Thou wouldst have told this tale for virtue, not
For such an end thou seek’st,— as base as strange.
Thou wrong’st a gentleman, who is as far
From thy report as thou from honour, and
Solicit’st here a lady that disdains
Thee and the devil alike. What ho, Pisanio!
The king my father shall be made acquainted
Of thy assault: if he shall think it fit,
A saucy stranger in his court to mart
As in a Romish stew and to expound
His beastly mind to us, he hath a court
He little cares for and a daughter who
He not respects at all. What, ho, Pisanio!
Iachimo
O happy Leonatus! I may say
The credit that thy lady hath of thee
Deserves thy trust, and thy most perfect goodness
Her assured credit. Blessed live you long!
A lady to the worthiest sir that ever
Country call’d his! and you his mistress, only
For the most worthiest fit! Give me your pardon.
I have spoke this, to know if your affiance
Were deeply rooted; and shall make your lord,
That which he is, new o’er: and he is one
The truest manner’d; such a holy witch
That he enchants societies into him;
Half all men’s hearts are his.
Imogen
You make amends.
Iachimo
He sits ’mongst men like a descended god:
He hath a kind of honour sets him off,
More than a mortal seeming. Be not angry,
Most mighty princess, that I have adventured
To try your taking a false report; which hath
Honour’d with confirmation your great judgment
In the election of a sir so rare,
Which you know cannot err: the love I bear him
Made me to fan you thus, but the gods made you,
Unlike all others, chaffless. Pray, your pardon.
Imogen
All’s well, sir: take my power i’ the court for yours.
Iachimo
My humble thanks. I had almost forgot
To entreat your grace but in a small request,
And yet of moment to, for it concerns
Your lord; myself and other noble friends,
Are partners in the business.
Imogen
Pray, what is’t?
Iachimo
Some dozen Romans of us and your lord —
The best feather of our wing — have mingled sums
To buy a present for the emperor
Which I, the factor for the rest, have done
In France: ’tis plate of rare device, and jewels
Of rich and exquisite form; their values great;
And I am something curious, being strange,
To have them in safe stowage: may it please you
To take them in protection?
Imogen
Willingly;
And pawn mine honour for their safety: since
My lord hath interest in them, I will keep them
In my bedchamber.
Iachimo
They are in a trunk,
Attended by my men: I will make bold
To send them to you, only for this night;
I must aboard to-morrow.
Imogen
O, no, no.
Iachimo
Yes, I beseech; or I shall short my word
By lengthening my return. From Gallia
I cross’d the seas on purpose and on promise
To see your grace.
Imogen
I thank you for your pains:
But not away to-morrow!
Iachimo
O, I must, madam:
Therefore I shall beseech you, if you please
To greet your lord with writing, do’t to-night:
I have outstood my time; which is material
To the tender of our present.
Imogen
I will write.
Send your trunk to me; it shall safe be kept,
And truly yielded you. You’re very welcome.
Exeunt
ACT II
SCENE I. BRITAIN. BEFORE CYMBELINE’S PALACE.
Enter Cloten and two Lords
Cloten
Was there ever man had such luck! when I kissed the jack, upon an up-cast to be hit away! I had a hundred pound on’t: and then a whoreson jackanapes must take me up for swearing; as if I borrowed mine oaths of him and might not spend them at my pleasure.
First Lord
What got he by that? You have broke his pate with your bowl.
Second Lord
[Aside] If his wit had been like him that broke it, it would have run all out.
Cloten
When a gentleman is disposed to swear, it is not for any standers-by to curtail his oaths, ha?
Second Lord
No my lord;
Aside
nor crop the ears of them.
Cloten
Whoreson dog! I give him satisfaction?
Would he had been one of my rank!
Second Lord
[Aside] To have smelt like a fool.
Cloten
I am not vexed more at any thing in the earth: a pox on’t! I had rather not be so noble as I am; they dare not fight with me, because of the queen my mother: every Jack-slave hath his bellyful of fighting, and I must go up and down like a cock that nobody can match.
Second Lord
[Aside] You are cock and capon too; and you crow, cock, with your comb on.
Cloten
Sayest thou?
Second Lord
It is not fit your lordship should undertake every companion that you give offence to.
Cloten
No, I know that: but it is fit I should commit offence to my inferiors.
Second Lord
Ay, it is fit for your lordship only.
Cloten
Why, so I say.
First Lord
Did you hear of a stranger that’s come to court to-night?
Cloten
A stranger, and I not know on’t!
Second Lord
[Aside] He’s a strange fellow himself, and knows it not.
First Lord
There’s an Italian come; and, ’tis thought, one of
Leonatus’ friends.
Cloten
Leonatus! a banished rascal; and he’s another, whatsoever he be. Who told you of this stranger?
First Lord
One of your lordship’s pages.
Cloten
Is it fit I went to look upon him? is there no derogation in’t?
Second Lord
You cannot derogate, my lord.
Cloten
Not easily, I think.
Second Lord
[Aside] You are a fool granted; therefore your issues, being foolish, do not derogate.
Cloten
Come, I’ll go see this Italian: what I have lost to-day at bowls I’ll win to-night of him. Come, go.
Second Lord
I’ll attend your lordship.
Exeunt Cloten and First Lord
That such a crafty devil as is his mother
Should yield the world this ass! a woman that
Bears all down with her brain; and this her son
Cannot take two from twenty, for his heart,
And leave eighteen. Alas, poor princess,
Thou divine Imogen, what thou endurest,
Betwixt a father by thy step-dame govern’d,
A mother hourly coining plots, a wooer
More hateful than the foul expulsion is
Of thy dear husband, than that horrid act
Of the divorce he’ld make! The heavens hold firm
The walls of thy dear honour, keep unshaked
That temple, thy fair mind, that thou
mayst stand,
To enjoy thy banish’d lord and this great land!
Exit
SCENE II. IMOGEN’S BEDCHAMBER IN CYMBELINE’S PALACE: A TRUNK IN ONE CORNER OF IT.
Imogen in bed, reading; a Lady attending
Imogen
Who’s there? my woman Helen?
Lady
Please you, madam
Imogen
What hour is it?
Lady
Almost midnight, madam.
Imogen
I have read three hours then: mine eyes are weak:
Fold down the leaf where I have left: to bed:
Take not away the taper, leave it burning;
And if thou canst awake by four o’ the clock,
I prithee, call me. Sleep hath seized me wholly
Exit Lady
To your protection I commend me, gods.
From fairies and the tempters of the night
Guard me, beseech ye.
Sleeps. Iachimo comes from the trunk
Iachimo
The crickets sing, and man’s o’er-labour’d sense
Repairs itself by rest. Our Tarquin thus
Did softly press the rushes, ere he waken’d
The chastity he wounded. Cytherea,
How bravely thou becomest thy bed, fresh lily,
And whiter than the sheets! That I might touch!
But kiss; one kiss! Rubies unparagon’d,
How dearly they do’t! ’Tis her breathing that
Perfumes the chamber thus: the flame o’ the taper
Bows toward her, and would under-peep her lids,
To see the enclosed lights, now canopied
Under these windows, white and azure laced
With blue of heaven’s own tinct. But my design,
To note the chamber: I will write all down:
Such and such pictures; there the window; such
The adornment of her bed; the arras; figures,
Why, such and such; and the contents o’ the story.
Ah, but some natural notes about her body,
Above ten thousand meaner moveables
Would testify, to enrich mine inventory.
O sleep, thou ape of death, lie dull upon her!
And be her sense but as a monument,
Thus in a chapel lying! Come off, come off:
Taking off her bracelet
As slippery as the Gordian knot was hard!
’Tis mine; and this will witness outwardly,
As strongly as the conscience does within,
To the madding of her lord. On her left breast
A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops
I’ the bottom of a cowslip: here’s a voucher,
Stronger than ever law could make: this secret
Will force him think I have pick’d the lock and ta’en
The treasure of her honour. No more. To what end?
Why should I write this down, that’s riveted,
Screw’d to my memory? She hath been reading late
The tale of Tereus; here the leaf’s turn’d down
Where Philomel gave up. I have enough:
To the trunk again, and shut the spring of it.
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.
Clock strikes
One, two, three: time, time!
Goes into the trunk. The scene closes
SCENE III. AN ANTE-CHAMBER ADJOINING IMOGEN’S APARTMENTS.
Enter Cloten and Lords
First Lord
Your lordship is the most patient man in loss, the most coldest that ever turned up ace.
Cloten
It would make any man cold to lose.
First Lord
But not every man patient after the noble temper of your lordship. You are most hot and furious 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?
First Lord
Day, my lord.
Cloten
I would this music would come: I am advised to give her music o’ 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, 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,
And Phoebus ’gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes:
With every thing that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise:
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 amend.
Exeunt Musicians
Second 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.
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 assailed her with music, but she 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 out,
And then she’s yours.
Queen
You are most bound to the king,
Who lets go by no vantages that may
Prefer you to his daughter. Frame yourself
To orderly soliciting, and be friended
With aptness of the season; make denials
Increase your services; so seem as if
You were inspired 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;
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,
We must extend our notice. Our dear son,
When you have given good morning to your mistress,
Attend the queen and us; we shall have need
To employ you towards this Roman. Come, our queen.
Exeunt all but Cloten
Cloten
If she be up, I’ll speak with her; if not,
Let her lie still and dream.
Knocks
By your leave, ho!
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
Their deer to the stand o’ the 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
I yet not understand the case myself.
Knocks
By your leave.
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,
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
What I shall think is good?— The princess!
Enter Imogen
Cloten
Good morrow, fairest: sister, your sweet hand.
Exit Lady
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
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,
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:
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,
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 the very truth of it, I care not for you,
And am so near the lack of charity —
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,
With scraps o’ the court, it is no contract, none:
And though it be allow’d in meaner parties —
Complete Plays, The Page 357