The Complete Works of William Shakespeare Part 97

IMOGEN. Amen. I thank thee. Exeunt severally

SCENE V.

Britain. CYMBELINE'S palace

Enter CYMBELINE, QUEEN, CLOTEN, LUCIUS, and LORDS

CYMBELINE. Thus far; and so farewell.

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.

LUCIUS. So, sir. I desire of you A conduct overland to Milford Haven.

Madam, all joy befall your Grace, and you!

CYMBELINE. My lords, you are appointed for that office; The due of honour in no point omit.

So farewell, n.o.ble Lucius.

LUCIUS. Your hand, my lord.

CLOTEN. Receive it friendly; but from this time forth I wear it as your enemy.

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 hors.e.m.e.n be in readiness.

The pow'rs 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 a MESSENGER QUEEN. Royal sir, Since the exile of Posthumus, most retir'd 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 MESSENGER

CYMBELINE. Where is she, sir? How Can her contempt be answer'd?

MESSENGER. Please you, sir, Her chambers are all lock'd, and there's no answer That will be given to th' loud of 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, I 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 seiz'd her; Or, wing'd with fervour of her love, she's flown To her desir'd 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. 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 chok'd; and in that point I will conclude to hate her, nay, indeed, To be reveng'd 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 miss'd?

He is in Rome.

CLOTEN. Where is she, sir? Come nearer.

No farther 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. Humh!

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 villainy 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 grat.i.tude, 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 first 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 n.o.ble 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 l.u.s.t hath dined- which, as I say, to vex her I will execute in the clothes that she so prais'd- to the court I'll knock her back, foot her home again. She hath despis'd me rejoicingly, and I'll be merry in my revenge.

Re-enter PISANIO, with the clothes

Be those the garments?

PISANIO. Ay, my n.o.ble 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 alone, in boy's clothes

IMOGEN. I see a man's life is a tedious one.

I have tir'd 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 reliev'd. 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 Is worse in kings than beggars. My dear lord!

Thou art one o' th' false ones. Now I think on thee My hunger's gone; but even before, I was At point to sink for food. But what is this?

Here is a path to't; 'tis some savage hold.