But that my master is abus'd:

Some villain, ay, and singular in his art,
Hath done you both this cursed injury.

Imo. Some Roman courtezan.

Pis.

No, on my life.

I'll give but notice you are dead, and send him
Some bloody sign of it; for 't is commanded
I should do so: you shall be miss'd at court,
And that will well confirm it.

Imo.

Why, good fellow, What shall I do the while? where bide? how live? Or in my life what comfort, when I am

Dead to my husband?

Pis.

If you 'll back to the court,

Imo. No court, no father; nor no more ado
With that harsh, noble, simple nothing,
That Cloten, whose love-suit hath been to me
As fearful as a siege.

Pis.

Then not in Britain must you bide.

Imo.

If not at court,

Where then?

Hath Britain all the sun that shines? Day, night,
Are they not but in Britain? I' the world's volume
Our Britain seems as of it, but not in it;

In a great pool, a swan's nest: pr'ythee, think
There's livers out of Britain.

Pis.
I am most glad
You think of other place. Th' embassador,
Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford-Haven
To-morrow: now, if you could wear a mind
Dark as your fortune is, and but disguise
That, which, t' appear itself, must not yet be,
But by self-danger, you should tread a course
Pretty, and full of view: yea, haply, near
The residence of Posthumus; so nigh, at least,
That though his actions were not visible, yet

Report should render him hourly to your ear,

As truly as he moves.

Imo.

O, for such means!

Though peril to my modesty, not death on 't,

I would adventure.

Pis.

Well then, here's the point.

You must forget to be a woman; change
Command into obedience; fear, and niceness,
(The handmaids of all women, or more truly,
Woman its pretty self) into a waggish courage:
Ready in gibes, quick-answer'd, saucy, and
As quarrelous as the weasel: nay, you must
Forget that rarest treasure of your cheek,
Exposing it (but, O, the harder heart!
Alack, no remedy!) to the greedy touch
Of common-kissing Titan; and forget
Your laboursome and dainty trims, wherein
You made great Juno angry.

Imo.

Nay, be brief: I see into thy end, and am almost

A man already.

Pis.

First, make yourself but like one.

Forethinking this, I have already fit

('T is in my cloak-bag) doublet, hat, hose, all That answer to them: would you, in their serving,

And with what imitation you can borrow

From youth of such a season, 'fore noble Lucius

Present yourself, desire his service, tell him

Wherein you are happy, (which you will make him know,
If that his head have ear in music) doubtless,

With joy he will embrace you; for he 's honourable,
And, doubling that, most holy. Your means abroad,
You have me, rich; and I will never fail

Beginning nor supplyment.

Imo.

Thou art all the comfort

The gods will diet me with. Pr'ythee, away:
There's more to be consider'd, but we 'll even

VI.

481

This attempt

All that good time will give us.

I'm soldier to, and will abide it with

A prince's courage. Away, I pr'ythee.

Pis. Well, Madam, we must take a short farewell
Lest, being miss'd, I be suspected of

Your carriage from the court. My noble mistress,
Here is a box; I had it from the queen:

What's in 't is precious; if you are sick at sea,
Or stomach-qualm'd at land, a dram of this
Will drive away distemper.
And fit you to your manhood.
Direct you to the best!

Imo.

To some shade,
May the gods

Amen. I thank thee.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.

A Room in CYMBELINE's Palace.

Enter CYMBELine, Queen, CLOTEN, LUCIUS, and Lords. Cym. Thus far; and so farewell.

Luc.

Thanks, royal Sir.

My emperor hath wrote, I must from hence;

And am right sorry that I must report ye

Will not endure his yoke; and for ourself

To show less sovereignty than they, must needs
Appear unkinglike.

Luc.

So, Sir. I desire of you

A conduct over land to Milford-Haven.

Madam, all joy befall your grace, and you!

Cym. My lords, you are appointed for that office!

The due of honour in no point omit.

So, farewell, noble Lucius.

Luc.

Your hand, my lord.

Clo. Receive it friendly; but from this time forth

I wear it as your enemy.

Is yet to name the winner. Fare you well.

Cym. Leave not the worthy Lucius, good my lords,

Queen. He goes hence frowning; but it honours us, That we have given him cause.

Clo.

'Tis all the better:

Your valiant Britons have their wishes in it.

Cym. Lucius hath wrote already to the emperor
How it goes here. It fits us, therefore, ripely,
Our chariots and our horsemen be in readiness.
The powers that he already hath in Gallia

Will soon be drawn to head, from whence he moves
His war for Britain.

Queen.
'T is 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 appear'd
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.

[Exit an Attendant. Royal Sir,

Queen.
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: she's a lady
So tender of rebukes, that words are strokes,
And strokes death to her.

Her chambers are all lock'd; and there's no answer
That will be given to the loud 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 leave 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!

Queen.

Son, I say, follow the king.

Clo. That man of hers, Pisanio, her old servant, I have not seen these two days.

Queen.

[Exit.

Go, look after.

[Exit 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.

How now, my son!

Clo.

Re-enter CLoten.

'T is certain, she is fled.

Go in, and cheer the king: he rages; none
Dare come about him.

This night forestal him of the coming day!

[Exit QUEEN.

Clo. I love, and hate her, for she 's fair and royal; And that she hath all courtly parts, more exquisite