By her election may be truly read, What kind of man he is. 2 Gent. Even out of your report. I honour him But, 'pray you, tell me, Is she sole child to the king? His only child. 1 Gent. He had two sons, (if this be worth your bearing, Mark it,) the eldest of them at three years old, I'the swathing clothes the other, from their nursery Were stolen; and to this hour, no guess in knowledge Which way they went. 2 Gent. How long is this ago? 1 Gent. Some twenty years. 2 Gent. That a king's children should be so convey'd! So slackly guarded! and the search so slow, That could not trace them! 1 Gent. Howsoe'er 'tis strange, Or that the negligence may well be laugh'd at, 2 Gert. I do well believe you. 1 Gént. We must forbear: Here comes the queen, and princess. [Exeunt. SCENE II.-The same. Enter the Queen, Posthu mus 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 That lock up your restraint.-For you, Posthumus, You lean'd unto his sentence, with what pat, nee Post. Please your highness. You know the peril : I will from hence to-day. Queen. 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. Imo. Dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant 0, Can tickle where she wounds!-My dearest husband, His rage can do on me: You must be gone; Of angry eyes; not comforted to live, Post. Known but by letter; thither write, my queen, 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 [Aside. To walk this way: I never do him wrong, Post. Should we be taking leave As long term as yet we have to live, The loathness to depart would grow: Adieu! [Exit. Were you but riding forth to air yourself, When Imogen is dead. Post. [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 Upon this fairest prisoner. 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! [Exit. And bless the good remainders of the court! I am gone. Imo. There cannot be a pinch in death More sharp than this is. Cym. O disloyal thing, That shouldst repair my youth; thou heapest A year's age on me! Imo. 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. Cym. 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'l, that I might not! I chose an eagle, And did avoid a puttoc. Cym, Thou took'st a beggar; wouldst have made my throne It is your fault that I have lov'd Posthumus: Cym. What!-art thou mad? Imo. Almost, sir: heaven restore me!-Would I were A neat-herd's daughter! and my Leonatus Our neighbour shepherd's son! Сут. Re-enter Queen. Thou foolish thing; [To the Queen. They were again together: you have done Not after our command. Away with her, 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. Cym. Nay, let her languish [Exit." A drop of blood a day; and, being aged, Enter Pisanio. Queen. Fie!-you must give way: Here is your servant.-How now, sir? what news? Queen. No harn, I trust, is done? Ha! Pis. There might have been Queen. I am very glad on't. Ime. Your son's my father's friend; he takes his part. To draw upon an exile!-O brave sir! I would they were in Afrie both together; The goer back.-Why came you from your master? This hath been Queen. Pis. I humbly thank your highness. About some half hour hence, Queen. Pray, walk awhile. Imo. I pray you, speak with me: you shall, at least, [Exeunt. SCENE III-A public Place. Enter Cloten, and two Lords. 1 Lord. Sir, I would advise you to shift a shirt; the violence of action hath made you reek as a sacrifice. Where air comes out, air comes in: there's none abroad so wholesome as that you vent. |