Iach. The crickets sing, and man's o'er-labour'd

sense

Repairs itself by rest: Our Tarquin' thus

Did softly press the rushes*, ere he waken'd
The chastity he wounded.-Cytherea,

How bravely thou becom'st thy bed! fresh lily!
And whiter than the sheets! That I might touch!
But kiss; one kiss!-Rubies unparagon'd,

How dearly they do't!-'Tis her breathing that
Perfumes the chamber thus: The flame o'the taper
Bows toward her; and would under-peep her lids,
To see the enclosed lights, now canopied
Under these windows: White and azure, lac'd
With blue of heaven's own tinctt.-But my design?
To note the chamber:-I will write all down:-
Such, and such, pictures:-There the window:-
Such

The adornment of her bed ;-The arrast, figures,
Why, such, and such:-And the contents o'the

story,

Ah, but some natural notes about her body,
Above ten thousand meaner moveables
Would testify, to enrich mine inventory:
O sleep, thou ape of death, lie dull upon her!
And be her sense but as a monument,
Thus in a chapel lying!-Come off, come off;-
[Taking off her bracelet.
As slippery, as the Gordian knot was hard!
'Tis mine; and this will witness outwardly,
As strongly as the conscience does within,
To the madding of her lord. On her left breast
A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops
I'the bottom of a cowslip: Here's a voucher,
Stronger than ever law could make this secret

* It was anciently the custom to strew chambers with rushes.

ti. e. The white skin laced with blue veins.

Tapestry

Will force him think I have pick'd the lock, and ta'en The treasure of her honour. No more.-To what end?

Why should I write this down, that's rivetted,
Screw'd to my memory? She hath been reading late
The tale of Tereus; here the leaf's turn'd down,
Where Philomel gave up ;-I have enough:
To the trunk again, and shut the spring of it.
Swift, swift, you dragons of the night!—that dawning
May bare the raven's eye: I lodge in fear;
Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here.

One, two, three,-Time, time!

[Clock strikes.

[Goes into the trunk. The scene closes.

SCENE III

An ante-chamber adjoining Imogen's apartment.

Enter Cloten and Lords.

1 Lord. Your lordship is the most patient man in loss, the most coldest that ever turn'd up ace.

Clo. It would make any man cold to lose.

1 Lord. But not every man patient, after the noble temper of your lordship; You are most hot, and furious, when you win.

Clo. Winning would put any man into courage: If I could get this foolish Imogen, I should have gold enough: It's almost morning, is't not?

1 Lord. Day, my lord.

Clo. I would this musick would come: I am advised to give her musick o' mornings; they say, it will penetrate.

Enter Musicians.

Come on; tune; If you can penetrate her with your

Act 11. fingering, so; we'll try with tongue too: if none will do, let her remain; but I'll never give o'er. First, a very excellent good-conceited thing; after, a wonderful sweet air, with admirable rich words to it,and then let her consider.

SONG.

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phabus 'gins arise,

His steeds to water at those springs
On chalic'd* flowers that lies;

And winking Mary-buds begin

To ope their golden eyes;
With every thing that pretty bin:
My lady sweet, arise;
Arise, arise.

So, get you gone: If this penetrate, I will consider your musick the bettert: if it do not, it is a vice in her ears, which horse-hairs, and cats-guts, nor the voice of unpaved eunuch to boot, can never amend. [Exeunt Musicians.

Enter Cymbeline and Queen.

2 Lord. Here comes the king.

Clo. I am glad, I was up so late; for that's the reason I was up so early: He cannot choose but take this service I have done, fatherly.-Good mor⚫ row to your majesty, and to my gracious mother. Cym. Attend you here the door of our stern daughter?

Will she not forth?

Clo. I have assailed her with musick, but she vouchsafes no notice.

Cym. The exile of her minion is too new;

* Cups.

+ Will pay you more for it.

She hath not yet forgot him: some more time
Must wear the print of his remembrance out,
And then she's yours.

Queen.

You are most bound to the king;
Who lets go by no vantages, that may
Prefer you to his daughter: Frame yourself
To orderly solicits; and be friended
With aptness of the season*: make denials
Increase your services: so seem, as if

You were inspir'd to do those duties which
You tender to her; that you in all obey her,
Save when command to your dismission tends,
And therein you are senseless.

Clo.

Senseless? not so.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. So like you, sir, embassadors from Rome; Throne is Caius Lucius.

Cym.

A worthy fellow,

Albeit he comes on angry purpose now;

But that's no fault of his: We must receive him
According to the honour of his sender;

And towards himself his goodness forespent on us
We must extend our notice.-Our dear son,
When you have given good morning to your mistress,
Attend the queen, and us; we shall have need
To employ you towards this Roman.-Come, our
queen.

[Exeunt Cym. Queen, Lords, and Mess. Clo. If she be up, I'll speak with her; if not, Let her lie still, and dream-By your leave ho! [Knocks.

I know her women are about her; What
If I do line one of their hands? 'Tis gold
Which buys admittance; oft it doth; yea, and makes
Diana's rangers false themselves, yield up

Their deer to the stand of the stealer; and 'tis gold
Which makes the true man kill'd, and saves the thief;

* With solicitations not only proper but well-timed

Nay, sometime, bangs both thief and true man:

What

Can it not do, and undo? I will make
One of her women lawyer to me; for
I yet not understand the case myself.
By your leave.

Enter a Lady.

Lady. Who's there, that knocks?

Clo.

Lady.

[Knocks.

A gentleman.

No more?

That's more

Clo. Yes, and a gentlewoman's son. Lady. Than some, whose tailors are as dear as yours, Can justly boast of: What's your lordship's plea

sure?

Clo. Your lady's person: Is she ready?
Lady.

To keep her chamber.

Ay,

Clo. There's gold for you; sell me your good re

port.

Lady. How! my good name? or to report of you What I shall think is good?-The princess

Enter Imogen.

Clo. Good-morrow, fairest sister: Your sweet

hand.

Imo. Good-morrow, sir: You lay out too much

pains

For purchasing but trouble: the thanks I give,
Is telling you that I am poor of thanks,

And scarce can spare them.

If

Clo.

Still, I swear, I love you.

Imo. If you but said so, 'twere as deep with me: you swear still, your recompence is still

That I regard it not.

Clo.

This is no answer.

Imo. But that you shall not say I yield, being si

lent,