; thither write (my Queene) And with mine eyes, Ile drinke the words you send, Though Inke be made of Gall. Enter Queene.
Qu. Be briefe, I pray you: If the King come, I shall incurre, I know not How much of his displeasure: yet Ile moue him To walke this way: I neuer do him wrong, But he do's buy my Iniuries, to be Friends: Payes deere for my offences
Post. Should we be taking leaue As long a terme as yet we haue to liue, The loathnesse to depart, would grow: Adieu
Imo. Nay, stay a little: Were you but riding forth to ayre your selfe, Such parting were too petty. Looke heere (Loue) This Diamond was my Mothers; take it (Heart) But keepe it till you woo another Wife, When Imogen is dead
Post. How, how? Another? You gentle Gods, giue me but this I haue, And seare vp my embracements from a next, With bonds of death. Remaine, remaine thou heere, While sense can keepe it on: And sweetest, fairest, As I (my poore selfe) did exchange for you To your so infinite losse; so in our trifles I still winne of you. For my sake weare this, It is a Manacle of Loue, Ile place it Vpon this fayrest Prisoner
Imo. O the Gods! When shall we see againe? Enter Cymbeline, and Lords.
Post. Alacke, the King
Cym. Thou basest thing, auoyd hence, from my sight: If after this command thou fraught the Court With thy vnworthinesse, thou dyest. Away, Thou'rt poyson to my blood
Post. The Gods protect you, And blesse the good Remainders of the Court: I am gone
Imo. There cannot be a pinch in death More sharpe then this is
Cym. O disloyall thing, That should'st repayre my youth, thou heap'st A yeares age on mee
Imo. I beseech you Sir, Harme not your selfe with your vexation, I am senselesse of your Wrath; a Touch more rare Subdues all pangs, all feares
Cym. Past Grace? Obedience? Imo. Past hope, and in dispaire, that way past Grace
Cym. That might'st haue had The sole Sonne of my Queene
Imo. O blessed, that I might not: I chose an Eagle, And did auoyd a Puttocke
Cym. Thou took'st a Begger, would'st haue made my Throne, a Seate for basenesse
Imo. No, I rather added a lustre to it
Cym. O thou vilde one! Imo. Sir, It is your fault that I haue lou'd Posthumus: You bred him as my Play-fellow, and he is A man, worth any woman: Ouer-buyes mee Almost the summe he payes
Cym. What? art thou mad? Imo. Almost Sir: Heauen restore me: would I were A Neat-heards Daughter, and my Leonatus Our Neighbour-Shepheards Sonne. Enter Queene.
Cym. Thou foolish thing; They were againe together: you haue done Not after our command. Away with her, And pen her vp