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Enter Muficians.

Come on, tune; if you can penetrate her with your fingering, fo; 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 fweet air with admirable rich words to it; and then let her confider.

SONG.

Hark, bark! the lark at heav'n's gate fings,

And Phoebus 'gins arife,

His feeds to water at those springs

On challic'd flowers that lies:

And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes;
With every thing that pretty is,
My lady fweet, arise:
Arife, arife.

So, get you gone- if this penetrate, I will confider 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 unpav'd eunuch to boot, can never amend.

[Exeunt Muficians.

Enter Queen and Cymbeline.

2 Lord. Here comes the King.

Clot. I am glad I was up fo late, for that's the reason I was up fo early: he cannot chufe but this take service I have done, fatherly. Good-morrow to your Majesty, and to my gracious mother.

Cym. Attend you here the door of our ftern daughter? Will fhe not forth?

Clot. I have affail'd her with muficks, but she vouchfafes no notice.

Cym. The exile of her minion is too new; She hath not yet forgot him: fome more time Muft wear the print of his remembrance out, And then he's yours.

Queen.

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 follicits; and be friended
With aptness of the season; make denials
Encrease your fervices; fo feem, as if
You were infpir'd to do those duties, which
You tender to her: that you in all obey her,
Save when command to your difmiffion tends,
And therein you are senseless.

Clot. Senfeless? not fo.

*

Enter a Meffenger.

Mef. So like you, Sir, Ambassadors from Rome; The one is Caius Lucius.

Cym. 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 fender;

And towards himself, his goodness fore-fpent on us,
We must extend our notice:
Our dear fon,

When you have giv'n good morning to your mistress,
Attend the Queen and us; we shall have need
T'employ you towards this Roman. Come, our Queen.
[Exeunt.

Clot, If the be up, I'll fpeak with her; if not,
Let her lie ftill, 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, 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 faves the thief;
Nay, fometimes, 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 cafe myself.
By your leave..

[Knocks.

Enter

Enter a Lady.

Lady. Who's there, that knocks?

Clot. A Gentleman.

Lady. No more?

Clot. Yes, and a gentlewoman's fon.

Lady. That's more

Than fome, whofe taylors are as dear as yours,
Can justly boast of: what's your Lordship's pleasure?
Clot. Your lady's perfon; is fhe ready?

Lady. Ay, to keep her chamber.

Clot. There is gold for you, fell me your good report. Lady. How, my good name? or to report of you What I shall think is good? The princess

Enter Imogen.

Clot. Good-morrow, faireft: fifter, your fweet hand. Imo. Good-morrow, Sir; you lay out too much pains For purchafing but trouble; the thanks I give,

Is telling you that I am poor of thanks,

And scarce can fpare them.

If

Clot. Still, I fwear, I love you.

Ime. If you but faid fo, 'twere as deep with me; you fwear ftill, your recompence is ftill

That I regard it not.

Clot. This is no answer,

Imo. But that you fhall not fay I yield, being filent,
I would not fpeak. I pray you, fpare me-faith,
I fhall unfold equal difcourtesy

Το your belt kindness: one of your great knowing
Should learn (being taught) forbearance.

Clot. To leave you in your madness, 'twere my fin; (8)

I will not.

(8) To leave you in your Madness, 'twere my Sin;

I will not.

Imo. Fools are not Madfolks,

Clot. Do you call me fool?

Imo. As I am mad, I do.]

Imo.

But

Imo. Fools cure not mad folks.
Clot. Do you call me fool?

Imo. As I am mad, I do:

If you'll be patient, I'll no more be mad;
That cures us both. I am much forry, Sir,
You put me to forget a lady's manners

:

By being fo verbal and learn now for all,
That I, who know my heart, do here pronounce
By th' very truth of it, I care not for you:
And am fo near the lack of charity

T'accufe myself, I hate you: which I had rather
You felt, than make my boast.

Clot. You fin 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 fcraps o'th' court,) it is no contract, none:
And though it be allow'd in meaner parties,
(Yet who than he, more mean?) to knit their fouls
(On whom there is no more dependency
But brats and beggary,) in felf-figur'd knot;
Yet you are curb'd from that enlargement by
The confequence o'th' crown; and must not foil
The precious note of it with a base slave,

But does the really call him fool? The foundest Logician would be puzzled to find it out, as the Text ftands. The reafoning is perplex'd in a flight Corruption; and we must restore, as Mr. Warburton likewife faw,

Fools cure not Madfolks.

You are mad, fays he, and it would be a Crime în me to leave you to yourself. Nay, fays fhe, why should you stay? A Fool never cur'd Madness. Do you call me Fool? replies he, &c. All this is eafy and natural. And that cure was certainly the Poet's Word, I think, is very evident from what Imogen immediately subjoins.

If you'll be patient, I'll no more be mad,

That cures us both.

i. e. If you'll ceafe to torture me with your foolish Sollicitations, I'll cease to fhew towards you any thing like Madness: fo a double cure will be effected, of your Folly, and my fuppos'd Frenzy.

A hilding

A hilding for a livery, a fquire's cloth;
A pantler; not fo eminent.
Imo. Prophane fellow!

Wert thou the fon of Jupiter, and no more
But what thou art befides, thou wert too base
To be his groom: thou wert dignify'd enough,
Ev'n to the point of Envy, if 'twere made
Comparative for your virtues, to be fil'd
The under-hangman of his realm; and hated
For being preferr'd fo well.

Clot. The fouth-fog rot him!

Imo. He never can meet more mifchance, than come To be but nam'd of thee. His meaneft garment, That ever hath but clipt his body, 's dearer

In my refpect, than all the hairs above thee,
Were they all made fuch men.

How now, Pifanio ?

Enter Pifanio.

Clot. His garment? now, the devil

Imo. To Dorothy, my woman, hie thee presently.
Clot. His garment?

Imo. I am fprighted with a fool,

Frighted, and angred worse

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go, bid my woman

Search for a jewel, that too cafually

Hath left mine arm it was thy mafter's. 'Shrew me,
If I would lofe it for a revenue

Of any King in Europe. I do think,
I faw't this morning; confident I am,
Laft night 'twas on my arm; 1 kiffed it.
I hope, it be not gone, to tell my Lord
That I kifs aught but him.

Pif. "Twill not be loft.

Imo. I hope fo; go, and search.

Clot. You have abus'd me

His meaneft garment?

Imo. Ay, I said so, Sir;

If you will make't an action, call witness to't.

Clot. I will inform your father.

Imo. Your mother too;

She's

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