Cymbeline by William Shakespeare (books to read to increase intelligence .TXT) 📕

Imogen, I should have gold enough. It's almost morning, is't not?

FIRST LORD.
Day, my lord.

CLOTEN.
I would this music would come. I am advised to give her music o'
mornings; they say it will penetrate.

[Enter Musicians.]

Come on; tune. If you can penetrate her with your fingering, so;
we'll try with tongue too. If none will do, let her remain; but
I'll never give o'er. First, a very excellent good-conceited thing;
after, a wonderful sweet air, with admirable rich words to it; and
then let her consider.

SONG

Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus gins arise
His steeds to water at those springs
On chalic'd flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes;
With every thing that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise,
Arise, arise.

So, get you gone. If this penetrate, I will consider your music
the better; if it do not, it is a vice in her ears, which
horse-hairs and calves'-guts, nor the voice of unpaved eunuch
to boot, can never amend.

[Exeunt Musicians.]

[Enter CYMBELINE and QUEEN.]

SECOND LORD.
Here comes the King.

CLOTEN.
I am glad I was up so late, for that's the reason I was up so
early.
He cannot choose but take this service I have done fatherly.
- Good morrow to your Majesty and to my gracious mother!

CYMBELINE.
Attend you here the door of our stern daughter?
Will she not forth?

CLOTEN.
I have assail'd her with musics, but she vouchsafes no notice.

CYMBELINE.
The exile of her minion is too new;
She hath not yet forgot him. Some more time
Must wear the print of his remembrance on't,
And then she's yours.

QUEEN.
You are most bound to the King,
Who lets go by no vantages that may
Prefer you to his daughter. Frame yourself
To orderly soliciting, and be friended
With aptness of the season; make denials
Increase your services; so seem as if
You were inspir'd to do those duties which
You tender to her; that you in all obey her,
Save when command to your dismission tends,
And therein you are senseless.

CLOTEN.
Senseless? Not so.

[Enter a MESSENGER.]

MESSENGER.
So like you, sir, ambassadors from Rome;
The one is Caius Lucius.

CYMBELINE.
A worthy fellow,
Albeit he comes on angry purpose now;
But that's no fault of his. We must receive him
According to the honour of his sender;
And towards himself, his goodness forespent on us,
We must extend our notice. Our dear son,
When you have given good morning to your mistress,
Attend the Queen and us; we shall have need
To employ you towards this Roman. Come, our queen.

[Exeunt all but CLOTEN.]

CLOTEN.
If she be up, I'll speak with her; if not,
Let her lie still and dream. By your leave, ho!

[Knocks.]

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, yield up
Their deer to the stand o' the stealer; and 'tis gold
Which makes the true man kill'd and saves the thief,
Nay, sometime 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?

CLOTEN.
A gentleman.

LADY.
No more?

CLOTEN.
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?

CLOTEN.
Your lady's person. Is she ready?

LADY.
Ay,
To keep her chamber.

CLOTEN.
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.]

CLOTEN.
Good morrow, fairest. Sister, your sweet hand.

[Exit LADY.]

IMOGEN.
Good morrow, sir. You lay out too much pains
For purchasing but trouble. The thanks I give
Is telling you that I am poor of thanks,
And scarce can spare them.

CLOTEN.
Still, I swear I love you.

IMOGEN.
If you but said so, 'twere as deep with me.
If you swear still, your recompense is still
That I regard it not.

CLOTEN.
This is no answer.

IMOGEN.
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.

CLOTEN.
To leave you in your madness, 'twere my sin. I will not.

IMOGEN.
Fools are not mad folks.

CLOTEN.
Do you call me fool?

IMOGEN.
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,
By being so verbal; and learn now, for all,
That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce,
By the very truth of it, I care not for you,
And am so near the lack of charity
To accuse myself I hate you; which I had rather
You felt than make't my boast.

CLOTEN.
You sin against
Obedience, which you owe your father. For
The contract you pretend with that base wretch,
One bred of alms and foster'd with cold dishes,
With scraps o' the court, it is no contract, none;
And though it be allowed in meaner parties -
Yet who than he more mean? - to knit their souls -
On whom there is no more dependency
But brats and beggary, - in self-figur'd knot,
Yet you are curb'd from that enlargement by
The consequence o' the crown, and must not foil
The precious note of it with a base slave,
A hilding for a livery, a squire's cloth,
A pantler, not so eminent!

IMOGEN.
Profane fellow!
Wert thou the son of Jupiter and no more
But what thou art besides, thou wert too base
To be his groom. Thou wert dignified enough,
Even to the point of envy, if 'twere made
Comparative for your virtues, to be styl'd
The under-hangman of his kingdom, and hated
For being preferr'd so well.

CLOTEN.
The south-fog rot him!

IMOGEN.
He never can meet more mischance than come
To be but nam'd of thee. His mean'st garment
That ever hath but clipp'd his body, is dearer
In my respect than all the hairs above thee,
Were they all made such men. How now?

[Missing the bracelet.]

Pisanio!

[Enter PISANIO.]

CLOTEN.
"His garments!" Now the devil -

IMOGEN.
To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently -

CLOTEN.
"His garment!"

IMOGEN.
I am sprited with a fool,
Frighted, and ang'red 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 mine arm; I kiss'd it.
I hope it be not gone to tell my lord
That I kiss aught but he.

PISANIO.
'Twill not be lost.

IMOGEN.
I hope so; go and search.

[Exit PISANIO.]

CLOTEN.
You have abus'd me
"His meanest garment!"

IMOGEN.
Ay, I said so, sir.
If you will make't an action, call witness to't.

CLOTEN.
I will inform your father.

IMOGEN.
Your mother too.
She's my good lady, and will conceive, I hope,
But the worst of me. So, I leave you, sir,
To the worst of discontent.

[Exit.]

CLOTEN.
I'll be reveng'd.
"His meanest garment!" Well.

[Exit.]


SCENE IV.

Rome. PHILARIO'S house.

[Enter POSTHUMUS and PHILARIO.]

POSTHUMUS.
Fear it not, sir; I would I were so sure
To win the King as I am bold her honour
Will remain hers.

PHILARIO.
What means do you make to him?

POSTHUMUS.
Not any, but abide the change of time,
Quake in the present winter's state, and wish
That warmer days would come. In these fear'd hopes,
I barely gratify your love; they failing,
I must die much your debtor.

PHILARIO.
Your very goodness and your company
O'erpays all I can do. By this, your king
Hath heard of great Augustus. Caius Lucius
Will do's commission throughly; and I think
He'll grant the tribute, send the arrearages,
Or look upon our Romans, whose remembrance
Is yet fresh in their grief.

POSTHUMUS.
I do believe,
Statist though I am none, nor like to be,
That this will prove a war; and you shall hear
The legions now in Gallia sooner landed
In our not-fearing Britain than have tidings
Of any penny tribute paid. Our countrymen
Are men more order'd than when Julius Caesar
Smil'd at their lack of skill, but found their courage
Worthy his frowning at. Their discipline,
Now wing-led with their courages, will make known
To their approvers they are people such
That mend upon the world.

[Enter IACHIMO.]

PHILARIO.
See! Iachimo!

POSTHUMUS.
The swiftest harts have posted you by land;
And winds of all the comers kiss'd your sails,
To make your vessel nimble.

PHILARIO.
Welcome, sir.

POSTHUMUS.
I hope the briefness of your answer made
The speediness of your return.

IACHIMO.
Your lady
Is one of the fairest that I have look'd upon.

POSTHUMUS.
And therewithal the best; or let her beauty
Look through a casement to allure false hearts
And be false with them.

IACHIMO.
Here are letters for you.

POSTHUMUS.
Their tenour good, I trust.

IACHIMO.
'Tis very like.

PHILARIO.
Was Caius Lucius in the Britain court
When you were there?

IACHIMO.
He was expected then,
But not approach'd.

POSTHUMUS.
All is well yet.
Sparkles this stone as it was wont, or is't not
Too dull for your good wearing?

IACHIMO.
If I have lost it,
I should have lost the worth of it in gold.
I'll make a journey twice as far, to enjoy
A second night of such sweet shortness which
Was mine in Britain; for the ring is won.

POSTHUMUS.
The stone's too hard to come by.

IACHIMO.
Not a whit,
Your lady being so easy.

POSTHUMUS.
Make not, sir,
Your loss your sport. I hope you know that we
Must not continue friends.

IACHIMO.
Good sir, we must,
If you keep covenant. Had I not brought
The knowledge of your mistress home, I grant
We were to question farther; but I now
Profess myself the winner of her honour,
Together with your ring; and not the wronger
Of her or you, having proceeded but
By both your wills.

POSTHUMUS.
If you can make't apparent
That you have tasted her in bed, my hand
And ring is yours; if not, the foul opinion
You had of her pure honour gains or loses
Your sword or mine, or masterless leaves both
To who shall find them.

IACHIMO.
Sir, my circumstances,
Being so near the truth as I will make them,
Must first induce you to believe; whose strength
I will confirm with oath, which, I doubt not,
You'll give me leave to spare, when you shall find
You need it not.

POSTHUMUS.
Proceed.

IACHIMO.
First, her bedchamber, -
Where, I confess, I slept not, but profess
Had that was well worth watching - it was