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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 unpaved eunuch to boot, can never amend.
Enter CYMBELINE and Queen.
2 Lord. Here comes the king.
Clo. 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.
Cym. Attend you here the door of our stern daughter? Will she not forth?
Clo. I have assail'd her with musick, but she vouchsafes no notice.
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.
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 solicits; 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.
Senseless? not so.
Enter a Messenger.
Mess. So like you, sir, ambassadors from Rome; The one is Caius Lucius.
A worthy fellow,
Albeit he comes on angry purpose now;
But that's no fault of his: We must receive him
And towards himself his goodness forespent on us
When you have given good morning to your mistress,
Attend the queen, and us; we shall have need
I know her women are about her; What
Which buys admittance; oft it doth; yea, and makes
Their deer to the stand of the stealer: and 'tis gold
Enter a Lady.
Lady. Who's there, that knocks?
Than some, whose tailors are as dear as yours,
Can justly boast of: What's your lordship's pleasure? Clo. Your lady's person: Is she ready?
To keep her chamber.
Clo. There's 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
Clo. Good-morrow, fairest sister: Your sweet hand. Imo. 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.
Still, I swear, I love you:
Imo. If you but said so, 'twere as deep with me: If you swear still, your recompense is still
That I regard it not.
This is no answer.
Imo. But that you shall not say I yield, being silent,
To your best kindness: one of your great knowing
I will not.
Imo. Fools are not mad folks.
Imo. As I am mad, I do:
Do you call me fool?
you 'll be patient, I'll no more be mad;
(To accuse myself) I hate you: which I had rather
Wert thou the son of Jupiter, and no more,
Comparative for your virtues, to be styl'd
The under-hangman of his kingdom; and hated
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 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.
Clo. His garment? Now, the devil
Imo. To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently:-
I am sprighted with a fool; Frighted, and anger'd 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,
Ay; I said so, sir.
If you will make 't an action, call witness to 't.
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.
I'll be reveng'd:
His meanest garment? Well.
Rome. An Apartment in Philario's House.
Enter POSTHUMUS and PHILARIO.
Post. Fear it not, sir: I would, I were so sure To win the king, as I am bold, her honour
Will remain hers.
What means do you make to him?
Post. 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.
Phi. Your very goodness, and your company,
Hath heard of great Augustus: Caius Lucius
I do believe,
(Statist though I am none, nor like to be,)
(Now mingled with their courages) will make known
Post. The swiftest harts have posted you by land: And winds of all the corners kiss'd your sails,
To make your vessel nimble.
Post. I hope, the briefness of your answer made