Act 3, Scene 5
Britain. A room in Cymbeline’s palace.
- Enter Cymbeline attended, Queen, Cloten, Lucius, and Lords.
- Thus far, and so farewell.
Caius Lucius3 - 6
- Thanks, royal sir.
- My emperor hath wrote I must from hence,
- And am right sorry that I must report ye
- My master’s enemy.
Cymbeline7 - 10
- Our subjects, sir,
- Will not endure his yoke; and for ourself
- To show less sovereignty than they, must needs
- Appear unkinglike.
Caius Lucius11 - 13
- So, sir. I desire of you
- A conduct overland to Milford-Haven.
- Madam, all joy befall your Grace, and you!
Cymbeline14 - 16
- My lords, you are appointed for that office;
- The due of honor in no point omit.
- So farewell, noble Lucius.
- Your hand, my lord.
Cloten18 - 19
- Receive it friendly; but from this time forth
- I wear it as your enemy.
Caius Lucius20 - 21
- Sir, the event
- Is yet to name the winner. Fare you well.
Cymbeline22 - 23
- Leave not the worthy Lucius, good my lords,
- Till he have cross’d the Severn. Happiness!
- Exit Lucius with Lords.
Queen25 - 26
- He goes hence frowning; but it honors us
- That we have given him cause.
Cloten27 - 28
- ’Tis all the better,
- Your valiant Britains have their wishes in it.
Cymbeline29 - 34
- Lucius hath wrote already to the Emperor
- How it goes here. It fits us therefore ripely
- Our chariots and our horsemen be in readiness.
- The pow’rs that he already hath in Gallia
- Will soon be drawn to head, from whence he moves
- His war for Britain.
Queen35 - 36
- ’Tis not sleepy business,
- But must be look’d to speedily and strongly.
Cymbeline37 - 44
- Our expectation that it would be thus
- Hath made us forward. But, my gentle queen,
- Where is our daughter? She hath not appear’d
- Before the Roman, nor to us hath tender’d
- The duty of the day. She looks us like
- A thing more made of malice than of duty,
- We have noted it. Call her before us, for
- We have been too slight in sufferance.
- Exit a Messenger.
Queen46 - 52
- Royal sir,
- Since the exile of Posthumus, most retir’d
- Hath her life been; the cure whereof, my lord,
- ’Tis time must do. Beseech your Majesty,
- Forbear sharp speeches to her. She’s a lady
- So tender of rebukes that words are strokes,
- And strokes death to her.
- Enter a Messenger.
Cymbeline54 - 55
- Where is she, sir? How
- Can her contempt be answer’d?
Messenger56 - 58
- Please you, sir,
- Her chambers are all lock’d, and there’s no answer
- That will be given to th’ loud of noise we make.
Queen59 - 65
- My lord, when last I went to visit her,
- She pray’d me to excuse her keeping close,
- Whereto constrain’d by her infirmity,
- She should that duty leave unpaid to you
- Which daily she was bound to proffer. This
- She wish’d me to make known; but our great court
- Made me to blame in memory.
Cymbeline66 - 68
- Her doors lock’d?
- Not seen of late? Grant, heavens, that which I fear
- Prove false!
- Son, I say, follow the King.
Cloten71 - 72
- That man of hers, Pisanio, her old servant,
- I have not seen these two days.
Queen73 - 86
- Go, look after.
- Exit Cloten.
- Pisanio, thou that stand’st so for Posthumus!
- He hath a drug of mine; I pray his absence
- Proceed by swallowing that; for he believes
- It is a thing most precious. But for her,
- Where is she gone? Haply despair hath seiz’d her;
- Or wing’d with fervor of her love, she’s flown
- To her desir’d Posthumus. Gone she is
- To death or to dishonor, and my end
- Can make good use of either. She being down,
- I have the placing of the British crown.
- Enter Cloten.
- How now, my son?
Cloten87 - 89
- ’Tis certain she is fled.
- Go in and cheer the King, he rages, none
- Dare come about him.
Queen90 - 92
- All the better. May
- This night forestall him of the coming day!
- Exit Queen.
Cloten94 - 108
- I love and hate her; for she’s fair and royal,
- And that she hath all courtly parts more exquisite
- Than lady, ladies, woman, from every one
- The best she hath, and she, of all compounded,
- Outsells them all. I love her therefore, but
- Disdaining me and throwing favors on
- The low Posthumus slanders so her judgment
- That what’s else rare is chok’d; and in that point
- I will conclude to hate her, nay indeed,
- To be reveng’d upon her. For when fools shall—
- Enter Pisanio.
- Who is here? What, are you packing, sirrah?
- Come hither. Ah, you precious pandar! Villain,
- Where is thy lady? In a word, or else
- Thou art straightway with the fiends.
- O, good my lord!
Cloten110 - 115
- Where is thy lady? Or, by Jupiter,
- I will not ask again. Close villain,
- I’ll have this secret from thy heart, or rip
- Thy heart to find it. Is she with Posthumus?
- From whose so many weights of baseness cannot
- A dram of worth be drawn.
Pisanio116 - 118
- Alas, my lord,
- How can she be with him? When was she miss’d?
- He is in Rome.
Cloten119 - 121
- Where is she, sir? Come nearer.
- No farther halting. Satisfy me home,
- What is become of her?
- O, my all-worthy lord!
Cloten123 - 127
- All-worthy villain!
- Discover where thy mistress is, at once,
- At the next word. No more of “worthy lord”!
- Speak, or thy silence on the instant is
- Thy condemnation and thy death.
Pisanio128 - 130
- Then, sir:
- This paper is the history of my knowledge
- Touching her flight.
- Presenting a letter.
Cloten132 - 133
- Let’s see’t. I will pursue her
- Even to Augustus’ throne.
Pisanio134 - 137
- Or this, or perish.
- She’s far enough, and what he learns by this
- May prove his travel, not her danger.
Pisanio139 - 141
- I’ll write to my lord she’s dead. O Imogen,
- Safe mayst thou wander, safe return again!
- Sirrah, is this letter true?
- Sir, as I think.
Cloten144 - 150
- It is Posthumus’ hand, I know’t. Sirrah, if thou wouldst not
- be a villain, but do me true service, undergo those
- employments wherein I should have cause to use thee with a
- serious industry, that is, what villainy soe’er I bid thee
- do, to perform it directly and truly, I would think thee an
- honest man. Thou shouldst neither want my means for thy
- relief nor my voice for thy preferment.
- Well, my good lord.
Cloten152 - 155
- Wilt thou serve me? For since patiently and constantly thou
- hast stuck to the bare fortune of that beggar Posthumus,
- thou canst not, in the course of gratitude, but be a
- diligent follower of mine. Wilt thou serve me?
- Sir, I will.
Cloten157 - 158
- Give me thy hand, here’s my purse. Hast any of thy late
- master’s garments in thy possession?
Pisanio159 - 160
- I have, my lord, at my lodging, the same suit he wore when
- he took leave of my lady and mistress.
Cloten161 - 162
- The first service thou dost me, fetch that suit hither. Let
- it be thy first service, go.
- I shall, my lord.
Cloten165 - 181
- Meet thee at Milford-Haven! (I forgot to ask him one thing,
- I’ll remember’t anon.) Even there, thou villain Posthumus,
- will I kill thee. I would these garments were come. She said
- upon a time (the bitterness of it I now belch from my heart)
- that she held the very garment of Posthumus in more respect
- than my noble and natural person, together with the
- adornment of my qualities. With that suit upon my back will
- I ravish her; first kill him, and in her eyes; there shall
- she see my valor, which will then be a torment to her
- contempt. He on the ground, my speech of insultment ended on
- his dead body, and when my lust hath din’d (which, as I say,
- to vex her I will execute in the clothes that she so
- prais’d), to the court I’ll knock her back, foot her home
- again. She hath despis’d me rejoicingly, and I’ll be merry
- in my revenge.
- Enter Pisanio with the clothes.
- Be those the garments?
- Ay, my noble lord.
- How long is’t since she went to Milford-Haven?
- She can scarce be there yet.
Cloten185 - 189
- Bring this apparel to my chamber. That is the second thing
- that I have commanded thee. The third is, that thou wilt be
- a voluntary mute to my design. Be but duteous, and true
- preferment shall tender itself to thee. My revenge is now at
- Milford; would I had wings to follow it! Come, and be true.
Pisanio191 - 196
- Thou bid’st me to my loss; for true to thee
- Were to prove false, which I will never be
- To him that is most true. To Milford go,
- And find not her whom thou pursuest. Flow, flow,
- You heavenly blessings, on her! This fool’s speed
- Be cross’d with slowness; labor be his meed.