The Complete Works of William Shakespeare by William Shakespeare (moboreader .TXT) 📕

SECOND LORD. [Aside] You are cock and capon too; and you crow, cock, with your comb on.

CLOTEN. Sayest thou?

SECOND LORD. It is not fit your lordship should undertake every companion that you give offence to.

CLOTEN. No, I know that; but it is fit I should commit offence to my inferiors.

SECOND LORD. Ay, it is fit for your lordship only.

CLOTEN. Why, so I say.

FIRST LORD. Did you hear of a stranger that’s come to court tonight?

CLOTEN. A stranger, and I not known on’t?

SECOND LORD. [Aside] He’s a strange fellow himself, and knows it not.

FIRST LORD. There’s an Italian come, and, ‘tis thought, one of Leonatus’ friends.

CLOTEN. Leonatus? A banish’d rascal; and he’s another, whatsoever he be. Who told you of this stranger?

FIRST LORD. One of your lordship’s pages.

CLOTEN. Is it fit I went to look upon him? Is there no derogation in’t?

SECOND LORD. You cannot derogate, my lord.

CLOTEN. Not easily, I think.

SECOND LORD. [Aside] You are a fool granted; therefore your issues, being foolish, do not derogate.

CLOTEN. Come, I’ll go see this Italian. What I have lost to-day at bowls I’ll win tonight of him. Come, go.

SECOND LORD. I’ll attend your lordship.

Exeunt CLOTEN and FIRST 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, Betwixt a father by thy stepdame govern’d, A mother hourly coining plots, a wooer More hateful than the foul expulsion is Of thy dear husband, than that horrid act Of the divorce he’d make! The heavens hold firm The walls of thy dear honour, keep unshak’d That temple, thy fair mind, that thou mayst stand T’ enjoy thy banish’d lord and this great land! Exit

SCENE II.

Britain. IMOGEN’S bedchamber in CYMBELINE’S palace; a trunk in one corner Enter IMOGEN in her bed, and a LADY attending IMOGEN. Who’s there? My woman? Helen?

LADY. Please you, madam.

IMOGEN. What hour is it?

LADY. Almost midnight, madam.

IMOGEN. 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 prithee call me. Sleep hath seiz’d me wholly. Exit LADY

To your protection I commend me, gods.

From fairies and the tempters of the night Guard me, beseech ye!

[Sleeps. IACHIMO comes from the trunk]

IACHIMO. 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 lily, And whiter than the sheets! That I might touch!

But kiss; one kiss! Rubies unparagon’d, How dearly they do’t! ‘Tis her breathing that Perfumes the chamber thus. The flame o’ th’ taper Bows toward her and would under-peep her lids To see th’ enclosed lights, now canopied Under these windows white and azure, lac’d With blue of heaven’s own tinct. But my design 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 movables

Would testify, t’ enrich mine inventory.

O sleep, thou ape of death, lie 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 have pick’d the lock and ta’en The treasure of her honour. No more. To what end?

Why should I write this down that’s riveted, Screw’d to my memory? She hath been reading late The tale of Tereus; here the leaf’s turn’d down Where Philomel 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 bare the raven’s eye! I lodge in fear; Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here. [Clock strikes]

One, two, three. Time, time! Exit into the trunk

SCENE III.

CYMBELINE’S palace. An ante-chamber adjoining IMOGEN’S apartments Enter CLOTEN and LORDS

FIRST LORD. Your lordship is the most patient man in loss, the most coldest that ever turn’d up ace.

CLOTEN. It would make any man cold to lose.

FIRST LORD. But not every man patient after the noble temper of your lordship. You are most hot and furious when you win.

CLOTEN. Winning will put any man into courage. If I could get this foolish 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 a 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 flow’rs that lies;

And winking Mary-buds begin

To ope their golden eyes.

With everything that pretty bin,

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 horsehairs 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 out, And then she’s yours.

QUEEN. You are most bound to th’ 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 T’ 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 th’ stand o’ th’ 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 th’ 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’ th’ 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’ th’ 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, Pisanio!

Enter PISANIO

CLOTEN. ‘His garments’! Now the devil—

IMOGEN. To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently.

CLOTEN. ‘His garment’!

IMOGEN. I am sprited