Enter Cymbeline, Queene, Cloten, Lucius, and Lords.
Cym. Thus farre, and so farewell
Luc. Thankes, Royall Sir: My Emperor hath wrote, I must from hence, And am right sorry, that I must report ye My Masters Enemy
Cym. Our Subiects (Sir) Will not endure his yoake; and for our selfe To shew lesse Soueraignty then they, must needs Appeare vn-Kinglike
Luc. So Sir: I desire of you A Conduct ouer Land, to Milford-Hauen. Madam, all ioy befall your Grace, and you
Cym. My Lords, you are appointed for that Office: The due of Honor, in no point omit: So farewell Noble Lucius
Luc. Your hand, my Lord
Clot. Receiue it friendly: but from this time forth I weare it as your Enemy
Luc. Sir, the Euent Is yet to name the winner. Fare you well
Cym. Leaue not the worthy Lucius, good my Lords Till he haue crost the Seuern. Happines.
Exit Lucius, &c Qu. He goes hence frowning: but it honours vs That we haue giuen him cause
Clot. 'Tis all the better, Your valiant Britaines haue their wishes in it
Cym. Lucius hath wrote already to the Emperor How it goes heere. It fits vs therefore ripely Our Chariots, and our Horsemen be in readinesse: The Powres that he already hath in Gallia Will soone be drawne to head, from whence he moues His warre for Britaine
Qu. 'Tis not sleepy businesse, But must be look'd too speedily, and strongly
Cym. Our expectation that it would be thus Hath made vs forward. But my gentle Queene, Where is our Daughter? She hath not appear'd Before the Roman, nor to vs hath tender'd The duty of the day. She looke vs like A thing more made of malice, then of duty, We haue noted it. Call her before vs, for We haue beene too slight in sufferance
Qu. Royall Sir, Since the exile of Posthumus, most retyr'd Hath her life bin: the Cure whereof, my Lord, 'Tis time must do. Beseech your Maiesty, Forbeare sharpe speeches to her. Shee's a Lady So tender of rebukes, that words are stroke; And strokes death to her. Enter a Messenger.
Cym. Where is she Sir? How Can her contempt be answer'd? Mes. Please you Sir, Her Chambers are all lock'd, and there's no answer That will be giuen to'th' lowd of noise, we make
Qu. My Lord, when last I went to visit her, She pray'd me to excuse her keeping close, Whereto constrain'd by her infirmitie, She should that dutie leaue vnpaide to you Which dayly she was bound to proffer: this She wish'd me to make knowne: but our great Court Made me too blame in memory
Cym. Her doores lock'd? Not seene of late? Grant Heauens, that which I Feare, proue false. Enter.
Qu. Sonne, I say, follow the King
Clot. That man of hers, Pisanio, her old Seruant I haue not seene these two dayes. Enter.
Qu. Go, looke after: Pisanio, thou that stand'st so for Posthumus, He hath a Drugge of mine: I pray, his absence Proceed by swallowing that. For he beleeues It is a thing most precious. But for her, Where is she gone? Haply dispaire hath seiz'd her: Or wing'd with feruour of her loue, she's flowne To her desir'd Posthumus: gone she is, To death, or to dishonor, and my end Can make good vse of either. Shee being downe, I haue the placing of the Brittish Crowne. Enter Cloten.
How now, my Sonne? Clot. 'Tis certaine she is fled: Go in and cheere the King, he rages, none Dare come about him
Qu. All the better: may This night fore-stall him of the comming day.