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Yet is it true, sir. 2 Gent.
I do well believe you. 1 Gent. We must forbear: Here comes the gen
tleman, The queen, and princess.
Enter the Queen, Posthumus, and Imogen. Queen. No, be assur'd, you shall not find me,
Please your highness,
You know the peril:-
of barr'd affections; though the king Hath charg'd you should not speak together.
[Exit Queen. Imo.
0 Dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant
Can tickle where she wounds!—My dearest hus
band, 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 gone; 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! 0, 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
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,
How! how! another?
[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. Imo.
0, the gods! When shall we see again?
Enter Cymbeline, and Lords. Post.
Alack, the king!
The gods protect you!
[Exit. Imo. There cannot be a pinch in death More sharp than this is.
O disloyal thing,
I beseech you, sir,
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
A seat for baseness.
No; I rather added
O thou vile one!
What !-art thou mad? Imo. Almost, sir: Heaven restore me!-'Would
Re-enter Queen. Сут. .
Thou foolish thing!They were again together: you have done
[To the Queen. Not after our command. Away with her,
'Beseech your patience:-Peace, Dear lady daughter, peace;-Sweet sovereign, Leave us to ourselves; and make yourself some
Nay, let her languish
Enter Pisanio. Queen.
Fie !-you must give way:
Pis. My lord your son drew on my master.
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. Queen. .
I am very glad on't.