Cym. The Exile of her Minion is too new, She hath not yet forgot him, some more time Must weare the print of his remembrance on't, And then she's yours

Qu. You are most bound to'th' King, Who let's go by no vantages, that may Preferre you to his daughter: Frame your selfe To orderly solicity, and be friended With aptnesse of the season: make denials Encrease your Seruices: so seeme, as if You were inspir'd to do those duties which You tender to her: that you in all obey her, Saue when command to your dismission tends, And therein you are senselesse

Clot. Senselesse? Not so

Mes. So like you (Sir) Ambassadors from Rome; 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 receyue him According to the Honor of his Sender, And towards himselfe, his goodnesse fore-spent on vs We must extend our notice: Our deere Sonne, When you haue giuen good morning to your Mistris, Attend the Queene, and vs, we shall haue neede T' employ you towards this Romane. Come our Queene.


Clot. If she be vp, Ile speake with her: if not Let her lye still, and dreame: by your leaue hoa, I know her women are about her: what If I do line one of their hands, 'tis Gold Which buyes admittance (oft it doth) yea, and makes Diana's Rangers false themselues, yeeld vp Their Deere to'th' stand o'th' Stealer: and 'tis Gold Which makes the True-man kill'd, and saues the Theefe: Nay, sometime hangs both Theefe, and True-man: what Can it not do, and vndoo? I will make One of her women Lawyer to me, for I yet not vnderstand the case my selfe. By your leaue.


Enter a Lady.

La. Who's there that knockes? Clot. A Gentleman

La. No more

Clot. Yes, and a Gentlewomans Sonne

La. That's more Then some whose Taylors are as deere as yours, Can iustly boast of: what's your Lordships pleasure? Clot. Your Ladies person, is she ready? La. I, to keepe her Chamber

Clot. There is Gold for you, Sell me your good report

La. How, my good name? or to report of you What I shall thinke is good. The Princesse. Enter Imogen.

Clot. Good morrow fairest, Sister your sweet hand

Imo. Good morrow Sir, you lay out too much paines For purchasing but trouble: the thankes I giue, Is telling you that I am poore of thankes, And scarse can spare them

Clot. Still I sweare I loue you

Imo. If you but said so, 'twere as deepe with me: If you sweare still, your recompence is still That I regard it not

Clot. This is no answer

Imo. But that you shall not say, I yeeld being silent, I would not speake. I pray you spare me, 'faith I shall vnfold equall discourtesie To your best kindnesse: one of your great knowing Should learne (being taught) forbearance

Clot. To leaue you in your madnesse, 'twere my sin, I will not

Imo. Fooles are not mad Folkes

Clot. Do you call me Foole? Imo. As I am mad I do: If you'l be patient, Ile no more be mad, That cures vs both. I am much sorry (Sir) You put me to forget a Ladies manners By being so verball: and learne now, for all, That I which know my heart, do heere pronounce By th' very truth of it, I care not for you, And am so neere the lacke of Charitie To accuse my selfe, I hate you: which I had rather You felt, then make't my boast

Clot. You sinne against Obedience, which you owe your Father, for The Contract you pretend with that base Wretch, One, bred of Almes, and foster'd with cold dishes, With scraps o'th' Court: It is no Contract, none; And though it be allowed in meaner parties (Yet who then he more meane) to knit their soules (On whom there is no more dependancie But Brats and Beggery) in selfe-figur'd knot, Yet you are curb'd from that enlargement, by The consequence o'th' Crowne, and must not foyle The precious note of it; with a base Slaue, A Hilding for a Liuorie, a Squires Cloth, A Pantler; not so eminent

William Shakespeare
Classic Literature Library

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