University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

A Chamber in the Palace.
Enter Imogen alone.
Imo.
A father cruel, and a Stepdame false,
A foolish Suitor to a wedded Lady,
That hath her Husband banish'd—O, that Husband!
My supream Crown of Grief, and those repeated
Vexations of it—had I been Thief-stol'n,
As my two Brothers, happy; but most miserable
Is the Degree that's glorious. Blessed be those,
How mean so e'er, that have their honest Wills,
Which Seasons comfort. Who may this be?

Enter Pisanio and Iachimo.
Pis.
Madam, a noble Gentleman of Rome,
Comes from my Lord with Letters.

Iach.
Change you, Madam?
The worthy Leonatus is in safety,
And greets your Highness dearly.

Imo.
Thanks, good Sir,
You're kindly welcome.

[Reads aside.
Iach.
All of her that is out of Door, most rich!
If she be furnish'd with a Mind so rare,
She is alone th'Arabian Bird; and I
Have lost the Wager. Boldness be my Friend;
Arm me, Audacity, from Head to Foot;

[Aside.
Imogen.
reads.

He is one of the Noblest Note, to whose Kindnesses I
am most infinitely tyed. Reflect upon him accordingly, as you
value your Trust.

Leonatus.

Iach.
Thanks, fairest Lady;
What, are Men mad? hath Nature given them Eyes
To see this vaulted Arch, and the rich Crop
Of Sea and Land, which can distinguish 'twixt
The fiery Orbs above, and the twinn'd Stones
Upon the humble Beach? and can we not
Partition make 'Twixt fair and soul?

Imo.
What makes your Admiration?

Iach.
It cannot be i'th' Eye; for Apes and Monkeys,
'Twixt two such She's, would chatter this way, and
Contemn with mowes the other. Nor i'th' Judgment:
For Ideots in this Case of Favour, would
Be wisely definit. Nor in the Appetite—

Imo.
What is the Matter trow?

Iach.
The cloyed Will,
That satiate yet unsatisfy'd Desire,
Ravening first the Lamb,
Longs after for the Garbage—

Imo.
What, dear Sir,
Thus raps you? are you well?

Iach.
Thanks, Madam, well; beseech you, Sir,
Desire my Man's abode, where I did leave him;
He's strange and sheepish.

Pis.
I was going, Sir,
To give him welcome.
[Exit Pis.

Imo.
Continues well my Lord
His Health, beseech you?

Iach.
Well, Madam.

Imo.
Is he dispos'd to Mirth? I hope he is.

Iach.
Exceeding pleasant; none a Stranger there,
So merry, and so gamesome; he is call'd
The Britain Reveller.

Imo.
When he was here
He did incline to Sadness, and oft times
Not knowing why.

Iach.
I never saw him sad.
There is a Frenchman his Companion, one
An eminent Monsieur, that it seems much loves
A Gallian-Girl at home. He Furnaces
The thick sighs from him, while the jolly Britain,
(Your Lord I mean,) laughs from's free Lungs, cries oh!—
Can my Sides hold, to think, that Man who knows
By History, Report, or his own Proof
What Woman is, yea, what she cannot chuse
But must be, will his free Hours languish, out
For assur'd Bondage?

Imo.
Will my Lord say so?

Iach.
Ay, Madam, with his Eyes in Flood with Laughter,
It is a Recreation to be by
And hear him mock the Frenchman:
But Heaven knows some Men are much to blame.

Imo.
Not he, I hope.

Iach.
Not he, But yet Heav'ns Bounty towards him might
Be us'd more thankfully. In himself 'tis much;
In you, whom I account his beyond all Talents,
Whilst I am bound to wonder, I am bound
To pity too.

Imo.
What do you pity, Sir?

Iach.
Two Creatures heartily.

Imo.
Am I one, Sir?
You look on me; what Wrack discern you in me
Deserves your pity?

Iach.
Lamentable! what
To hide me from the radiant Sun, and solace
I'th' Dungeon by a Snuff?

Imo.
'Pray you, Sir,
Deliver with more openness your Answers
To my Demands. Why do you pity me?

Iach.
That others do,
I was about to say, enjoy your—but
It is an Office of the Gods to venge it,
Not mine to speak on't.

Imo.
You do seem to know
Something of me, or what concerns me; pray you
(Since doubting things go ill, often hurts more,
Than to be sure they do;) Discover to me
What doth you spur and stop.

Iach.
Had I this Cheek
To bathe my lips upon; this hand, whose touch
Whose very touch would force the feeler's soul
To th'Oath of Loyalty; this Object which
Takes Prisoner the wild Motion of mine Eye,
Fixing it only here; should I, (damn'd then,)
Slaver with Lips as common as the Stairs
That mount the Capitol? join Gripes with Hands
Made hard with hourly Falshood, as with Labour?
Then glad myself by peeping in an Eye
Base and unlust'rous as the Smoaky Light
That's fed with stinking Tallow? it were fit
That all the Plagues of Hell should at one time
Encounter such Revolt,

Imo.
My Lord, I fear,
Has forgot Britain.

Iach.
And himself; not I
Inclin'd to this Intelligence pronounce
The Beggary of his Change; but 'tis your Graces
That from my mutest Conscience, to my Tongue
Charm this Report out.

Imo.
Let me hear no more.

Iach.
O dearest Soul! your Cause doth strike my Heart
With Pity, that doth make me sick. A Lady
So fair, and fastened to an Empery,
Would make the great'st King double; to be partner'd
With Tomboys, hir'd with that self Exhibition
Which your own Coffers yield! with diseas'd Venturers
To play with all Infirmities for Gold,
Which Rottenness lends Nature! Be reveng'd,
Or she, that bore you was no Queen, and you
Recoil from your great Stock.

Imo.
Reveng'd?
How should I be reveng'd if this be true?
As I have such a Heart, that both mine Ears
Must not in haste abuse; if it be true,
How shall I be reveng'd?

Iach.
Shou'd he make me
Live like Diana's Priestess 'twixt cold Sheets;
Whiles he is Vaulting variable Ramps
In your Despight, upon your Purse! revenge it.
I dedicate myself to your sweet Pleasure,
More noble than that Runagate to your Bed,
And will continue fast to your Affection,
Still close, as sure.

Imo.
What ho, Pisanio!—

Iach.
Let me my Service tender on your Lips,

Imo.
Away, I do condemn mine Ears that have
So long attended thee. If thou wert honourable
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
Sollicit'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 sawcy 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, whom
He not respects at all. What ho, Pisanio!—

Iach.
O happy Leonatus, I may say!
The Credit, that thy Lady hath of thee,
Deserves thy Trust, and thy most perfect Goodness
Her assur'd 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 inchants Societies into him:
Half all Mens Hearts are his.

Imo.
You make amends.

Iach.
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 adventur'd
To try your taking of a false Report;
The Love I bear him,
Made me to fan you thus, but the Gods made you,
Unlike all others, chaffless. Pray, your Pardon.

Imo.
All's well, Sir, take my Power i'th' Court for yours.

Iach.
My humble Thanks; I had almost forgot
T'intreat your Grace, but in a small Request,
And yet of Moment too, for it concerns
Your Lord; myself, and other Noble Friends
Are Partners in the Business.

Imo.
Pray what is't?

Iach.
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.

Imo.
Willingly;
And pawn mine honour for their Safety; since
My Lord hath Interest in them, I will keep them
In my chamber.

Iach.
They are in a Coffer
Attended by my Men: I will make bold
To send them to you, only for this Night;
I must abroad To-morrow.

Imo.
O no, no.

Iach.
Yes, I beseech you; Or I shall short my Word
By lengthning my Return. From Gallia,
I crost the Seas on purpose, and on promise
To see your Grace.

Imo.
I thank you for your Pains;
But not away To-morrow.

Iach.
O, I must, Madam.
Therefore I shall beseech you, if you please
To greet your Lord with Writing, do't To-night,
I have out-staid my time, which is material
To th'tender of our Present.

Imo.
I will write:
Send your Coffer to me, it shall be safe kept,
And truly yielded you: You're very welcome.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A Palace.
Enter Cloten, and two Lords.
Clot.

Was there ever Man had such luck! when I
kiss'd the Jack upon an Up-cast, to be hit away! I had
an hundred Pound on't; and then a whorson Jack-an-Apes
must take up for Swearing, as if I had borrow'd
mine Oaths of him, and might not spend them at my
Pleasure.

1 Lord.

What got he by that? you have broke his
Pate with your Bowl.

2 Lord.

If his Wit had been like him that broke it; it
would have run all out.

[Aside.
Clot.

When a Gentleman is disposed to swear, it is not
for any Standers by to curtail his Oaths. Ha?

2 Lord.

No, my Lord: Nor crop the Ears of them.

Clot.

Whoreson Dog! I give him Satisfaction? Would
he had been one of my Rank. 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 belly full of Fighting, and I must go up and down
like a Cock, that no body can match.

2 Lord.

It is not fit your Lordship should undertake
every Companion, that you give Offence to.

Clot.

No: I know that: But it is fit I should commit
Offence to my Inferiors.

2 Lord.

Ay, it is fit for your Lordship only.

Cot.

Why, so I say.

2 Lord.

Here comes the King.

Enter Cymbeline and Queen.
Clot.

Good-night to your Majesty, and gracious Mother.

Cymb.

Attend you here the Door of our stern Daughter?
Will she not forth?

Clot.

She vouchsafes no Notice; but I will assail
her before Morning with Mask and Music.

Cym.
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.

Enter Messenger, and whispers the first Lord.
Queen.
You are most bound to the King,
Who lets go by no 'Vantages, that may
Prefer you to his Daughter.

1 Lord.
So like you, Sir, Ambassadors from Rome,
The one is Caius Lucius.

Cymb.
A worthy Fellow,
Albeit, he comes on angry Purpose now;
But that's no Fault of his; our dear Son,
When you have given good Morning to your Mistress,
Attend the Queen and us, we shall have need
T'employ you towards this Roman.
Betimes To-morrow we'll hear th'Embassy.
Come our Queen.

[Exeunt King and Queen.
1 Lord.

Did you hear of another Stranger that's
come to Court To-night?

Clot.

Another Stranger, and I not know on't?

2 Lord.

He's a strange Fellow himself, and knows
it not.

[Aside.
1 Lord.

There's an Italian come, and 'tis thought
one of Leonatus' Friends.

Clot.

Leonatus! A banish'd Rascal; and he's another,
wheresoever he be. Who told you of this Stranger?

1 Lord.

One of your Lordship's Pages.

Clot.

Is it fit I went to look upon him? Is there no
Derogation in't?

2 Lord.

You cannot derogate, my Lord.

Clot.

Not easily, I think.

2 Lord.

You are a Fool granted, therefore cannot
derogate.

[Aside.
Clot.
Come I'll go see this Italian, and if he'll play,
I'll game with him, and to-morrow with our
Father, we'll hear th'Ambassador—come let's go.

1 Lord.
I'll attend your Lordship.

[Exit Clot. and 1 Lord.
2 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 endur'st.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

A magnificent Bed-chamber, in one part of it a large Trunk.
Imogen is discover'd reading in her Bed, a Lady attending.
Imo.
Who's there? My Woman, Helen?

Lady.
Please you, Madam—

Imo.
What Hour is it?

Lady.
Almost Midnight, Madam.

Imo.
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'th' Clock,
I pr'ythee call me—Sleep hath seiz'd me wholly.
[Exit Lady.
From Fairies, and the Tempters of the Night,
Guard me, beseech ye.
To your Protection I commend me, Gods.

[Sleeps.
[Iachimo rises from the Coffer.
Iach.
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 becom'st thy Bed! Fresh Lilly,
And whiter than the Sheets! That I might touch,
But kiss, one kiss—Rubies unparagon'd
How dearly they do't—'Tis her Breathing
Perfumes the Chamber thus: The Flame o'th' Taper
Bows toward her, and would under-peep her Lids,
To see th'inclosed Lights now Canopy'd
Under the Windows, White and Azure, lac'd
With Blue of Heav'ns own Tinct—but my Design's
To note the Chamber—I will write all down,
Such, and such Pictures—there the Window,—such
Th'Adornment of her Bed—the Arras, Figures—
Why such, and such—and the Contents o'th' Story—
Ah, but some natural Notes about her Body,
Above ten thousand meaner Moveables
Would testify, t'enrich my Inventory.
O Sleep, thou Ape of Death, lye 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 th'madding of her Lord. On her left Breast
A Mole Cinque-spotted—Like the Crimson Drops
I'th' bottom of a Cowslip. Here's a Voucher,
Stronger than ever Law could make: This Secret
Will force him think I've pick'd the Lock, and ta'en
The Treasure of her Honour. More—to what end?
Why should I write this down, that's rivetted,
Screw'd to my Memory. She hath been reading late,
The Tale of Tereus, here the Leaf's turn'd down
Where Philomele gave up—I have enough,
To th'Trunk again, and shut the Spring of it.
Swift, swift, you Dragons of the Night, that dawning
May bear its Raven's Eye: I lodge in fear,
Though this a heav'nly Angel, Hell is here.
[Clock strikes.
One, two, three: Time, time.

[He goes into the Trunk, the Scene closes.

SCENE IV.

The Palace.
Enter Cloten and Lords.
1 Lord.

Your Lordship is the most patient Man in loss,
the coldest that ever turn'd up Ace.

Clot.

It would make any Man cold so to lose.

1 Lord.

But not every Man patient, after the noble

Temper of your Lordship; you are most hot and furious,
when you win.

Clot.

Winning will put any Man into Courage: If I
could get this foolish Imogen, I shall have Gold enough:
It's almost Morning, is't not?

1 Lord.

It is my Lord.

Clot.

I would the Maskers and Musicians were come,
I am advised to give her Music a' Mornings, they say
it will penetrate.

[A Flourish.
1 Lord.

Here they are, my Lord.

Clot.

Come let's join them.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.

An open place in the Palace.
Cloten, Lords, Singer and Maskers discovered.
Clot.

Come on, tune, first a very excellent good
conceited thing, after a wonderful sweet Air, with
admirable rich Words to it, and then let her consider.

SONG.

So, get you gone—if this penetrate, I will consider your
Musick the better: If it do not, it is a Vice in her Ears,
which Horse-Hairs, and Cats-Guts, nor the Voice of
unpav'd Eunuch to boot, can never amend. Come, now
to our Dancing, and if she is immoveable with this,
she is an immoveable Princess, and not worth my Notice.

(A Dance.)
[Knocks at her Door.
Clot.
Leave us to ourselves.
[Exeunt Lords, &c.
If she be up, I'll speak with her; if not,
Let her lie still, and dream: 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, and yield up
Their Deer to th'stand o'th' Stealer: And 'tis Gold
Which makes the true Man kill'd, and saves the Thief;
Nay, sometimes 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.
By your leave.

[Knocks.
Enter a Lady.
Lady.
Who's there that knocks?

Clot.
A Gentleman.

Lady.
No more?

Clot.
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?

Clot.
Your Lady's Person, is she ready?

Lady.
Ay, to keep her Chamber.

Clot.
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.
Clot.
Good-morrow Fairest, Sister, your sweet Hand.

Imo.
Good-morrow, Sir, you lay out too much Pains
For purchasing but Trouble.

Clot.
Still I swear I love you.

Imo.
If you'd but said so, 'twere as deep with me:
If you swear still, your Recompence is still
That I regard it not.

Clot.
This is no Answer.

Imo.
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.

Clot.
To leave you in you Madness, 'twere my Sin,
I will not.

Imo.
Fools cure not mad Folks.

Clot.
Do you call me Fool?

Imo.
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,
But I who know my Heart, do here pronounce
By th'very truth of it, I care not for you.

Clot.
The Contract you pretend with that base Wretch,
(One, bred of Alms, and foster'd with cold Dishes,
With Scraps o'th' Court,) it is no Contract, none.

Imo.
Prophane Fellow:
Wert thou the Son of Jupiter, and no more
But what thou art besides, thou wert too base
To be his Groom.

Clot.
The South-fog rot him.

Imo.
He never can meet more Mischance, than come
To be but nam'd of thee. His meanest Garment
That ever hath but clipt his Body, is dearer
In my respect, than all thou hast to boast of.
How now, Pisanio?

[Missing her Bracelet.
Enter Pisanio.
Clot.
His Garment? Now the Devil.

Imo.
To Dorothy, my Woman, hye thee presently.

Clot.
His Garment?

Imo.
I am sprighted with a Fool,
Fretted, and angred worse—Go bid my Woman
Search for a Jewel, that too casually
Hath left mine arm—it was thy Master's. Shrew me
If I would lose it for a Revenue
Of any King's in Europe. I do think,
I saw't this Morning; confident I am,
Last Night 'twas on my Arm; I kiss'd it then—

Pis.
'Twill not be lost.

Imo.
I hope so; go and search.

[Exit Pisanio.
Clot.
You have abus'd me—His meanest Garment!—
I will inform your Father.

Imo.
Your Mother too;
She's my good Lady; and will conceive, I hope,
But the worst of me. So I leave you, Sir,
To th'worst of Discontent.

[Exit.
Clot.
I'll be reveng'd;
His meanest Garment?—Well.

[Exit.