Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford-Haven Imo. O, for such means! Though peril to my modesty, not death on 't, I would adventure. Pis. Well then, here's the point. You must forget to be a woman; change Imo. Nay, be brief: I see into thy end, and am almost A man already. Pis. First, make yourself but like one Forethinking this, I have already fit 'Tis in my cloak-bag-doublet, hat, hose, all That answer to them: would you, in their serving, And with what imitation you can borrow From youth of such a season, 'fore noble Lucius Present yourself, desire his service, tell him With joy he will embrace you; for he's honourable, Beginning nor supplyment. Imo. Thou art all the comfort The gods will diet me with. Pr'ythee, away: but we'll even All that good time will give us. This attempt A prince's courage. Away, I pr'ythee. Pis. Well, madam, we must take a short fare well, Lest, being miss'd, I be suspected of Your carriage from the Court. My noble mistress, Amen. I thank thee. [Exeunt. SCENE V. A Room in CYMBELINE's Palace. Enter CYMBELINE, Queen, CLOTEN, LUCIUS, and Lords. Cym. Thus far; and so farewell. Luc. Thanks, royal sir My Emperor hath wrote, I must from hence; And am right sorry that I must report ye Cym. Our subjects, sir, Will not endure his yoke; and for ourself To shew less sovereignty than they, must needs Luc. So, sir. I desire of you A conduct over land to Milford-Haven. Madam, all joy befall your Grace, and you! Cym. My lords, you are appointed for that office; The due of honour in no point omit. So, farewell, noble Lucius. Luc. Your hand, my lord. Clo. Receive it friendly; but from this time forth I wear it as your enemy. Luc. Sir, the event Is yet to name the winner. Fare you well. Cym. Leave not the worthy Lucius, good my lords, Till he have cross'd the Severn. Happiness! [Exeunt LUCIUS and Lords. Queen. He goes hence frowning; but it honours us That we have given him cause. 'Tis all the better: Clo. Cym. Lucius hath wrote already to the Emperor The powers that he already hath in Gallia Will soon be drawn to head, from whence he moves His war for Britain. Queen. "Tis not sleepy business, But must be look'd to speedily, and strongly. Cym. Our expectation that it would be thus Hath made us forward. But, my gentle Queen, Where is our daughter? She hath not appear'd Before the Roman, nor to us hath tender'd We have been too slight in sufferance. [Exit an Attendant. Queen. Royal sir, Since the exile of Posthumus, most retir'd Her chambers are all lock'd; and there's no answer That will be given to th' loud'st noise we make. Queen. My lord, when last I went to visit her, She pray'd me to excuse her keeping close; Whereto constrain'd by her infirmity, She should that duty leave unpaid to you, Which daily she was bound to proffer: this She wish'd me to make known, but our great Court Made me to blame in memory. Cym. Her doors lock'd? Not seen of late? Grant, Heavens, that which I Fear prove false! Queen. Son, I say, follow the King. [Exit. Clo. That man of hers, Pisanio, her old servant, I have not seen these two days. Queen. Go, look after. [Exit CLOTEN. Pisanio, thou that stand'st so for Posthumus, Where is she gone? Haply, despair hath seiz'd her; Or, wing'd with fervour of her love, she's flown To her desir'd Posthumus. Gone she is To death, or to dishonour; and my end Can make good use of either: she being down, How now, my son! Clo. Enter CLOTEN. 'Tis certain, she is fled. Go in, and cheer the King: he rages; none Dare come about him. Queen. All the better: may This night forestall him of the coming day! [Exit Queen! Clo. I love, and hate her, for she's fair and royal; And that she hath all courtly parts, more exquisite Than lady, ladies, woman: from every one The best she hath; and she, of all compounded, Outsells them all. I love her therefore; but, Disdaining me, and throwing favours on The low Posthumus, slanders so her judgment, That what's else rare is chok'd; and in that point I will conclude to hate her; nay, indeed, To be reveng'd upon her: for, when fools shall Who is here? Enter PISANIO. What are you packing, sirrah ? Come hither. Ah, you precious pandar! Villain, Where is thy lady? In a word, or else Thou art straightway with the fiends. |