LITMIR.BIZ

      SCENE III.

       Enter Cymbeline, Lords, and Pisanio.

       Cym. Againe: and bring me word how ‘tis with her,

       A Feauour with the absence of her Sonne;

       A madnesse, of which her life’s in danger: Heauens,

       How deeply you at once do touch me. Imogen,

       The great part of my comfort, gone: My Queene

       Vpon a desperate bed, and in a time

       When fearefull Warres point at me: Her Sonne gone,

       So needfull for this present? It strikes me, past

       The hope of comfort. But for thee, Fellow,

       Who needs must know of her departure, and

       Dost seeme so ignorant, wee’l enforce it from thee

       By a sharpe Torture

       Pis. Sir, my life is yours,

       I humbly set it at your will: But for my Mistris,

       I nothing know where she remaines: why gone,

       Nor when she purposes returne. Beseech your Highnes,

       Hold me your loyall Seruant

       Lord. Good my Liege,

       The day that she was missing, he was heere;

       I dare be bound hee’s true, and shall performe

       All parts of his subiection loyally. For Cloten,

       There wants no diligence in seeking him,

       And will no doubt be found

       Cym. The time is troublesome:

       Wee’l slip you for a season, but our iealousie

       Do’s yet depend

       Lord. So please your Maiesty,

       The Romaine Legions, all from Gallia drawne,

       Are landed on your Coast, with a supply

       Of Romaine Gentlemen, by the Senate sent

       Cym. Now for the Counsaile of my Son and Queen,

       I am amaz’d with matter

       Lord. Good my Liege,

       Your preparation can affront no lesse

       Then what you heare of. Come more, for more you’re ready:

       The want is, but to put those Powres in motion,

       That long to moue

       Cym. I thanke you: let’s withdraw

       And meete the Time, as it seekes vs. We feare not

       What can from Italy annoy vs, but

       We greeue at chances heere. Away.

       Exeunt.

       Pisa. I heard no Letter from my Master, since

       I wrote him Imogen was slaine. ‘Tis strange:

       Nor heare I from my Mistris, who did promise

       To yeeld me often tydings. Neither know I

       What is betide to Cloten, but remaine

       Perplext in all. The Heauens still must worke:

       Wherein I am false, I am honest: not true, to be true.

       These present warres shall finde I loue my Country,

       Euen to the note o’th’ King, or Ile fall in them:

       All other doubts, by time let them be cleer’d,

       Fortune brings in some Boats, that are not steer’d.

       Enter.

      SCENE IV.

       Enter Belarius, Guiderius, & Aruiragus.

       Gui. The noyse is round about vs

       Bel. Let vs from it

       Arui. What pleasure Sir, we finde in life, to locke it

       From Action, and Aduenture

       Gui. Nay, what hope

       Haue we in hiding vs? This way the Romaines

       Must, or for Britaines slay vs, or receiue vs

       For barbarous and vnnaturall Reuolts

       During their vse, and slay vs after

       Bel. Sonnes,

       Wee’l higher to the Mountaines, there secure vs.

       To the Kings party there’s no going: newnesse

       Of Clotens death (we being not knowne, nor muster’d

       Among the Bands) may driue vs to a render

       Where we haue liu’d; and so extort from’s that

       Which we haue done, whose answer would be death

       Drawne on with Torture

       Gui. This is (Sir) a doubt

       In such a time, nothing becomming you,

       Nor satisfying vs

       Arui. It is not likely,

       That when they heare their Roman horses neigh,

       Behold their quarter’d Fires; haue both their eyes

       And eares so cloyd importantly as now,

       That they will waste their time vpon our note,

       To know from whence we are

       Bel. Oh, I am knowne

       Of many in the Army: Many yeeres

       (Though Cloten then but young) you see, not wore him

       From my remembrance. And besides, the King

       Hath not deseru’d my Seruice, nor your Loues,

       Who finde in my Exile, the want of Breeding;

       The certainty of this heard life, aye hopelesse

       To haue the courtesie your Cradle promis’d,

       But to be still hot Summers Tanlings, and

       The shrinking Slaues of Winter

       Gui. Then be so,

       Better to cease to be. Pray Sir, to’th’ Army:

       I, and my Brother are not knowne; your selfe

       So out of thought, and thereto so ore-growne,

       Cannot be question’d

       Arui. By this Sunne that shines

       Ile thither: What thing is’t, that I neuer

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