2 Gent. And why so? 1 Gent. He that hath miss'd the princess is a thing Too bad for bad report: and he that hath her, (I mean, that married her,-alack, good man!And therefore banish'd,) is a creature such As to seek through the regions of the earth For one his like, there would be something failing In him that should compare. I do not think So fair an outward, and such stuff within, Endows a man but he. 2 Gent. You speak him far. a 1 Gent. I do extend him, sir, within himself; Crush him together, rather than unfold His measure duly. 2 Gent. What's his name, and birth? 1 Gent. I cannot delve him to the root: His father' Died with their swords in hand; for which, their father' You carry your praise far. b The Gentleman says-I do extend him-appreciate his good qualities-but only within the real limits of what they are: instead of unfolding his measure duly, I crush him together compress his excellence. As we do air, fast as 't was ministered, And in 's spring became a harvest: Liv'd in court, I honour him But, 'pray you, tell me, 2 Gent. Even out of your report. Is she sole child to the king? 1 Gent. His only child. He had two sons, (if this be worth your hearing, Mark it,) the eldest of them at three years old, I' the swathing clothes the other, from their nursery Were stolen; and to this hour no guess in knowledge Which way they went. 2 Gent. How long is this ago? 1 Gent. Some twenty years. 2 Gent. That a king's children should be so convey'd! So slackly guarded! And the search so slow, That could not trace them! 1 Gent. Howsoe'er 't is strange, Or that the negligence may well be laugh'd at, Yet is it true, sir. 2 Gent. I do well believe you. 1 Gent. We must forbear: Here comes the gentle man, The queen, and princess. SCENE II.-The same. [Exeunt. Enter the QUEEN, POSTHUMUS, and IMOGEN. Queen. No, be assur'd, you shall not find me, daughter, After the slander of most step-mothers, Evil-ey'd unto you: you are my prisoner, but That lock up your restraint. For you, Posthumus, I will be known your advocate: marry, yet Post. I will from hence to-day. Queen. Please your highness, You know the peril :— I'll fetch a turn about the garden, pitying [Exit QUEEN Imo. O dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant Can tickle where she wounds!-My dearest husband, I something fear my father's wrath; but nothing (Always reserv'd my holy duty,) what His rage can do on me: You must be gone; Post. My queen! my mistress! O, lady, weep no more; lest I give cause Than doth become a man! I will remain Re-enter QUEEN. Queen. Be brief, I pray you: If the king come, I shall incur I know not To walk this way: I never do him wrong, Post. a [Aside. [Exit. Should we be taking leave As long a term as yet we have to live, The loathness to depart would grow: Adieu! Were you but riding forth to air yourself, Such parting were too petty. Look here, love; This diamond was my mother's: take it, heart; When Imogen is dead. Post. How! how! another? You gentle gods, give me but this I have, [Putting on the ring. Upon this fairest prisoner. Imo. [Putting a bracelet on her arm. O, the gods! When shall we see again? Post. Enter CYMBELINE and Lords. Alack, the king! Cym, Thou basest thing, avoid! hence, from my sight! This sentence is obscure; but the meaning of the crafty Queen appears to be, that the kindness of her husband, eveu when she is doing him wrong, purchases injuries as if they were benefits. If after this command thou fraught the court Post. The gods protect you! And bless the good remainders of the court! I am gone. Imo. There cannot be a pinch in death More sharp than this is. Cym. O disloyal thing, That shouldst repair my youth; thou heapest Imo. I beseech you, sir, Harm not yourself with your vexation; I Cym. [Exit. Past grace? obedience? Io. Past hope, and in despair; that way, past grace. Cym. That mightst have had the sole son of my queen! Imo. Obless'd, that I might not! I chose an eagle, And did avoid a puttock.b Cym. Thou took'st a beggar; wouldst have made my throne A seat for baseness. Imo. A lustre to it. Cym. Imo. No; I rather added O thou vile one! Sir, It is your fault that I have lov'd Posthumus ; Cym. What! art thou mad? Imo. Almost, sir: Heaven restore me! Would Y |