Imágenes de páginas

Yet is it true, sir.

2 Gent.

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
Your gaoler shall deliver you the keys
That lock up your restraint. For you, Posthumus,
So soon as I can win the offended king,

I will be known your advocate: marry, yet
The fire of rage is in him; and 'twere good,
You lean'd unto his sentence, with what patience
Your wisdom may inform


Please your highness,


I will from hence to-day.
You know the peril:-
I'll fetch a turn about the garden, pitying
The pangs of barr'd affections; though the king
Hath charg'd you should not speak together.

[Exit Queen.

Dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant

Can tickle where she wounds!-My dearest hus



I something fear my father's wrath; but nothing,
(Always reserv'd my holy duty,) what
His rage can do on me: You must be
And I shall here abide the hourly shot
Of angry eyes; not comforted to live,
But that there is this jewel in the world,
That I may see again.

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.

Re-enter Queen.

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,
But he does buy my injuries, to be friends;
Pays dear for my offences.


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;
This diamond was my mother's: take it, heart;
But keep it till you woo another wife,

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;
It is a manacle of love; I'll place it
Upon this fairest prisoner.

[Putting a bracelet on her arm. O, the gods!

When shall we see again?

Enter Cymbeline, and Lords.


Alack, the king! Cym. Thou basest thing, avoid! hence, from my sight!

If, after this command, thou fraught the court
With thy unworthiness, thou diest: Away!
Thou art poison to my blood.

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!

I beseech you, sir,
Harm not yourself with your vexation; I
Am senseless of your wrath; a touch more rare
Subdues all pangs, all fears.

Past grace? obedience?
Imo. Past hope, and in despair; that way, past


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:
You bred him as my play-fellow; and he is
A man, worth any woman; overbuys me
Almost the sum he pays.


What!-art thou mad? Imo. Almost, sir: Heaven restore me!-'Would

I were

A neatherd's daughter! and my Leonatus.
Our neighbour shepherd's son!

Re-enter Queen.
Thou foolish thing!-


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.

A drop of blood a-day; and, being aged,
Die of this folly!

Nay, let her languish


Enter Pisanio.

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!-
I would they were in Africk both together;
Myself by with a needle, that I might prick

« AnteriorContinuar »