Though this a heav'nly angel, hell is here. [Clock ftrikes. One, two, three: time, time! [Goes into the trunk, the Scene closes. SCENE III. Without the Palace under Imogen's Apartment. 1 Lord. Your Enter Cloten and Lords. Our Lordship is the most patient man in lofs, the coldest that ever turn'd up ace. Clot. It would make any man cold to lofe. 1 Lord. But not every man patient, after the noble temper of your Lordship; you are most hot and furious when you win. Clot. Winning will put any man into courage: If I could get this foolish Imogen, I fhall have gold enough: It's almoft morning, is't not? 1 Lord. Day, my Lord. Clot. I would this mufick would come: I am advised to give her mufick a-mornings, they fay it will penetrate. Enter Muficians. Come on, tune; if you can penetrate here with your fingering, fo; we'll try with tongue too; if none will do, let her remain: but I'll never give o'er. Firft, a very excellent good conceited thing; after, a wonderful fweet air with admirable rich words to it; and then let her confider. SONG. Hark, bark, the lark at heav'n's gate fings, His feeds to water at thofe fprings "Each chalic'd flower Supplies : And winking Mary-buds begin 6 With "With all the things that pretty bin :` So, get you gone if this penetrate, I will confider your mufick the better: if it do not, it is a vice in her ears; which horfe-hairs, and cats-guts, 7 'with the voice of unpav'd eunuch to boot, can never amend. [Exeunt Muficians. Enter Queen and Cymbeline. 2 Lord. Here comes the King. Clot. I am glad I was up fo late, for that's the reason I was up fo early: he cannot chufe but take this service I have done, fatherly. Good-morrow to your Majefty, and to my gracious mother. Cym. Attend you here the door of our stern daughter? Will the not forth? Clot. I have affail'd her with mufick, but the vouchfafes no notice. Cym. The exile of her minion is too new. Queen. You are most bound to th' King, Clot. Senfelefs? not fo. 6 With every thing that pretty is: 7 nor Enter Enter a Meffenger. Mef. So like you, Sir, ambaffadors from Rome; Cym. A worthy fellow, Albeit he comes on angry purpose now; But that's no fault of his: we muft receive him And towards himself, 'for's goodness fore-fpent on us, We must extend our notice: our dear fon, When you have giv'n good-morning to your mistress, Attend the Queen and us; we fhall have need T'employ you towards this Roman. Come, our Queen. [Exeunt. Clot. If the be up, I'll fpeak with her; if not, Their deer to th' ftand o' th' ftealer: and 'tis gold I yet not understand the cafe myself. [Knocks, Than Than fome, whofe tailors are as dear as yours, Can justly boast of: what's your Lordship's pleasure? To keep her chamber. Clot. There is gold for you, Sell me your good report. Lady. How, my good name? Or to report of you what I think good?` The Princess Enter Imogen. Clot. Good-morrow, faireft; fifter, your sweet hand. Imo. Good morrow, Sir; you lay out too much pains For purchafing but trouble: the thanks I give Is telling you that. I am poor of thanks, And scarce can spare them. Clot. Still I fwear I love you. Imo. If you but faid fo, 'twere as deep with me: If you fwear ftill, your recompence is ftill That I regard it not. Clot. This is no answer. Imo. But that you fhall not fay I yield, being filent, To your best kindness: one of your great knowing Clot. To leave you in your madness, 'twere my 2 Imo. Fools 'cure' not mad folks, Sir. Clot. Do you call me fool? Imo. As I am mad I do : If you'll be patient, I'll no more be mad; fin; By which I had rather By th' very truth of it, I care not for you: Obedience, which you owe your father; for Imo. Prophane fellow ! Wert thou the fon of Jupiter, and no more Clot. The fouth-fog rot him! Imo. He never can meet more mischance, than come To be but nam'd of thee. His meaneft garment That ever hath but clipt his body, 's dearer In my refpect, than all the hairs above thee, 'Were they all made fuch men. Clot. How now ? Imo. Pifanio! Enter Pifanio. Clot. His garment? now, the Devil K 2 3 Were they all made fuch men. How now, Pifanio ? Imo. |