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Screw'd to my memory? She hath been reading late The tale of Tereus; here the leaf's turn'd down, Where Philomel gave up.
I have enough: To the trunk again, and shut the spring of it. Swift, swift, you dragons of the night! that dawning May bare the raven's eye: I lodge in fear; Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here.
[Clock strikes. One, two, three :—Time, time!
[Goes into the Trunk.--The Scene closes.
Enter Cloten and the Two Lords.
I Lord. Your lordship is the most patient man in loss, the coldest that ever turned up ace.
Cloten. It would make any man cold to lose.
1 Lord. But not every man patient, after the noble temper of 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?
2 Lord. Day, my lord.
Cloten. I would the maskers and musicians were come; I am advised to give her music o' mornings; they say, it will penetrate.
[A Flourish of Music within. 1 Lord. Here they are, my
lord. Cloten. Come, let's join them.
An Antechamber to Imogen's Apartment.
Enter Cloten, the Two Lords, Musicians, as
Cloten. Come on, tune first a very excellent good conceited thing, after a wonderful sweet air, with admirable rich words to it, and then let her consider.
Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phœbus 'gins arise,
On chalic'd flowers that lies;
To ope their golden eyes;
My lady sweet 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 cats'-guts, nor the voice of eunuch to boot, can never amend. Come, now to our dancing.
Enter Dancers. And if she is immoveable with this, she is an immoveable princess, and not worth my notice.
A Dance of Maskers. Cloten. Leave us to ourselves. [Exeunt Lords, &c. If she be
I'll speak with her; if not, Let her lie still, arid dream.—By your leave, ho!
Helen, That's more
Cloten. Your lady's person: Is she ready?
report. Helen. How? my good name? or to report of you What I shall think is good ? The princess
Cloten. Good morrow, fairest sister: Your sweet hand.
Imog. Good-morrow, sir: You lay out too much
Cloten. Still, I swear, I love you.
'twere as deep with me:
Cloten. This is no answer.
Cloten. To leave you in your madness, twere my
Imog. Fools cure not mad folks.
Imog. As I am. mad, I do:
Imog. Profane fellow!
Cloten. The south fog rot him !
Imog. He never can meet more mischance, than
In my respect, than all the hairs above thee,
Cloten. How now?
[Misses her Bracelet. Cloten. His garment? Now, the devil
Imog. I am sprited with a fool;
Pisanio. 'Twill not be lost.
#S 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.
[Exit. ) Cloten. I'll be reveng'd:His meanest garment ?