Page images
PDF
EPUB

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,
And Phoebus 'gins arife,

His feeds to water at thofe fprings

"Each chalic'd flower Supplies :

And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes,

6 With

[blocks in formation]

"With all the things that pretty bin :`
My Lady fweet, arife:
Arife, arife.

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.
She hath not yet forgot him: fome more time
Muft wear the print of his remembrance out,
And then fhe's yours.

Queen. You are most bound to th' King,
Who lets go by no vantages, that may
Prefer you to his daughter. Frame your felf
To orderly folicits; and befriended
With aptnefs of the feafon, make denials
Encrease your services; fo feem, as if
You are infpir'd to do thofe duties which
You tender to her: that you in all obey her,
Save when command to your difmiffion tends,
And therein you are fenfelefs.

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;
One's Caius Lucius.

Cym. A worthy fellow,

Albeit he comes on angry purpose now;

But that's no fault of his: we muft receive him
According to the honour of his fender;

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.

[blocks in formation]

[Exeunt.

Clot. If the be up, I'll fpeak with her; if not,
Let her lye ftill, and dream. By your leave, ho!
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, makes
Diana's rangers falfe themfelves, and yield

Their deer to th' ftand o' th' ftealer: and 'tis gold
Which makes the true man kill'd, and faves the thief;
Nay, fometimes 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 cafe myself.
By your leave.

[blocks in formation]

[Knocks,

Than

Than fome, whofe tailors are as dear as yours,

Can justly boast of: what's your Lordship's pleasure?
Clot. Your Lady's perfon, is the ready?
Lady. Ay,

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,
I would not speak. I pray you, fpare me ; 'faith,
I fhall unfold equal difcourtefie

To your best kindness: one of your great knowing
Should learn, being taught, forbearance.

Clot. To leave you in your madness, 'twere my
I will not do't.

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;
That cures us both. I am much forry, Sir,
You put me to forget a Lady's manners
By being fo verbal: and learn now for all,
That I who know my heart, do here pronounce

[merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small]

fin;

By

which I had rather

By th' very truth of it, I care not for you:
And am fo near the lack of charity
T'accuse my self, I hate you
You felt, than make my boaft.
Clot. You fin against

Obedience, which you owe your father; for
The contract you pretend with that base wretch,
(One bred of alms, and fofter'd with cold difhes,
With scraps o' th' Court,) it is no contract, none :
And though it be allow'd in meaner parties,
(Yet who than he more mean?) to knit their fouls,
On whom there is no more dependency
But brats and beggary, in felf-figur'd knot;
Yet you are curb'd from that enlargement by
The confequence o' th' crown, and must not foil
The precious note of it with a base flave,
A hilding for a livery, a fquire's cloth,
A pantler; not fo eminent.

Imo. Prophane fellow !

Wert thou the fon of Jupiter, and no more
But what thou art befides, thou wert too bafe
To be his groom: thou wert dignify'd enough,
Ev'n to the point of envy, if 'twere made
Comparative for your virtues to be ftil'd
The under-hangman of his realm; and hated
For being preferr'd fo well.

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.

« PreviousContinue »