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For whom my heart drops blood, and my false spirits
Iach. Upon a time, (unhappy was the clock
Cym. I stand on fire:
Iach. All too soon I shall,
Were crack'd of kitchen trulls, or his description
Cym. Nay, nay, to the purpose.
Iach. Your daughter's chastity—there it begins ! He spake of her as Dian had hot dreams, And she alone were cold: Whereat, I, wretch ! Made scruple of his praise; and wager'd with him Pieces of gold, 'gainst this which then he wore Upon his honour'd finger, to attain In suit the place of his bed, and win this ring By hers and mine adultery : he, true knight, No lesser of her honour confident Than I did truly find her, stakes this ring; And would so, had it been a carbuncle Of Phæbus' wheel; and might so safely, had it Been all the worth of his car. Away to Britain Post I in this design : Well may you, sir, Remember me at court, where I was taught Of your chaste daughter the wide difference 'Twixt amorous and villainous. Being thus quench’al Of hope, not longing, mine Italian brain 'Gan in your duller Britain operate Most vilely; for my vantage, excellent; And, to be brief, my practice so prevail'd, That I return’d with simular proof enough To make the noble Leonatus mad, By wounding his belief in her renown With tokens thus, and thus; averring notes Of chamber-hanging, pictures, this her bracelet, (0, cunning, how I got it !) nay, some marks Of secret on her person, that he could not But think her bond of chastity quite crack’d,
I having ta’en the forfeit. Whereupon,-
Imo. Peace, my lord; hear, hear-
[Striking her : she falls.
Cym. Does the world go round ?
w fares my
low, hence :
Cym. If this be so, the gods do mean to strike me To death with mortal joy.
Pis. How fares my mistress ? · Imo. O, get thee from my sight; Thou gav’st me poison: dangerous fellow, hence! Breathe not where princes are.
Cym. The tune of Imogen!
Cym. New matter still ?. Es
Cym. What's this, Cornelius ?
Cor. The queen, sir, very oft impórtun'd me
Imo. Most like I did, for I was dead.
Bel. My boys, There was our error. Gui. This is sure Fidele. Imo. Why did you throw your wedded lady from
you ? Think, that you are upon a rock; and now Throw me again.
[Embracing him. Post. Hang there like fruit, my soul, Till the tree die!
Cym. How now, my flesh, my child ?
[Kneeling. Bel. Though you did love this youth, I blame ye
not; You had a motive for't.
[To GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS. Cym. My tears, that fall, Prove holy water on thee! Imogen, Thy mother's dead.
Imo. I am sorry for't, my lord.
Cym. O, she was naught; and ’long of her it was, That we meet here so strangely: But her son Is gone, we know not how, nor where.
Pis. My lord, Now fear is from me, I'll speak troth. Lord Cloten, Upon my lady's missing, came to me With his sword drawn; foam’d at the mouth, and swore, If I discover'd not which way she was gone, It was my instant death: By accident, I had a feigned letter of my master's