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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.
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 Maskers.
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,
His steeds to water at those springs
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes;
With every thing that pretty bin ;
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.
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 up, I'll speak with her; if not,
Let her lie still, and dream.—By your leave, ho!—
I know her women are about her; What,
Their deer to the stand of the stealer: and 'tis gold
Can it not do and undo? I will make
One of her women lawyer to me; for
Helen: Who's there, that knocks?
Cloten. A gentleman.
Helen. No more?
Cloten, Yes, and a gentlewoman's son.
Helen, That's more
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?
Helen. Ay, to keep her chamber.
Cloten. There's gold for you; sell me your good 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
Imog. Good-morrow, sir: You lay out too much pains
For purchasing but trouble.
Cloten. Still, I swear, I love you.
Imog. 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.
Imog. But that you shall not say I yield, being si-
I would not speak. I pray you, spare me: 'faith,
To your best kindness: one of your great knowing
Cloten. To leave you in your madness, 'twere my sin: I will not.
Imog. Fools cure not mad folks.
If you'll be patient, I'll no more be mad;
But I, which know my heart, do here pronounce,
Cloten. The contract you pretend with that base
(One, bred of alms, and foster'd with cold dishes, With scraps o' the court), it is no contract, none. Imog. Profane fellow!
Wert thou the son of Jupiter, and no more,
But what thou art, besides, thou wert too base
To be his groom.
Cloten. The south fog rot him!
Imog. He never can meet more mischance, than
To be but named of thee. His meanest garment,
In my respect, than all the hairs above thee,
Cloten. How now?
[Misses her Bracelet.
Cloten. His garment? Now, the devil-
Imog. To Helena, my woman, hie thee presently—
Cloten. His garment?
Imog. I am sprited with a fool;
Frighted, and anger'd worse:
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,
I saw't this morning: confident. I am,
Last night 'twas on mine arm; I kiss'd it then.
Pisanio. 'Twill not be lost.
Imog. I hope so: go, and search.
Cloten. You have abused me:
His meanest garment?
I will inform your father,
Imog. 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.
Cloten. I'll be reveng'd:—
His meanest garment ?