LITMIR.BIZ

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him and his virtue;

       By her election may be truly read

       What kind of man he is.

      SECOND GENTLEMAN.

       I honour him

       Even out of your report. But pray you tell me,

       Is she sole child to th’ King?

      FIRST GENTLEMAN.

       His only child.

       He had two sons—if this be worth your hearing,

       Mark it—the eldest of them at three years old,

       I’ th’ swathing clothes the other, from their nursery

       Were stol’n; and to this hour no guess in knowledge

       Which way they went.

      SECOND GENTLEMAN.

       How long is this ago?

      FIRST GENTLEMAN.

       Some twenty years.

      SECOND GENTLEMAN.

       That a king’s children should be so convey’d,

       So slackly guarded, and the search so slow

       That could not trace them!

      FIRST GENTLEMAN.

       Howsoe’er ’tis strange,

       Or that the negligence may well be laugh’d at,

       Yet is it true, sir.

      SECOND GENTLEMAN.

       I do well believe you.

      FIRST GENTLEMAN.

       We must forbear; here comes the gentleman,

       The Queen, and Princess.

      [Exeunt.]

      SCENE II. The same.

      Enter Queen, Posthumus and Imogen.

      QUEEN.

       No, be assur’d you shall not find me, daughter,

       After the slander of most stepmothers,

       Evil-ey’d unto you. You’re my prisoner, but

       Your gaoler shall deliver you the keys

       That lock up your restraint. For you, Posthumus,

       So soon as I can win th’ offended King,

       I will be known your advocate. Marry, yet

       The fire of rage is in him, and ’twere good

       You lean’d unto his sentence with what patience

       Your wisdom may inform you.

      POSTHUMUS.

       Please your Highness,

       I will from hence today.

      QUEEN.

       You know the peril.

       I’ll fetch a turn about the garden, pitying

       The pangs of barr’d affections, though the King

       Hath charg’d you should not speak together.

      [Exit.]

      IMOGEN.

       O 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;

       And I shall here abide the hourly shot

       Of angry eyes, not comforted to live

       But that there is this jewel in the world

       That I may see again.

      POSTHUMUS.

       My queen! my mistress!

       O lady, weep no more, lest I give cause

       To be suspected of more tenderness

       Than doth become a man. I will remain

       The loyal’st husband that did e’er plight troth;

       My residence in Rome at one Philario’s,

       Who to my father was a friend, to me

       Known but by letter; thither write, my queen,

       And with mine eyes I’ll drink the words you send,

       Though ink be made of gall.

      Enter Queen.

      QUEEN.

       Be brief, I pray you.

       If the King come, I shall incur I know not

       How much of his displeasure. [Aside.] Yet I’ll move him To walk this way. I never do him wrong But he does buy my injuries, to be friends; Pays dear for my offences.

      [Exit.]

      POSTHUMUS.

       Should we be taking leave

       As long a term as yet we have to live,

       The loathness to depart would grow. Adieu!

      IMOGEN.

       Nay, stay a little.

       Were you but riding forth to air yourself,

       Such parting were too petty. Look here, love:

       This diamond was my mother’s; take it, heart;

       But keep it till you woo another wife,

       When Imogen is dead.

      POSTHUMUS.

       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

      [Puts 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

       I still win of you. For my sake wear this;

       It is a manacle of love; I’ll place it

       Upon this fairest prisoner.

      [Puts a bracelet on her arm.]

      IMOGEN.

       O the gods!

       When shall we see again?

      Enter Cymbeline and Lords.

      POSTHUMUS.

       Alack, the King!

      CYMBELINE.

       Thou basest thing, avoid; hence from my sight

       If after this command thou fraught the court

       With thy unworthiness, thou diest. Away!

       Thou’rt poison to my blood.

      POSTHUMUS.

       The gods protect you,

       And bless the good remainders of the court!

       I am gone.

      [Exit.]

      IMOGEN.

       There cannot be a pinch in death

       More sharp than this is.

      CYMBELINE.

       O disloyal thing,

       That shouldst repair my youth, thou heap’st

       A year’s age on me!

      IMOGEN.

       I beseech you, sir,

      

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