Complete Plays, The
Page 360
Something’s afore’t. Soft, soft! we’ll no defence;
Obedient as the scabbard. What is here?
The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus,
All turn’d to heresy? Away, away,
Corrupters of my faith! you shall no more
Be stomachers to my heart. Thus may poor fools
Believe false teachers: though those that are betray’d
Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor
Stands in worse case of woe.
And thou, Posthumus, thou that didst set up
My disobedience ’gainst the king my father
And make me put into contempt the suits
Of princely fellows, shalt hereafter find
It is no act of common passage, but
A strain of rareness: and I grieve myself
To think, when thou shalt be disedged by her
That now thou tirest on, how thy memory
Will then be pang’d by me. Prithee, dispatch:
The lamb entreats the butcher: where’s thy knife?
Thou art too slow to do thy master’s bidding,
When I desire it too.
Pisanio
O gracious lady,
Since I received command to do this business
I have not slept one wink.
Imogen
Do’t, and to bed then.
Pisanio
I’ll wake mine eye-balls blind first.
Imogen
Wherefore then
Didst undertake it? Why hast thou abused
So many miles with a pretence? this place?
Mine action and thine own? our horses’ labour?
The time inviting thee? the perturb’d court,
For my being absent? whereunto I never
Purpose return. Why hast thou gone so far,
To be unbent when thou hast ta’en thy stand,
The elected deer before thee?
Pisanio
But to win time
To lose so bad employment; in the which
I have consider’d of a course. Good lady,
Hear me with patience.
Imogen
Talk thy tongue weary; speak
I have heard I am a strumpet; and mine ear
Therein false struck, can take no greater wound,
Nor tent to bottom that. But speak.
Pisanio
Then, madam,
I thought you would not back again.
Imogen
Most like;
Bringing me here to kill me.
Pisanio
Not so, neither:
But if I were as wise as honest, then
My purpose would prove well. It cannot be
But that my master is abused:
Some villain, ay, and singular in his art.
Hath done you both this cursed injury.
Imogen
Some Roman courtezan.
Pisanio
No, on my life.
I’ll give but notice you are dead and send him
Some bloody sign of it; for ’tis commanded
I should do so: you shall be miss’d at court,
And that will well confirm it.
Imogen
Why good fellow,
What shall I do the where? where bide? how live?
Or in my life what comfort, when I am
Dead to my husband?
Pisanio
If you’ll back to the court —
Imogen
No court, no father; nor no more ado
With that harsh, noble, simple nothing,
That Cloten, whose love-suit hath been to me
As fearful as a siege.
Pisanio
If not at court,
Then not in Britain must you bide.
Imogen
Where then
Hath Britain all the sun that shines? Day, night,
Are they not but in Britain? I’ the world’s volume
Our Britain seems as of it, but not in ’t;
In a great pool a swan’s nest: prithee, think
There’s livers out of Britain.
Pisanio
I am most glad
You think of other place. The ambassador,
Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford-Haven
To-morrow: now, if you could wear a mind
Dark as your fortune is, and but disguise
That which, to appear itself, must not yet be
But by self-danger, you should tread a course
Pretty and full of view; yea, haply, near
The residence of Posthumus; so nigh at least
That though his actions were not visible, yet
Report should render him hourly to your ear
As truly as he moves.
Imogen
O, for such means!
Though peril to my modesty, not death on’t,
I would adventure.
Pisanio
Well, then, here’s the point:
You must forget to be a woman; change
Command into obedience: fear and niceness —
The handmaids of all women, or, more truly,
Woman its pretty self — into a waggish courage:
Ready in gibes, quick-answer’d, saucy and
As quarrelous as the weasel; nay, you must
Forget that rarest treasure of your cheek,
Exposing it — but, O, the harder heart!
Alack, no remedy!— to the greedy touch
Of common-kissing Titan, and forget
Your laboursome and dainty trims, wherein
You made great Juno angry.
Imogen
Nay, be brief
I see into thy end, and am almost
A man already.
Pisanio
First, make yourself but like one.
Fore-thinking this, I have already fit —
’Tis in my cloak-bag — doublet, hat, hose, all
That answer to them: would you in their serving,
And with what imitation you can borrow
From youth of such a season, ’fore noble Lucius
Present yourself, desire his service, tell him
Wherein you’re happy,— which you’ll make him know,
If that his head have ear in music,— doubtless
With joy he will embrace you, for he’s honourable
And doubling that, most holy. Your means abroad,
You have me, rich; and I will never fail
Beginning nor supplyment.
Imogen
Thou art all the comfort
The gods will diet me with. Prithee, away:
There’s more to be consider’d; but we’ll even
All that good time will give us: this attempt
I am soldier to, and will abide it with
A prince’s courage. Away, I prithee.
Pisanio
Well, madam, we must take a short farewell,
Lest, being miss’d, I be suspected of
Your carriage from the court. My noble mistress,
Here is a box; I had it from the queen:
What’s in’t is precious; if you are sick at sea,
Or stomach-qualm’d at land, a dram of this
Will drive away distemper. To some shade,
And fit you to your manhood. May the gods
Direct you to the best!
Imogen
Amen: I thank thee.
Exeunt, severally
SCENE V. A ROOM IN CYMBELINE’S PALACE.
Enter Cymbeline, Queen, Cloten, Lucius, Lords, and Attendants
Cymbeline
Thus far; and so farewell.
Caius Lucius
Thanks, royal sir.
My emperor hath wrote, I must from hence;
And am right sorry that I must report ye
My master’s enemy.
Cymbeline
Our subjects, sir,
Will not endure his yoke; and for ourself
To show less sovereignty than they, must needs
Appear unkinglike.
Caius Lucius
So, sir: I desire of you
A conduct over-land to Milford-Haven.
Madam, all joy befal your grace!
Queen
And you!
Cymbeline
My lords, you are appointed for that office;
The due of honour in no point omit.
So farewell, noble Lucius.
Caius Lucius
Your hand, my lord.
Cloten
Receive it friendly; but from this time forth
I wear it as your enemy.
Caius Lucius
Sir, the event
Is yet to name the winner: fare you well.
Cymbeline
Leave not the worthy Lucius, good my lords,
Till he have cross’d the Severn. Happiness!
Exeunt Lucius and Lords
Queen
He goes hence frowning: but it honours us
That we have given him cause.
Cloten
’Tis all the better;
Your valiant Britons have their wishes in it.
Cymbeline
Lucius hath wrote already to the emperor
How it goes here. It fits us therefore ripely
Our chariots and our horsemen be in readiness:
The powers that he already hath in Gallia
Will soon be drawn to head, from whence he moves
His war for Britain.
Queen
’Tis not sleepy business;
But must be look’d to speedily and strongly.
Cymbeline
Our expectation that it would be thus
Hath made us forward. But, my gentle queen,
Where is our daughter? She hath not appear’d
Before the Roman, nor to us hath tender’d
The duty of the day: she looks us like
A thing more made of malice than of duty:
We have noted it. Call her before us; for
We have been too slight in sufferance.
Exit an Attendant
Queen
Royal sir,
Since the exile of Posthumus, most retired
Hath her life been; the cure whereof, my lord,
’Tis time must do. Beseech your majesty,
Forbear sharp speeches to her: she’s a lady
So tender of rebukes that words are strokes
And strokes death to her.
Re-enter Attendant
Cymbeline
Where is she, sir? How
Can her contempt be answer’d?
Attendant
Please you, sir,
Her chambers are all lock’d; and there’s no answer
That will be given to the loudest noise we make.
Queen
My lord, when last I went to visit her,
She pray’d me to excuse her keeping close,
Whereto constrain’d by her infirmity,
She should that duty leave unpaid to you,
Which daily she was bound to proffer: this
She wish’d me to make known; but our great court
Made me to blame in memory.
Cymbeline
Her doors lock’d?
Not seen of late? Grant, heavens, that which I fear
Prove false!
Exit
Queen
Son, I say, follow the king.
Cloten
That man of hers, Pisanio, her old servant, have not seen these two days.
Queen
Go, look after.
Exit Cloten
Pisanio, thou that stand’st so for Posthumus!
He hath a drug of mine; I pray his absence
Proceed by swallowing that, for he believes
It is a thing most precious. But for her,
Where is she gone? Haply, despair hath seized her,
Or, wing’d with fervor of her love, she’s flown
To her desired Posthumus: gone she is
To death or to dishonour; and my end
Can make good use of either: she being down,
I have the placing of the British crown.
Re-enter Cloten
How now, my son!
Cloten
’Tis certain she is fled.
Go in and cheer the king: he rages; none
Dare come about him.
Queen
[Aside] All the better: may
This night forestall him of the coming day!
Exit
Cloten
I love and hate her: for she’s fair and royal,
And that she hath all courtly parts more exquisite
Than lady, ladies, woman; from every one
The best she hath, and she, of all compounded,
Outsells them all; I love her therefore: but
Disdaining me and throwing favours on
The low Posthumus slanders so her judgment
That what’s else rare is choked; and in that point
I will conclude to hate her, nay, indeed,
To be revenged upon her. For when fools Shall —
Enter Pisanio
Who is here? What, are you packing, sirrah?
Come hither: ah, you precious pander! Villain,
Where is thy lady? In a word; or else
Thou art straightway with the fiends.
Pisanio
O, good my lord!
Cloten
Where is thy lady? Or, by Jupiter,—
I will not ask again. Close villain,
I’ll have this secret from thy heart, or rip
Thy heart to find it. Is she with Posthumus?
From whose so many weights of baseness cannot
A dram of worth be drawn.
Pisanio
Alas, my lord,
How can she be with him? When was she missed?
He is in Rome.
Cloten
Where is she, sir? Come nearer;
No further halting: satisfy me home
What is become of her.
Pisanio
O, my all-worthy lord!
Cloten
All-worthy villain!
Discover where thy mistress is at once,
At the next word: no more of ‘worthy lord!’
Speak, or thy silence on the instant is
Thy condemnation and thy death.
Pisanio
Then, sir,
This paper is the history of my knowledge
Touching her flight.
Presenting a letter
Cloten
Let’s see’t. I will pursue her
Even to Augustus’ throne.
Pisanio
[Aside] Or this, or perish.
She’s far enough; and what he learns by this
May prove his travel, not her danger.
Cloten
Hum!
Pisanio
[Aside] I’ll write to my lord she’s dead. O Imogen,
Safe mayst thou wander, safe return again!
Cloten
Sirrah, is this letter true?
Pisanio
Sir, as I think.
Cloten
It is Posthumus’ hand; I know’t. Sirrah, if thou wouldst not be a villain, but do me true service, undergo those employments wherein I should have cause to use thee with a serious industry, that is, what villany soe’er I bid thee do, to perform it directly and truly, I would think thee an honest man: thou shouldst neither want my means for thy relief nor my voice for thy preferment.
Pisanio
Well, my good lord.
Cloten
Wilt thou serve me? for since patiently and constantly thou hast stuck to the bare fortune of that beggar Posthumus, thou canst not, in the course of gratitude, but be a diligent follower of mine: wilt thou serve me?
Pisanio
Sir, I will.
Cloten
Give me thy hand; here’s my purse. Hast any of thy late master’s garments in thy possession?
Pisanio
I have, my lord, at my lodging, the same suit he wore when he took leave of my lady and mistress.
Cloten
The first service thou dost me, fetch that suit hither: let it be thy lint service; go.
Pisanio
I shall, my lord.
Exit
Cloten
Meet thee at Milford-Haven!— I forgot to ask him one thing; I’ll remember’t anon:— even there, thou villain Posthumus, will I kill thee. I would these garments were come. She said upon a time — the bitterness of it I now belch from my heart — that she held the very garment of Posthumus in more respect than my noble and natural person together with the adornment of my qualities. With that suit upon my back, will I ravish her: first kill him, and in her eyes; there shall she see my valour, which will then be a torment to her contempt. He on the ground, my speech of insultment ended on his dead body, and when my lust hath dined,— which, as I say, to vex her I will execute in the clothes that she so praised,— to the court I’ll knock her back, foot her home again. She hath despised me rejoicingly, and I’ll be merry in my revenge.
Re-enter Pisanio, with the clothes
Be those the garments?
Pisanio
Ay, my noble lord.
Cloten
How long is’t since she went to Milford-Haven?
Pisanio
She can scarce be there yet.
Cloten
Bring this apparel to my chamber; that is the second thing that I have commanded thee: the third is, that thou wilt be a voluntary mute to my design. Be but duteous, and true preferment shall tender itself to thee. My revenge is now at Milford: would I had wings to follow it! Come, and be true.
Exit
Pisanio
Thou bid’st me to my loss: for true to thee
Were to prove false, which I will never be,
To him that is most true. To Milford go,
And find not her whom thou pursuest. Flow, flow,
You heavenly blessings, on her! This fool’s speed
Be cross’d with slowness; labour be his meed!
Exit
SCENE VI. WALES. BEFORE THE CAVE OF BELARIUS.
Enter Imogen, in boy’s clothes
Imogen
I see a man’s life is a tedious one:
I have tired myself, and for two nights together
Have made the ground my bed. I should be sick,
But that my resolution helps me. Milford,
When from the mountain-top Pisanio show’d thee,
Thou wast within a ken: O Jove! I think
Foundations fly the wretched; such, I mean,
Where they should be relieved. Two beggars told me
I could not miss my way: will poor folks lie,
That have afflictions on them, knowing ’tis
A punishment or trial? Yes; no wonder,
When rich ones scarce tell true. To lapse in fulness
Is sorer than to lie for need, and falsehood