False to his bod!-What is 't to be false?

To lie in watch there, and to think of him?

To weep 'twixt clock and clock? If sleep charge nature,
To break it with a fearful dream of him.

And cry myself awake?—that's false to his bed,

Is it?

This is followed by that affecting lamentation over the falsehood and injustice of her husband, in which she betrays no atom of jealousy or wounded self-love, but observes, in the extremity of her anguish, that after his lapse from truth, "all good seeming would be discredited," and she then resigns herself to his will with the most entire submission.

In the original story, Zinevra prevails on the servant to spare her, by her exclamations and entreaties for mercy. "The lady, seeing the poniard, and hearing those words, exclaimed in terror, Alas! have pity on me for the love of heaven! do not become the slayer of one who never offended thee, only to pleasure another. God, who knows all things, knows that I have never done that which could merit such a reward from my husband's hand.'" Now let us turn to Shakspeare. Imogen says,

Come, fellow, be thou honest;

Do thou thy master's bidding; when thou seest him,
A little witness my obedience. Look!
I draw the sword myself; take it, and hit
The inocent mansion of my love, my heart.
Fear not; 'tis empty of all things but grief:
Thy master is not there, who was, indeed,
The riches of it. Do his bidding; strike!

The devoted attachment of Pisanio to his royal mistress, all through the piece, is one of those side touches by which Shakspeare knew how to give additional effect to his cha

racters.

Cloten is odious:* but we must not overlook the peculiar fitness and propriety of his character, in connexion with that of Imogen. He is precisely the kind of man who would be most intolerable to such a woman. He is a fool, so is Slender, and Sir Andrew Ague cheek: but the folly of Cloten is not only ridiculous, but hateful; it arises not so much from a want of understanding as a total want of heart; it is the perversion of sentiment, rather than the deficiency of intellect; he has occasional gleams of sense, but never a touch of feeling. Imogen describes herself not only as "sprighted with a fool," but as "frighted and anger'd worse. No other fool but Cloten-a compound of the booby and the villain-could excite in such a mind as Imogen's the same mixture of terror, contempt, and abhorrence. The stupid, obstinate maglignity of Cloten, and the wicked machinations of the queen—

A father cruel and a step-dame false,
A foolish suitor to a wedded lady-

justify whatever might need excuse in the conduct of Imogen-as her concealed marriage and her flight from her father's court-and serve to call out several of the most beautiful and striking parts of her character:-particularly

*The character of Cloten has been pronounced by some unnatural, by others inconsistent, and by others obsolete. The following passage occurs in one of Miss Seward's letters, vol. iii. p. 246 :—“ It is curious that Shakspeare should, in so singular a character as Cloten, have given the exact prototype of a being whom I once knew. The unmeaning frown of countenance, the shuffling gait, the burst of voice, the bustling insignificance, the fever and ague fits of valor, the froward tetchiness, the unprincipled malice, and, what is more curious, those occasional gleams of good sense amidst the floating clouds of folly which generally darkened and confused the man's brain, and which, in the charaeter of Cloten, we are apt to impute to a violation of unity in character; but in the some-time Captain C- I saw that the portrait of Cleten was not cut of nature."

that decision and vivacity of temper, which in her harmonize so beautifully with exceeding delicacy, sweetness, and submission.

In the scene with her detested suitor, there is at first a careless majesty of disdain, which is admirable.

1 am much sorry, sir,

You put me to forget a lady's manners,

By being so verbal ;* and learn now, for all,
That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce,

By the very truth of it, I care not for you,

And am so near the lack of charity,

(T' accuse myself,) I hate you; which I had rather
You felt, than make my boast.

But when he dares to provoke her by reviling the absent Posthumus, her indignation heightens her scorn, and her scorn sets a keener edge on her indignation.

CLOTEN.

For the contract you pretend with that base wretch,
One bred of alms, and fostered with cold dishes,

With scraps o' the court: it is no contract, none.

IMOGEN.

Profane fellow!

Wert thou the son of Jupiter, and no more,
But what thou art, besides, thou wert too base
To be his groom; thou wert dignified enough,
Even to the point of envy, if 'twere made
Comparative for your virtues, to be styl'd
The under hangman of his kingdom; and hated
For being prefer'd so well.

He never can meet more mischance than come
To be but named of thee. His meanest garment
That ever hath but clipp'd his body, is dearer
In my respect, than all the hairs above thee,
Were they all made such men.

* i. e. full of words.

One thing more must be particularly remarked, because it serves to individualize the character from the beginning to the end of the poem. We are constantly sensible that Imogen, besides being a tender and devoted woman, is a princess and a beauty, at the same time that she is ever superior to her position and her external charms. There is, for instance, a certain airy majesty of deportment—a spirit of accustomed command breaking out every now and then -the dignity, without the assumption of rank and royal birth, which is apparent in the scene with Cloten and elsewhere; and we have not only a general impression that Imogen, like other heroines, is beautiful, but the peculiar style and character of her beauty is placed before us: we have an image of the most luxuriant loveliness, combined with exceeding delicacy, and even fragility of person-of the most refined elegance, and the most exquisite modesty, set forth in one or two passages of description, as when Iachimo is contemplating her asleep.

Cytherea,

How bravely thou becom'st thy bed! fresh lily,
And whiter than the sheets.

'Tis her breathing that

Perfumes the chamber thus. The flame o' the taper
Bows toward her; and would underpeep her lids
To see the enclos'd lights, now canopied

Under those windows, white and azure, lac'd

With blue of heaven's own tinct!

The preservation of her feminine character under her masculine attire; her delicacy, her modesty, and her timidity, are managed with the same perfect consistency and unconscious grace as in Viola. And we must not forget that her " neat cookery," which is so prettily eulogized by Guiderius

He cut our roots in characters,

And sauc'd our broths, as Juno had been sick,
And he her dieter,

formed part of the education of a princess in those remote times.

Few reflections of a general nature are put into the mouth of Imogen, and what she says is more remarkable for sense, truth, and tender feeling, than for wit, or wisdom, or power of imagination. The following little touch of poetry reminds us of Juliet

Ere I could

Give him that parting kiss, which I had set
Between two charming words, comes in my father,

And like the tyrannous breathing of the north

Shakes all our buds from growing.

Her exclamation on opening her husband's letter, reminds us of the profound and thoughtful tenderness of Helen.

O learned indeed were that astronomer

That knew the stars, as I his characters!
He'd lay the future open.

The following are more in the manner of Isabel

Most miserable

Is the desire that's glorious: bless'd be those,
How mean soe'er, that have their honest wills,
That seasons comfort.

Against self-slaughter

There is a prohibition so divine

That cravens my weak hand.

Thus may poor fools

Believe false teachers; though those that are betray'd

Do feel the reason sharply, yet the traitor

Stands in worse case of wo.

Are we not brothers?

So man and man should be;

But clay and clay differs in dignity,

Whose dust is both alike.

Will poor folks lie

That have afflictions on them, knowing 'tis

A punishment or trial? Yes: no wonder,

When rich ones scarce tell true: to lapse in fulness