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women are about her: what

       If I do line one of their hands, ‘tis Gold

       Which buyes admittance (oft it doth) yea, and makes

       Diana’s Rangers false themselues, yeeld vp

       Their Deere to’th’ stand o’th’ Stealer: and ‘tis Gold

       Which makes the True-man kill’d, and saues the Theefe:

       Nay, sometime hangs both Theefe, and True-man: what

       Can it not do, and vndoo? I will make

       One of her women Lawyer to me, for

       I yet not vnderstand the case my selfe.

       By your leaue.

       Knockes.

       Enter a Lady.

       La. Who’s there that knockes?

       Clot. A Gentleman

       La. No more

       Clot. Yes, and a Gentlewomans Sonne

       La. That’s more

       Then some whose Taylors are as deere as yours,

       Can iustly boast of: what’s your Lordships pleasure?

       Clot. Your Ladies person, is she ready?

       La. I, to keepe her Chamber

       Clot. There is Gold for you,

       Sell me your good report

       La. How, my good name? or to report of you

       What I shall thinke is good. The Princesse.

       Enter Imogen.

       Clot. Good morrow fairest, Sister your sweet hand

       Imo. Good morrow Sir, you lay out too much paines

       For purchasing but trouble: the thankes I giue,

       Is telling you that I am poore of thankes,

       And scarse can spare them

       Clot. Still I sweare I loue you

       Imo. If you but said so, ‘twere as deepe with me:

       If you sweare still, your recompence is still

       That I regard it not

       Clot. This is no answer

       Imo. But that you shall not say, I yeeld being silent,

       I would not speake. I pray you spare me, ‘faith

       I shall vnfold equall discourtesie

       To your best kindnesse: one of your great knowing

       Should learne (being taught) forbearance

       Clot. To leaue you in your madnesse, ‘twere my sin,

       I will not

       Imo. Fooles are not mad Folkes

       Clot. Do you call me Foole?

       Imo. As I am mad I do:

       If you’l be patient, Ile no more be mad,

       That cures vs both. I am much sorry (Sir)

       You put me to forget a Ladies manners

       By being so verball: and learne now, for all,

       That I which know my heart, do heere pronounce

       By th’ very truth of it, I care not for you,

       And am so neere the lacke of Charitie

       To accuse my selfe, I hate you: which I had rather

       You felt, then make’t my boast

       Clot. You sinne against

       Obedience, which you owe your Father, for

       The Contract you pretend with that base Wretch,

       One, bred of Almes, and foster’d with cold dishes,

       With scraps o’th’ Court: It is no Contract, none;

       And though it be allowed in meaner parties

       (Yet who then he more meane) to knit their soules

       (On whom there is no more dependancie

       But Brats and Beggery) in selfe-figur’d knot,

       Yet you are curb’d from that enlargement, by

       The consequence o’th’ Crowne, and must not foyle

       The precious note of it; with a base Slaue,

       A Hilding for a Liuorie, a Squires Cloth,

       A Pantler; not so eminent

       Imo. Prophane Fellow:

       Wert thou the Sonne of Iupiter, and no more,

       But what thou art besides: thou wer’t too base,

       To be his Groome: thou wer’t dignified enough

       Euen to the point of Enuie. If ‘twere made

       Comparatiue for your Vertues, to be stil’d

       The vnder Hangman of his Kingdome; and hated

       For being prefer’d so well

       Clot. The South-Fog rot him Imo. He neuer can meete more mischance, then come

       To be but nam’d of thee. His mean’st Garment

       That euer hath but clipt his body; is dearer

       In my respect, then all the Heires aboue thee,

       Were they all made such men: How now Pisanio?

       Enter Pisanio.

       Clot. His Garments? Now the diuell

       Imo. To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently

       Clot. His Garment?

       Imo. I am sprighted with a Foole,

       Frighted, and angred worse: Go bid my woman

       Search for a Iewell, that too casually

       Hath left mine Arme: it was thy Masters. Shrew me

       If I would loose it for a Reuenew,

       Of any Kings in Europe. I do think,

       I saw’t this morning: Confident I am.

       Last night ‘twas on mine Arme; I kiss’d it,

       I hope it be not gone, to tell my Lord

       That I kisse aught but he

       Pis. ‘Twill not be lost

       Imo. I hope so: go and search

       Clot. You haue abus’d me:

       His meanest Garment?

       Imo. I, I said so Sir,

       If you will make’t an Action, call witnesse to’t

       Clot. I will enforme your Father

       Imo. Your Mother too:

       She’s my good Lady; and will concieue, I hope

       But the worst of me. So I leaue you Sir,

       To’th’ worst of discontent.

       Enter.

       Clot. Ile be reueng’d:

       His mean’st Garment? Well.

       Enter.

      SCENE IV.

       Enter Posthumus, and Philario.

       Post. Feare it not Sir: I would I were so sure

       To winne the King, as I am bold, her Honour

       Will remaine her’s

       Phil. What meanes do you make to him?

       Post. Not any: but abide the change of Time,

       Quake in the present winters state, and wish

       That warmer dayes would come: In these fear’d hope

      

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