Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford-Haven
To-morrow: now, if you could wear a mind
Dark as your fortune is, and but disguise
That, which, t' appear itself, must not yet be,
But by self-danger, you should tread a course
Pretty, and full of view: yea, haply, near
The residence of Posthumus; so nigh, at least,
That though his actions were not visible, yet
Report should render him hourly to your ear,
As truly as he moves.

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
Command into obedience; fear and niceness,
(The handmaids of all women, or more truly,
Woman it pretty self,) into a waggish courage :
Ready in gibes, quick-answer'd, saucy, and
As quarrelous as the weasel: nay, you must
Forget that rarest treasure of your cheek,
Exposing it (but, O, the harder heart!
Alack, no remedy!) to the greedy touch
Of common-kissing Titan; and forget
Your laboursome and dainty trims, wherein
You made great Juno angry.

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
Wherein you 're happy, (which you'll make him know,
If that his head have ear in music,) doubtless,

With joy he will embrace you; for he's honourable,
And, doubling that, most holy. Your means abroad,
You have me, rich; and I will never fail

Beginning nor supplyment.

Imo.

Thou art all the comfort

The gods will diet me with. Pr'ythee, away:
There's more to be consider'd;

but we'll even

All that good time will give us. This attempt
I'm soldier to, and will abide it with

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,
Here is a box; I had it from the Queen :
What's in 't is precious; if you are sick at sea,
Or stomach-qualm'd at land, a drachm of this
Will drive away distemper. -To some shade,
And fit you to your manhood. — May the gods
Direct you to the best!
Imo.

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
My master's enemy.

Cym.

Our subjects, sir,

Will not endure his yoke; and for ourself

To shew less sovereignty than they, must needs
Appear unkinglike.

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.
Your valiant Britons have their wishes in it.

Cym. Lucius hath wrote already to the Emperor
How it goes here. It fits us, therefore, ripely,
Our chariots and our horsemen be in readiness:

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
The duty of the day. She looks us like
A thing more made of malice than of duty:
We have noted it. Call her before us; for

We have been too slight in sufferance.

[Exit an Attendant.

Queen.

Royal sir,

Since the exile of Posthumus, most retir'd
Hath her life been; the cure whereof, my lord,
'Tis time must do. Beseech your Majesty,
Forbear sharp speeches to her she's a lady
So tender of rebukes, that words are strokes,
And strokes death to her.

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,
He hath a drug of mine: I pray, his absence
Proceed by swallowing that; for he believes
It is a thing most precious. But for her,

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,
I have the placing of the British crown.

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.