LITMIR.BIZ

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      SCENE IV. Britain. Cymbeline’s palace.

      Enter Imogen and Pisanio.

      IMOGEN.

       I would thou grew’st unto the shores o’ th’ haven,

       And questioned’st every sail; if he should write,

       And I not have it, ’twere a paper lost,

       As offer’d mercy is. What was the last

       That he spake to thee?

      PISANIO.

       It was: his queen, his queen!

      IMOGEN.

       Then wav’d his handkerchief?

      PISANIO.

       And kiss’d it, madam.

      IMOGEN.

       Senseless linen, happier therein than I!

       And that was all?

      PISANIO.

       No, madam; for so long

       As he could make me with his eye, or ear

       Distinguish him from others, he did keep

       The deck, with glove, or hat, or handkerchief,

       Still waving, as the fits and stirs of’s mind

       Could best express how slow his soul sail’d on,

       How swift his ship.

      IMOGEN.

       Thou shouldst have made him

       As little as a crow, or less, ere left

       To after-eye him.

      PISANIO.

       Madam, so I did.

      IMOGEN.

       I would have broke mine eyestrings, crack’d them but

       To look upon him, till the diminution

       Of space had pointed him sharp as my needle;

       Nay, followed him till he had melted from

       The smallness of a gnat to air, and then

       Have turn’d mine eye and wept. But, good Pisanio,

       When shall we hear from him?

      PISANIO.

       Be assur’d, madam,

       With his next vantage.

      IMOGEN.

       I did not take my leave of him, but had

       Most pretty things to say. Ere I could tell him

       How I would think on him at certain hours

       Such thoughts and such; or I could make him swear

       The shes of Italy should not betray

       Mine interest and his honour; or have charg’d him,

       At the sixth hour of morn, at noon, at midnight,

       T’ encounter me with orisons, for then

       I am in heaven for him; or ere I could

       Give him that parting kiss which I had set

       Betwixt two charming words, comes in my father,

       And like the tyrannous breathing of the north

       Shakes all our buds from growing.

      Enter a Lady.

      LADY.

       The Queen, madam,

       Desires your Highness’ company.

      IMOGEN.

       Those things I bid you do, get them dispatch’d.

       I will attend the Queen.

      PISANIO.

       Madam, I shall.

      [Exeunt.]

      SCENE V. Rome. Philario’s house.

      Enter Philario, Iachimo, a Frenchman, a Dutchman and a Spaniard.

      IACHIMO.

       Believe it, sir, I have seen him in Britain. He was then of a crescent note, expected to prove so worthy as since he hath been allowed the name of. But I could then have look’d on him without the help of admiration, though the catalogue of his endowments had been tabled by his side, and I to peruse him by items.

      PHILARIO.

       You speak of him when he was less furnish’d than now he is with that which makes him both without and within.

      FRENCHMAN.

       I have seen him in France; we had very many there could behold the sun with as firm eyes as he.

      IACHIMO.

       This matter of marrying his king’s daughter, wherein he must be weighed rather by her value than his own, words him, I doubt not, a great deal from the matter.

      FRENCHMAN.

       And then his banishment.

      IACHIMO.

       Ay, and the approbation of those that weep this lamentable divorce under her colours are wonderfully to extend him, be it but to fortify her judgement, which else an easy battery might lay flat, for taking a beggar, without less quality. But how comes it he is to sojourn with you? How creeps acquaintance?

      PHILARIO.

       His father and I were soldiers together, to whom I have been often bound for no less than my life.

      Enter Posthumus.

      Here comes the Briton. Let him be so entertained amongst you as suits with gentlemen of your knowing to a stranger of his quality. I beseech you all be better known to this gentleman, whom I commend to you as a noble friend of mine. How worthy he is I will leave to appear hereafter, rather than story him in his own hearing.

      FRENCHMAN.

       Sir, we have known together in Orleans.

      POSTHUMUS.

       Since when I have been debtor to you for courtesies, which I will be ever to pay and yet pay still.

      FRENCHMAN.

       Sir, you o’errate my poor kindness. I was glad I did atone my countryman and you; it had been pity you should have been put together with so mortal a purpose as then each bore, upon importance of so slight and trivial a nature.

      POSTHUMUS.

       By your pardon, sir. I was then a young traveller; rather shunn’d to go even with what I heard than in my every action to be guided by others’ experiences; but upon my mended judgement (if I offend not to say it is mended) my quarrel was not altogether slight.

      FRENCHMAN.

       Faith, yes, to be put to the arbitrement of swords, and by such two that would by all likelihood have confounded one the other or have fall’n both.

      IACHIMO.

       Can we, with manners, ask what was the difference?

      FRENCHMAN.

       Safely, I think. ’Twas a contention in public, which may, without contradiction, suffer the report. It was much like an argument that fell out last night, where each of us fell in praise of our country mistresses; this gentleman at that time vouching (and upon warrant of bloody affirmation) his to be more fair, virtuous, wise, chaste, constant, qualified, and less attemptable, than any the rarest of our ladies in France.

      IACHIMO.

       That lady is not now living, or this gentleman’s opinion, by this, worn out.

      POSTHUMUS.

       She holds her virtue still, and I my mind.

      IACHIMO.

      

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