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At three, and two years old, I stole these babes:
Thinking to bar thee of succession, as
Thou'reftst me of my land. Euriphile,
Thou o their nurse; they took thee for their mo. ther,
And every day do honour to thy grave:
Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call'd,
They take for natural father.
[The Horn sounds again. The game is up. [Erit.
The Palace of CYMBELINE.
Flourish of Trumpets.
Enter CYMBELINE, QUEEN, CLoTEN, the Two
Cym. Thus far; and so farewell.
Luc. Thanks, royal sir.
Cym. My lords, you are appointed for that office;
Luc. Your hand, my lord.
Cloten. Receive it friendly: but, from this time forth, I wear it as your enemy.
Luc. Sir, the event
[Ereunt Lucius, FIRST Lond, &c. Queen. He goes hence frowning: but it honours us, That we have given him cause. Cloten. "Tis all the better; Your valiant Britons have their wishes in it. 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 appeard 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. [Erit Secon D. Lord. 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.
Enter Secon D. Lond.
Cym. Where is she, sir? How. Can her contempt be answer'd 2 Lord. Please you, sir, Her chambers are all lock'd ; and there's no answer That will be given to the loud'st of 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 }. 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! [Ereunt CYMBELINE and Second Loop. Queen. Son, I say, follow the king.
Cloten. That man of hers, Pisanio, her old servant, I have not seen these two days.
Queen. Go, look after.— [Erit 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. . . . [Erit.
Imog. Thou told'st me, when we came from horse, the place
Was near at hand.—
Smile to't before: if winterly, thou need'st
Imog. [Reads.] Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath played the strumpet in my bed; the testimonies whereof lie bleeding in me. I speak not out of weak surmises; but from proof as strong as my grief, and as certain as I expect my revenge. That part, thou, Pisanio, must act for me, if thy faith be not tainted with the breach of hers. Let thine own hands take away her life: I shall give thee opportunities at Milford Haven: she hath my letter for the purpose: where, if thou fear to strike, and to make me certain it is done, thou art the pander to her dishonour, and equally to me disloyal.
Pisanio. What shall I need to draw my sword? the aper Hath cut her throat already.-No, 'tis slander; Whose edge is sharper than the sword; whose tongue Outvenoms all the worms of Nile; whose breath Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie All corners of the world.- What cheer, madam * Imog. False to his bed! What is it, to be false To lie in watch there, and to think on 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,
Pisanio. Alas, good lady!
Imog. I false? Thy conscience witness:–Iachimo, Thou didst accuse him of incontinency; Thou then look'dst like a villain ; now, methinks, Thy favour's good enough.--Some jay of Italy, Whose mother was her painting, hath betray'd him; . . Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion; I must be ripp'd :-to pieces with me!—Oh, Men's vows are women's traitors! All good seeming, By thy revolt, Oh, husband! shall be thought Put on for villany.
Pisanio. Good madam, hear me.
Imog. Come, fellow, be thou honest; Do thou thy master's bidding: when thou seest him, A little witness my obedience: Look 1 I draw the sword myself: take it; and hit The innocent 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. Thou may'st be valiant in a better cause; But now thou seem'st a coward.
Pisanio. Hence, vile instrument' Thou shalt not damn my hand.
Imog. Why, I must die; And if I do not by thy hand, thou art No servant of thy master's : Against self-slaughter There is a prohibition so divine, That cravens my weak hand. Come, here's my
heart; Something's afore’t:—Soft, soft; we'll no defence;— What is here? [Taking out Letters.
The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus,