| ACT II Scene III | An ante-chamber adjoining Imogen's apartments. | |
| | Enter CLOTEN and Lords | |
| First Lord | Your lordship is the most patient man in loss, the | |
| | most coldest that ever turned up ace. | |
| CLOTEN | It would make any man cold to lose. | |
| First Lord | But not every man patient after the noble temper of | 5 |
| | your lordship. You are most hot and furious when you win. | |
| CLOTEN | Winning will put any man into courage. If I could | |
| | get this foolish Imogen, I should have gold enough. | |
| | It's almost morning, is't not? | |
| First Lord | Day, my lord. | 10 |
| CLOTEN | I would this music would come: I am advised to give | |
| | her music o' mornings; they say it will penetrate. | |
| | Enter Musicians. | |
| | Come on; tune: if you can penetrate her with your | |
| | fingering, so; we'll try with tongue too: if none | |
| | will do, let her remain; but I'll never give o'er. | 15 |
| | First, a very excellent good-conceited thing; | |
| | after, a wonderful sweet air, with admirable rich | |
| | words to it: and then let her consider. | |
| | SONG. | |
| | 'Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, | |
| | And Phoebus 'gins arise, | 20 |
| | His steeds to water at those springs | |
| | On chaliced flowers that lies; | |
| | And winking Mary-buds begin | |
| | To ope their golden eyes: | |
| | With every thing that pretty is, | 25 |
| | My lady sweet, arise: | |
| | Arise, arise.' | |
| CLOTEN | So, get you gone. If this penetrate, I will | |
| | consider your music the better: if it do not, it is | |
| | a vice in her ears, which horse-hairs and | 30 |
| | calves'-guts, nor the voice of unpaved eunuch to | |
| | boot, can never amend. | |
| | Exeunt Musicians. | |
| Second Lord | Here comes the king. | |
| CLOTEN | I am glad I was up so late; for that's the reason I | |
| | was up so early: he cannot choose but take this | 35 |
| | service I have done fatherly. | |
| | Enter CYMBELINE and QUEEN. | |
| | Good morrow to your majesty and to my gracious mother. | |
| CYMBELINE | Attend you here the door of our stern daughter? | |
| | Will she not forth? | |
| CLOTEN | I have assailed her with music, but she vouchsafes no notice. | 40 |
| 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 the king, | 45 |
| | 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 | 50 |
| | You were inspired 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. | 55 |
| | 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 | 60 |
| | 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 | 65 |
| | To 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. | |
| | Knocks. | |
| | By your leave, ho! | |
| | I Know her women are about her: what | 70 |
| | 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 the stand o' the stealer; and 'tis gold | |
| | Which makes the true man kill'd and saves the thief; | 75 |
| | 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. | |
| | Knocks. | |
| | By your leave. | 80 |
| | Enter a Lady. | |
| Lady | Who's there that knocks? | |
| CLOTEN | A gentleman. | |
| Lady | No more? | |
| CLOTEN | Yes, and a gentlewoman's son. | |
| Lady | Aside. That's more | 85 |
| | 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. | 90 |
| 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. | 95 |
| | 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. | 100 |
| 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, | 105 |
| | 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: | 110 |
| | 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; | 115 |
| | 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 the very truth of it, I care not for you, | 120 |
| | 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 | 125 |
| | The contract you pretend with that base wretch, | |
| | One bred of alms and foster'd with cold dishes, | |
| | With scraps o' the court, it is no contract, none: | |
| | And though it be allow'd in meaner parties-- | |
| | Yet who than he more mean?--to knit their souls, | 130 |
| | On whom there is no more dependency | |
| | But brats and beggary, in self-figured knot; | |
| | Yet you are curb'd from that enlargement by | |
| | The consequence o' the crown, and must not soil | |
| | The precious note of it with a base slave. | 135 |
| | 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 | 140 |
| | To be his groom: thou wert dignified enough, | |
| | Even to the point of envy, if 'twere made | |
| | Comparative for your virtues, to be styled | |
| | The under-hangman of his kingdom, and hated | |
| | For being preferred so well. | 145 |
| CLOTEN | The south-fog rot him! | |
| IMOGEN | He never can meet more mischance than come | |
| | To be but named of thee. His meanest garment, | |
| | That ever hath but clipp'd his body, is dearer | |
| | In my respect than all the hairs above thee, | 150 |
| | Were they all made such men. How now, Pisanio! | |
| | Enter PISANIO. | |
| CLOTEN | 'His garment!' Now the devil-- | |
| IMOGEN | To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently-- | |
| CLOTEN | 'His garment!' | |
| IMOGEN | I am sprited with a fool. | 155 |
| | Frighted, and anger'd 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 | 160 |
| | 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. | 165 |
| IMOGEN | I hope so: go and search. | |
| | Exit PISANIO. | |
| CLOTEN | You have abused me: | |
| | 'His meanest garment!' | |
| IMOGEN | Ay, I said so, sir: | |
| | If you will make't an action, call witness to't. | 170 |
| 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 the worst of discontent. | 175 |
| | Exit | |
| CLOTEN | I'll be revenged: | |
| | 'His meanest garment!' Well. | |
| | Exit | |
