William Shakespeare - William Shakespeare - Complete Works

notice.

CYMBELINE. The exile of her minion is too new;

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 th' King,

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

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,

And therein you are senseless.

CLOTEN. Senseless? Not so.

Enter a MESSENGER

MESSENGER. So like you, sir, ambassadors from Rome;

The one is Caius Lucius.

CYMBELINE. A worthy fellow,

Albeit he comes on angry purpose now;

But that's no fault of his. We must receive him

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,

Attend the Queen and us; we shall have need

T' employ you towards this Roman. Come, our queen.

Exeunt all but CLOTEN

CLOTEN. If she be up, I'll speak with her; if not,

Let her lie still and dream. By your leave, ho! [Knocks]

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

Their deer to th' stand o' th' 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

One of her women lawyer to me, for

I yet not understand the case myself.

By your leave. [Knocks]

Enter a LADY

LADY. Who's there that knocks?

CLOTEN. A gentleman.

LADY. No more?

CLOTEN. Yes, and a gentlewoman's son.

LADY. That's more

Than some whose tailors are as dear as yours

Can justly boast of. What's your lordship's pleasure?

CLOTEN. Your lady's person; is she ready?

LADY. Ay,

To keep her chamber.

CLOTEN. There is gold for you; sell me your good report.

LADY. How? My good name? or to report of you

What I shall think is good? The Princess!

Enter IMOGEN

CLOTEN. Good morrow, fairest sister. Your sweet hand.

Exit LADY

IMOGEN. Good morrow, sir. You lay out too much pains

For purchasing but trouble. The thanks I give

Is telling you that I am poor of thanks,

And scarce can spare them.

CLOTEN. Still I swear I love you.

IMOGEN. If you but said so, 'twere as deep with me.

If you swear still, your recompense is still

That I regard it not.

CLOTEN. This is no answer.

IMOGEN. 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

Should learn, being taught, forbearance.

CLOTEN. To leave you in your madness 'twere my sin;

I will not.

IMOGEN. Fools are not mad folks.

CLOTEN. Do you call me fool?

IMOGEN. 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,

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 th' very truth of it, I care not for you,

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.

CLOTEN. You sin against

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' th' court- it is no contract, none.

And though it be allowed in meaner parties-

Yet who than he more mean?- to knit their souls-

On whom there is no more dependency

But brats and beggary- in self-figur'd knot,

Yet you are curb'd from that enlargement by

The consequence o' th' crown, and must not foil

The precious note of it with a base slave,

A hilding for a livery, a squire's cloth,

A pantler- not so eminent!

IMOGEN. Profane fellow!

Wert thou the son of Jupiter, and no more

But what thou art besides, thou wert too base

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

For being preferr'd so well.

CLOTEN. The south fog rot him!

IMOGEN. He never can meet more mischance than come

To be but nam'd of thee. His mean'st garment

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

CLOTEN. 'His garments'! Now the devil-

IMOGEN. To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently.

CLOTEN. 'His garment'!

IMOGEN. I am sprited with a fool;

Frighted, and ang'red 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

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

That I kiss aught but he.

PISANIO. 'Twill not be lost.

IMOGEN. I hope so. Go and search. Exit PISANIO

CLOTEN. You have abus'd me.

'His meanest garment'!

IMOGEN. Ay, I said so, sir.

If you will make 't an action, call witness to 't.

CLOTEN. I will inform your father.

IMOGEN. Your mother too.

She's my good lady and will conceive, I hope,

But the worst of me. So I leave you, sir,

To th' worst of discontent. Exit

CLOTEN. I'll be reveng'd.

'His mean'st garment'! Well. Exit

Enter POSTHUMUS and PHILARIO

POSTHUMUS. Fear it not, sir; I would I were so sure

To win the King as I am bold her honour

Will remain hers.

PHILARIO. What means do you make to him?

POSTHUMUS. Not any; but abide the change of time,

Quake in the present winter's state, and wish

That warmer days would come. In these fear'd hopes

I barely gratify your love; they failing,

I must die much your debtor.

PHILARIO. Your very goodness and your company

O'erpays all I can do. By this your king

Hath heard of great Augustus. Caius Lucius

Will do's commission throughly; and I think

He'll grant the tribute, send th' arrearages,

Or look upon our Romans, whose remembrance

Is yet fresh in their grief.

POSTHUMUS. I do believe

Statist though I am none, nor like to be,

That this will prove a war; and you shall hear

The legions now in Gallia sooner landed

In our not-fearing Britain than have tidings

Of any penny tribute paid. Our countrymen

Are men more order'd than when Julius Caesar

Smil'd at their lack of skill, but found their courage

Worthy his frowning at. Their discipline,

Now mingled with their courages, will make known

To their approvers they are people such

That mend upon the world.

Enter IACHIMO

PHILARIO. See! Iachimo!

POSTHUMUS. The swiftest harts have posted you by land,

And winds of all the comers kiss'd your sails,

To make your vessel nimble.

PHILARIO. Welcome, sir.

POSTHUMUS. I hope the briefness of your answer made

The speediness of your return.