Swift, swift, you dragons of the night, that dawning
May bare the raven’s eye! I lodge in fear;
Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here.
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[Clock strikes.]
One, two, three: time, time!
[Goes into the trunk. The scene closes.]
2.3 Enter CLOTEN and Lords.
1 LORD Your lordship is the most patient man in loss,
the most coldest that ever turn’d up ace.
CLOTEN It would make any man cold to lose.
1 LORD But not every man patient after the noble
temper of your lordship. You are most hot and furious
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when you win.
CLOTEN Winning will put any man into courage. If I
could get this foolish Imogen, I should have gold
enough. It’s almost morning, is’t not?
1 LORD Day, my lord.
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CLOTEN I would this music would come: I am advised
to give her music a mornings, they say it will
penetrate.
Enter Musicians.
Come on, tune: if you can penetrate her with your
fingering, so: we’ll try with tongue too: if none will do,
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let her remain: but I’ll never give o’er. First, a very
excellent good-conceited thing; after, a wonderful
sweet air, with admirable rich words to it, and then let
her consider.
SONG
Hark, hark, the lark at heaven’s gate sings,
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And Phoebus gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chalic’d flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin to ope their golden
eyes;
With every thing that pretty is, my lady sweet arise:
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Arise, arise!
CLOTEN So get you gone: if this penetrate, I will
consider your music the better: if it do not, it is a vice
in her ears, which horse-hairs, and calves’-guts, nor
the voice of unpaved eunuch to boot, can never
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amend. Exeunt musicians.
2 LORD Here comes the king.
CLOTEN I am glad I was up so late, for that’s the reason
I was up so early: he cannot choose but take this
service I have done fatherly.
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Enter CYMBELINE and QUEEN.
Good morrow to your majesty, and to my gracious
mother.
CYMBELINE
Attend you here the door of our stern daughter?
Will she not forth?
CLOTEN I have assail’d her with musics, but she
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vouchsafes no notice.
CYMBELINE The exile of her minion is too new,
She hath not yet forgot him, some more time
Must wear the print of his remembrance on’t,
And then she’s yours.
QUEEN You are most bound to th’ king,
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Who lets go by no vantages that may
Prefer you to his daughter: frame yourself
To orderly solicits, and be friended
With aptness of the season: make denials
Increase your services: so seem, as if
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You were inspir’d to do those duties which
You tender to her: that you in all obey her,
Save when command to your dismission tends,
And therein you are senseless.
CLOTEN Senseless? not so.
Enter a Messenger.
MESSENGER
So like you, sir, ambassadors from Rome;
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The one is Caius Lucius.
CYMBELINE A worthy fellow,
Albeit he comes on angry purpose now;
But that’s no fault of his: we must receive him
According to the honour of his sender,
And towards himself, his goodness forespent on us,
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We must extend our notice. Our dear son,
When you have given good morning to your mistress,
Attend the queen and us; we will have need
T’employ you towards this Roman. Come, our
queen. Exeunt all but Cloten.
CLOTEN If she be up, I’ll speak with her: if not,
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Let her lie still, and dream. By your leave, ho!
[Knocks.]
I know her women are about her: what
If I do line one of their hands? ’Tis gold
Which buys admittance (oft it doth) yea, and makes
Diana’s rangers false themselves, yield up
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Their deer to th’ stand o’th’ stealer: and ’tis gold
Which makes the true-man kill’d, and saves the thief:
Nay, sometime hangs both thief, and true-man: what
Can it not do, and undo? I will make
One of her women lawyer to me, for
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I yet not understand the case myself.
By your leave. [Knocks.]
Enter a Lady.
LADY Who’s there that knocks?
CLOTEN A gentleman.
LADY No more?
CLOTEN Yes, and a gentlewoman’s son.
LADY That’s more
Than some whose tailors are as dear as yours
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Can justly boast of. What’s your lordship’s pleasure?
CLOTEN Your lady’s person, is she ready?
LADY Ay,
To keep her chamber.
CLOTEN There is gold for you,
Sell me your good report.
LADY How, my good name? or to report of you
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What I shall think is good? The princess! Exit Lady.
Enter IMOGEN.
CLOTEN Good morrow, fairest: sister, your sweet hand.
IMOGEN Good morrow, sir. You lay out too much pains
For purchasing but trouble: the thanks I give
Is telling you that I am poor of thanks,
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And scarce can spare them.
CLOTEN Still I swear I love you.
IMOGEN If you but said so, ’twere as deep with me:
If you swear still, your recompense is still
That I regard it not.
CLOTEN This is no answer.
IMOGEN But that you shall not say I yield being silent,
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I would not speak. I pray you spare me: ’faith
I shall unfold equal discourtesy
To your best kindness: one of your great knowing
Should learn (being taught) forbearance.
CLOTEN To leave you in your madness, ’twere my sin,
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I will not.
IMOGEN Fools are not mad folks.
CLOTEN Do you call me fool?
IMOGEN As I am mad I do:
If you’ll be patient, I’ll no more be mad,
That cures us both. I am much sorry, sir,
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You put me to forget a lady’s manners,
By being so verbal: and learn now, for all,
That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce,
By th’ very truth of it, I care not for you,
And am so near the lack of charity.
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(To accuse myself) I hate you: which I had rather
You felt than make’t my boast.
CLOTEN You sin against
Obedience, which you owe your father; for
The contract you pretend with that base wretch,
One bred of alms, and foster’d with cold dishes,
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With scraps o’th’ court, it is no contract, none;
And though it be allow’d in meaner parties
(Yet who than he more mean?) to knit their souls
/>
(On whom there is no more dependency
But brats and beggary) in self-figur’d knot,
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Yet you are curb’d from that enlargement, by
The consequence o’th’ crown, and must not foil
The precious note of it; with a base slave,
A hiding for a livery, a squire’s cloth,
A pantler; not so eminent.
IMOGEN Profane fellow,
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Wert thou the son of Jupiter, and no more
But what thou art besides, thou wert too base
To be his groom: thou wert dignified enough,
Even to the point of envy, if ’twere made
Comparative for your virtues to be styled
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The under-hangman of his kingdom; and hated
For being preferr’d so well.
CLOTEN The south-fog rot him!
IMOGEN
He never can meet more mischance than come
To be but nam’d of thee. His mean’st garment,
That ever hath but clipp’d his body, is dearer
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In my respect, than all the hairs above thee,
Were they all made such men. How now, Pisanio!
Enter PISANIO.
CLOTEN ‘His garment!’ Now, the devil –
IMOGEN To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently.
CLOTEN ‘His garment!’
IMOGEN I am sprited with a fool,
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Frighted, and anger’d worse. Go bid my woman
Search for a jewel, that too casually
Hath left mine arm: it was thy master’s. ’Shrew me,
If I would lose it for a revenue
Of any king’s in Europe! I do think
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I saw’t this morning: confident I am.
Last night ’twas on mine arm; I kiss’d it:
I hope it be not gone to tell my lord
That I kiss aught but he.
PISANIO ’Twill not be lost.
IMOGEN I hope so: go and search. Exit Pisanio.
CLOTEN You have abus’d me:
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‘His meanest garment!’
IMOGEN Ay, I said so, sir:
If you will make’t an action, call witness to’t.
CLOTEN I will inform your father.
IMOGEN Your mother too:
She’s my good lady; and will conceive, I hope,
But the worst of me. So I leave you, sir,
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To th’ worst of discontent. Exit.
CLOTEN I’ll be reveng’d:
‘His mean’st garment!’ Well. Exit.
2.4 Enter POSTHUMUS and PHILARIO.
POSTHUMUS Fear it not, sir: I would I were so sure
To win the king as I am bold her honour
Will remain hers.
PHILARIO What means do you make to him?
POSTHUMUS Not any: but abide the change of time,
Quake in the present winter’s state, and wish
5
That warmer days would come: in these fear’d hopes,
I barely gratify your love; they failing,
I must die much your debtor.
PHILARIO Your very goodness, and your company,
O’erpays all I can do. By this, your king
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Hath heard of great Augustus: Caius Lucius
Will do’s commission throughly. And I think
He’ll grant the tribute: send th’arrearages,
Or look upon our Romans, whose remembrance
Is yet fresh in their grief.
POSTHUMUS I do believe
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(Statist though I am none, nor like to be)
That this will prove a war; and you shall hear
The legion now in Gallia sooner landed
In our not-fearing Britain than have tidings
Of any penny tribute paid. Our countrymen
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Are men more order’d than when Julius Caesar
Smil’d at their lack of skill, but found their courage
Worthy his frowning at. Their discipline,
(Now wing-led with their courages) will make known
To their approvers they are people such
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That mend upon the world.
Enter IACHIMO.
PHILARIO See! Iachimo!
POSTHUMUS
The swiftest harts have posted you by land;
And winds of all the corners kiss’d your sails,
To make your vessel nimble.
PHILARIO Welcome, sir.
The Arden Shakespeare Complete Works Page 108