Yet is it true, sir. 2 Gent. I do well believe you. 1 Gent. We must forbear: Here comes the gen Enter the Queen, Posthumus, and Imogen. Queen. No, be assur'd, you shall not find me, daughter, After the slander of most step-mothers, Post. I will from hence to-day. Queen. you. Please your highness, You know the peril : 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 Queen. Can tickle where she wounds!-My dearest hus band, I something fear my father's wrath; but nothing, (Always reserv'd my holy duty,) what His rage can do on me: You must be gone; And I shall here abide the hourly shot Of Post. Than doth become a man! I will remain Known but by letter: thither write, my queen, Queen. Re-enter Queen. Be brief, I pray you: If the king come, I shall incur I know not To walk this way: I never do him wrong, Post. [Aside. [Exit. Should we be taking leave As long a term as yet we have to live, The loathness to depart would grow: Adieu! Were you but riding forth to air yourself, When Imogen is dead. Post. How! how!. another? You gentle gods, give me but this I have, you, To your so infinite loss; so, in our trifles I still win of you: For my sake, wear this; Upon this fairest prisoner. Cym. Thou basest thing, avoid! hence, from my sight! If, after this command, thou fraught the court Thou art poison to my blood. Cym. O disloyal thing, That should'st repair my youth; thou heapest you, sir, Harm not yourself with your vexation; I 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'd, that I might not! I chose an eagle, And did avoid a puttock. Cym. Thou took'st a beggar; would'st 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 neatherd's daughter! and my Leonatus Our neighbour shepherd's son! 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. A drop of blood a-day; and, being aged, Die of this folly! Queen. Nay, let her languish [Exit. Enter Pisanio. Fie!-you must give way: Here is your servant.-How now, sir? What news? Pis. My lord your son drew on my master. Queen. No harm, I trust, is done? Pis. Ha! There might have been, But that my master rather play'd than fought, Queen. I am very glad on't. Imo. Your son's my father's friend; he takes his part. To draw upon an exile!-O brave sir!— |