CYMBELINE. ACT I. SCENE I. Britain. The garden of Cymbeline's palace. Enter two Gentlemen. First Gent. You do not meet a frowns: our bloods man but No more obey the heavens than our courtiers Sec. Gent. But what's the matter? First Gent. His daughter, and the heir of's kingdom, whom He purposed to his wife's sole son—a widow Unto a poor but worthy gentleman: she's wedded; Sec, Gent. IO None but the king? First Gent. He that hath lost her too; so is the queen, That most desired the match; but not a courtier, Of the king's looks, hath a heart that is not Sec. Gent. Too bad for bad report: and he that hath her— 20 In him that should compare. I do not think Sec. Gent. You speak him far. *Outside. First Gent. I do extend him, sir, within himself, Crush him together rather than unfold His measure duly. Sec. Gent. What's his name and birth? First Gent. I cannot delve him to the root: his father Was call'd Sicilius, who did join his honour 30 But had his titles by Tenantius whom *Title. And had, besides this gentleman in question, 40 Then old and fond of issue, took such sorrow Sec. Gent. I honour him 50 Even out of your report. But, pray you, tell me, Is she sole child to the king? First Gent. His only child. He had two sons: if this be worth your hearing, Mark it: the eldest of them at three years old, I' the swathing-clothes the other, from their nursery Were stol'n, and to this hour no guess in know ledge Which way they went. Sec. Gent. How long is this ago? First Gent. Some twenty years. 60 Sec. Gent. That a king's children should be so convey'd, So slackly guarded, and the search so slow, First Gent. Howsoe'er 'tis strange, Or that the negligence may well be laugh'd at, Sec. Gent. I do well believe you. First Gent. We must forbear: here comes the gentleman, The queen, and princess. [Exeunt. Enter the QUEEN, POSTHUMUS, and IMOGEN. Queen. No, be assured you shall not find me, daughter, After the slander of most stepmothers, Evil-eyed unto you: you're my prisoner, but 70 That lock up your restraint. For you, Posthumus, I will be known your advocate: marry, yet You lean'd unto his sentence with what patience Post. I will from hence to-day. Please your highness, Queen. 80 The pangs of barr'd affections, though the king Hath charged you should not speak together. Imo. [Exit. Dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant Can tickle where she wounds! My dearest hus band, I something fear my father's wrath; but nothing— Post. To be suspected of more tenderness The loyal'st husband that did ́e'er plight troth: Who to my father was a friend, to me 90 Known but by letter: thither write, my queen, And with mine eyes I'll drink the words you send, Though ink be made of gall. Queen. Re-enter QUEEN. ΙΟΙ Be brief, I pray you: If the king come, I shall incur I know not How much of his displeasure. [Aside] Yet I'll move him To walk this way: I never do him wrong, Post. [Exit. Should we be taking leave Were you but riding forth to air yourself, Post. How, how! another? You gentle gods, give me but this I have, ΙΙΟ With bonds of death! [Putting on the ring.] Remain, remain thou here While sense can keep it on. And, sweetest, fairest, As I my poor self did exchange for you, To your so infinite loss, so in our trifles Upon this fairest prisoner. Imo. I 20 [Putting a bracelet upon her arm. O the gods! When shall we see again? Post. Enter CYMBELINE and Lords. Alack, the king! Cym. Thou basest thing, avoid! hence, from my sight! If after this command thou fraught the court Post. I am gone. Imo. There cannot be a pinch in death More sharp than this is. Cym. O disloyal thing, [Exit. That shouldst repair my youth, thou heap'st Imo. I beseech you, sir, Harm not yourself with your vexation: 130 I am senseless of your wrath; a touch more rare Subdues all pangs, all fears. Cym. Past grace? obedience? Imo. Past hope, and in despair; that way, past grace. Cym. That mightst have had the sole son of my queen ! Imo. O blest, that I might not! I chose an eagle, And did avoid a puttock.* *Kite. 140 Cym. Thou took'st a beggar; wouldst have made my throne A seat for baseness. It is your fault that I have loved Posthumus: |