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Yet is it true, sir.
I do well believe you.
1 Gent. We must forbear: Here comes the gen
queen, and princess.
Enter the Queen, Posthumus, and Imogen.
Queen. No, be assur'd, you shall not find me, daughter,
After the slander of most step-mothers,
Evil-ey'd unto you: you are my prisoner, but
I will be known your advocate: marry, yet
Please your highness,
I will from hence to-day.
Can tickle where she wounds!-My dearest hus
I something fear my father's wrath; but nothing,
Post. My queen! my mistress! O, lady, weep no more; lest I give cause To be suspected of more tenderness Than doth become a man! I will remain The loyal'st husband that did e'er plight troth. My residence in Rome, at one Philario's; Who to my father was a friend, to me 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. 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,
Should we be taking leave
Imo. Nay, stay a little:
Were you but riding forth to air yourself,
Such parting were too petty. Look here, love;
When Imogen is dead.
Post. How! how! another?You gentle gods, give me but this I have, And sear up my embracements from a next With bonds of death!-Remain, remain thou here [Putting on the ring. 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
I still win of you: For my sake, wear this;
[Putting a bracelet on her arm. O, the gods!
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. 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.
O disloyal thing,
That should'st repair my youth; thou heapest
A year's age on me!
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 throne
A seat for baseness.
A lustre to it.
No; I rather added
O thou vile one!
It is your fault that I have lov'd Posthumus:
What!-art thou mad? Imo. Almost, sir: Heaven restore me!-'Would
A neatherd's daughter! and my Leonatus.
They were again together: you have done
[To the Queen. Not after our command. Away with her, And pen her up.
Queen. 'Beseech your patience:-Peace, Dear lady daughter, peace;-Sweet sovereign, Leave us to ourselves; and make yourself some comfort
Out of your best advice.
Nay, let her languish
Fie!-you must give way:
Queen. Here is your servant.-How now, sir? What news? Pis. My lord your son drew on my master. Queen.
No harm, I trust, is done?
Pis. There might have been, But that my master rather play'd than fought, And had no help of anger: they were parted By gentlemen at hand.
I am very glad on't.
Imo. Your son's my father's friend; he takes his part.
To draw upon an exile!-O brave sir!-