 | Cymbeline |  |
SCENE II.
Cloten enters.Clot.
O mother, she is gone—she's lost for ever!—
Queen.
What means my son?
Clot.
My love, my Imogen,
Britain's bright heir, my promised wife, is lost,
Is married to another—to the wretch I most detest,
That foundling, that accursed Leonatus!
O, she is gone, and with her too is gone
All prospect of the throne!
173
Not so, my child—
A froward foolish girl, she's well away!
Whine for a wench?—my boy shall have a thousand.
Be secret and secure; for here I vow,
Ere yet our horned moon shall fill her orb,
To seat thee, scepter'd, on the throne of Britain.
They come—Be patient, and rely on me.
| Cymbeline | |