2 Gent. And why so? 1 Gent. He that hath miss'd the princess, is a thing Too bad for bad report: and he that hath her, 2 Gent. You speak him far. 1 Gent. I do extend him, sir, within himself; Crush him together, rather than unfold His measure duly. 2 Gent. What's his name, and birth? 1 Gent. I cannot delve him to the root: His father Was call'd Sicilius, who did join his honour, Two other sons; who, in the wars o'the time, Died with their swords in hand; for which, their fathe (Then old and fond of issue,) took such sorrow, Big of this gentleman, our theme, deceas'd To his protection; calls him Posthumus; What kind of man he is. He had two sons, (if this be worth your hearing, 2 Gent. How long is this ago? 1 Gent. Some twenty years. 2 Gent. That a king's children should be so con vey'd! So slackly guarded! And the search so slow, That could not trace them! 1 Gent. Howsoe'er 'tis strange, Or that the negligence may well be laugh'd at, Yet is it true, sir. 2 Gent. I do well believe you. 1 Gent. We must forbear: Here comes the gentle man, The queen, and princess. [Exeunt. SCENE II. The Same. Enter the Queen, POSTHUMUS, and IMOGEN. Queen. No, be assur'd, you shall not find me, daughter, After the slander of most step-mothers, Evil-ey'd unto you: you are my prisoner, but That lock up your restraint. For you, Posthumus, You lean'd unto his sentence, with what patience Post. I will from hence to-day. Queen. you. Please your highness, You know the peril : I'll fetch a turn about the garden, pitying [Exit Queen. Imo. Dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant Can tickle where she wounds!-My dearest husband, I something fear my father's wrath; but nothing, (Always reserv'd my holy duty,) what His rage can do on me: You must be gone; Post. My queen! my mistress! Known but by letter: thither write, my queen, Re-enter Queen. Queen. Be brief, I pray you: If the king come, I shall incur I know not How much of his displeasure:-Yet I'll move him [Aside. To walk this way: I never do him wrong, [Exit. Post. Should we be taking leave As long a term as yet we have to live, Were you but riding forth to air yourself, Such parting were too petty. Look here, love; When Imogen is dead. Post. How! how! another? You gentle gods, give me but this I have, And sear up my embracements from a next With bonds of death !—Remain, remain thou here [Putting on the ring. While sense can keep it on! And sweetest, fairest, As I my poor self did exchange for you, To your so infinite loss; so, in our trifles Upon this fairest prisoner. Cym. Thou basest thing, avoid! hence, from my sight! If, after this command thou fraught the court |