SCENE changes to a magnificent Bed-chamber; in one part of it, a large trunk. Imogen is discover'd reading in her bed, a Lady attending. Imo. WHO's there? my woman Helen? Lady. Pleafe you, Madam Imo. What hour is it? Lady. Almoft midnight, Madam. Imo. 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 canft awake by four o'th' clock, I pr'ythee, call me-sleep hath feiz'd me wholly. [Exit Lady. To your protection I commend me, Gods; [Sleeps. [lachimo rifes from the trunk. Iach. The crickets fing, and man's o'er-labour'd sense. Repairs itself by reft: our Tarquin thus Did foftly prefs the rufhes, ere he waken'd The chastity he wounded. Cytherea, How bravely thou becom'ft thy bed! fresh lilly, Under thefe windows: white and azure, lac'd Why, fuch, and fuch-and the contents o'th' ftory- upon her! And And be her sense but as a monument, As flipp'ry, as the Gordian knot was hard. Though this a heav'nly angel, hell is here. [Clock ftrikes. One, two, three: time, time! [Goes into the trunk, the Scene closes. SCENE changes to another part of the Palace, facing Imogen's Apartments. Lord. Enter Cloten, and Lords. OUR lordship is the moft patient man in lofs, the coldest that ever turn'd up ace. Clot. It would make any man cold to lofe. 1 Lord. But not every man patient, after the noble temper of your lordship; you are most hot, and furious,. when you win. Clot. Winning will put any man into courage : If B could get this foolish Imogen, I fhould have gold enough: It's almoft morning, is't not? 1 Lord. Day, my lord. Clot. I would, this mufick would come: I am advis'd. to give her mufick o' mornings; they fay, it will penetrate.. Euter Enter Muficians. a 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, 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, His feeds to water at thofe fprings On chalic'd flowers that lyes: And winking Mary-buds begin So, get you gone- if this penetrate, I will confider if it do not, it is a vice in her and cats'-guts, nor the voice of 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 take this fervice 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 the not forth? Clot. I have affail'd her with muficks, but fhe vouchfafes no notice. Cym. The exile of her minion is too new; She hath not yet forgot him: fome more time Queth's Queen. You are most bound to th' King, Clot. Senfelefs? not fo. Enter a Messenger. Mef. So like you, Sir, Ambassadors from Rome; The one is Caius Lucius. Cym. A worthy fellow, Albeit he comes on angry purpofe now; But that's no fault of his: we must receive him And towards himself, his goodness fore-fpent on us, Our dear fon, [Exeunt. Clot. If the be up, I'll fpeak with her; if not, Let her lye ftill, and dream. By your leave, ho! [Knocks. I know, her women are about her—what, Nay, fometimes, hangs both thief and true-man: what. One of her women lawyer to me, for I yet not understand the cafe myself. [Knocks Enter Enter a Lady. Lady. Who's there, that knocks? Lady. No more ? Clot. Yes, and a gentlewoman's fon. Lady. That's more Than fome, whofe tailors are as dear as yours, Can justly boast of: what's your lordship's pleafure? 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 fhall think is good? The Princess Enter Imogen. Clot. Good morrow, faireft: fifter, your sweet 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 fcarce can fpare them. Clot. Still, I fwear, I love you. Imo. If you but faid fo, 'twere as deep with me: If you fwear ftill, your recompence is still That I regard it not. Clot. This is no answer. Imo. But that you fhall not fay I yield, being filent, To your best kindness: one of your great knowing Clot. To leave you in your madness, 'twere my fin;: (8) I will not. (3) To leave you in your Madness, 'tweremy Sing. I will not. Imo. Fools are not Madfolks Clot. Do you call me fool? Imo, As I am mad, I do.] Imo But |