Luc. I do not bid thee begge my life, good Lad, And yet I know thou wilt
Imo. No, no, alacke, There's other worke in hand: I see a thing Bitter to me, as death: your life, good Master, Must shuffle for it selfe
Luc. The Boy disdaines me, He leaues me, scornes me: briefely dye their ioyes, That place them on the truth of Gyrles, and Boyes. Why stands he so perplext? Cym. What would'st thou Boy? I loue thee more, and more: thinke more and more What's best to aske. Know'st him thou look'st on? speak Wilt haue him liue? Is he thy Kin? thy Friend? Imo. He is a Romane, no more kin to me, Then I to your Highnesse, who being born your vassaile Am something neerer
Cym. Wherefore ey'st him so? Imo. Ile tell you (Sir) in priuate, if you please To giue me hearing
Cym. I, with all my heart, And lend my best attention. What's thy name? Imo. Fidele Sir
Cym. Thou'rt my good youth: my Page Ile be thy Master: walke with me: speake freely
Bel. Is not this Boy reuiu'd from death? Arui. One Sand another Not more resembles that sweet Rosie Lad: Who dyed, and was Fidele: what thinke you? Gui. The same dead thing aliue
Bel. Peace, peace, see further: he eyes vs not, forbeare Creatures may be alike: were't he, I am sure He would haue spoke to vs
Gui. But we see him dead
Bel. Be silent: let's see further
Pisa. It is my Mistris: Since she is liuing, let the time run on, To good, or bad
Cym. Come, stand thou by our side, Make thy demand alowd. Sir, step you forth, Giue answer to this Boy, and do it freely, Or by our Greatnesse, and the grace of it (Which is our Honor) bitter torture shall Winnow the truth from falshood. One speake to him
Imo. My boone is, that this Gentleman may render Of whom he had this Ring
Post. What's that to him? Cym. That Diamond vpon your Finger, say How came it yours? Iach. Thou'lt torture me to leaue vnspoken, that Which to be spoke, wou'd torture thee
Cym. How? me? Iach. I am glad to be constrain'd to vtter that Which torments me to conceale. By Villany I got this Ring: 'twas Leonatus Iewell, Whom thou did'st banish: and which more may greeue thee, As it doth me: a Nobler Sir, ne're liu'd 'Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou heare more my Lord? Cym. All that belongs to this
Iach. That Paragon, thy daughter, For whom my heart drops blood, and my false spirits Quaile to remember. Giue me leaue, I faint
Cym. My Daughter? what of hir? Renew thy strength I had rather thou should'st liue, while Nature will, Then dye ere I heare more: striue man, and speake
Iach. Vpon a time, vnhappy was the clocke That strooke the houre: it was in Rome, accurst The Mansion where: 'twas at a Feast, oh would Our Viands had bin poyson'd (or at least Those which I heau'd to head:) the good Posthumus, (What should I say? he was too good to be Where ill men were, and was the best of all Among'st the rar'st of good ones) sitting sadly, Hearing vs praise our Loues of Italy For Beauty, that made barren the swell'd boast Of him that best could speake: for Feature, laming The Shrine of Venus, or straight-pight Minerua, Postures, beyond breefe Nature. For Condition, A shop of all the qualities, that man Loues woman for, besides that hooke of Wiuing, Fairenesse, which strikes the eye
Cym. I stand on fire. Come to the matter
Iach. All too soone I shall, Vnlesse thou would'st greeue quickly. This Posthumus, Most like a Noble Lord, in loue, and one That had a Royall Louer, tooke his hint, And (not dispraising whom we prais'd, therein He was as calme as vertue) he began His Mistris picture, which, by his tongue, being made, And then a minde put in't, either our bragges Were crak'd of Kitchin-Trulles, or his description Prou'd vs vnspeaking sottes