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The pangs of barr'd affections; though the king
Dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant
Post. My queen! my mistress!
O, lady, weep no more; lest I give cause
Queen. Be brief, I pray you:
If the king come, I shall incur I know not
How much of his displeasure:-Yet I'll move him
To walk this way: I never do him wrong,
Post. Should we be taking leave
As long a term as yet we have to live,
The loathness to depart would grow: Adieu!
Imo. Nay, stay a little :
Were you but riding forth to air yourself,
Such parting were too petty. Look here, love;
Post. How! how! another !—
You gentle gods, give me but this I have,
[Putting on the ring.
I still win of you: For my sake, wear this;
[Putting a bracelet on her arm.
Imo. O, the gods! When shall we see again?
Enter CYMBELINE and Lords.
Post. Alack, the king!
Cym. Thou basest thing, avoid! hence, from my sight!
If, after this command, thou fraught the court
Post. The gods protect you!
And bless the good remainders of the court!
I am gone.
Imo. There cannot be a pinch in death
More sharp than this is.
Cym. O disloyal thing,
That should'st repair my youth; thou heapest
A year's age on me!
Imo. I besecch you, sir,
A seat for baseness.
Imo. No: I rather added
A lustre to it.
Harm not yourself with your vexation; I
Am senseless of your wrath; a touch more rare
Cym. Past grace? obedience?
Imo. Past hope, and in despair; that way, past grace. Cym. That might'st have had the sole son of my queen! Imo. O bless'd, that I might not! I chose an eagle, And did avoid a puttock.
Cym. Thou took'st a beggar; would'st have made my
Cym. O thou vile one!
It is your fault that I have lov'd Posthumus;
A man, worth any woman; overbuys me
Almost the sum he pays.
A neat-herd's daughter! and my Leonatus
Cym. What!-art thou mad?
Imo. Almost, sir: Heaven restore me!-'Would I
Cym. Thou foolish thing!—
[To the Queen.
Not after our command. Away with her,
Queen. 'Beseech your patience:--Peace,
Out of your best advice.
Cym. Nay, let her languish
A drop of blood a-day; and, being aged,
No harm, I trust, is done?
Pis. There might have been,
But that my master rather play'd than fought,
Queen. Fye!-you must give way:
Here is your servant.-How now, sir? What news?
To draw upon an exile!-O brave sir!—
Queen. I am very glad on't.
Imo. Your son's my father's friend; he takes his
The goer back. Why came you from your master?
Queen. This hath been
Your faithful servant: I dare lay mine honour,
Pis. I humbly thank your highness.
Queen. Pray, walk a while.
Imo. About some half hour hence,
pray you, speak with me: you shall, at least, Go see my lord aboard: for this time, leave me.
SCENE III.—A public Place.
Enter CLOTEN, and two Lords.
1 Lord. Sir, I would advise you to shift a shirt; the violence of action hath made you reek as a sacrifice : Where air comes out, air comes in: there's none abroad so wholesome as that you vent.
Clo. If my shirt were bloody, then to shift it-Have I hurt him?
2 Lord. No, faith; not so much as his patience.
1 Lord. Hurt him? his body's a passable carcass, if he be not hurt it is a thoroughfare for steel, if it be not hurt.
2 Lord. His steel was in debt; it went o'the backside the town. [Aside.