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Imo. Fools cure not mad folks.
Clet. 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 so 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 so near the lack of charity
T'accuse my self, I hate you : which I had rather
You felt, than make

my

boaft.
Clot. You sin 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 scraps 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 fouts
On whom there is no more dependency
But brats and beggary,) in self-figur'd knot ;
Yet you are curb'd from that enlargement by
The consequence o'th' crown; and must not foil

But does the really call him fool? The foundest Logician would be puzzled to find it out, as the Text Atands. The seasoning is perplex'd in a Night Corruption; and we must sefore, as Mr. Warburton likewise law,

Fools cure not Mad folks. You are mad, says He, and it would be a Crime in me to leave you to yourself. -Nay, lays the, why should you stay? A Fool never cur’d Madness. -Do you call me Fool? replies he, &c. All this is easy and natural. And that cure was certainly the Poet's Word, I think, is very evideat from what Imogen immediately subjoins.

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

That cures us botb. i. e. If you'll cease to torture me with your foolish Sollicitations, l'll cease to new towards you any Thing like Madness: so a double cure will be effe&ed, of your Folly, and my suppos'd Frenzy.

The

The precious note of it with a base slave,
A hilding for a livery, a squire's cloth;
A pantler; not so eminent.

Imo. Prophane fellow !
Wert thou the son of Jupiter, and no more
But what thou art besides, 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 ftild
The under-hangman of his realm ; and hated
For being preferr'd so well.

Clot. 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 clipt his body, 's dearer
In my respect, than all the hairs above thee,
Were they all made such men. How now, Pifanio ?

Enter Pisanio.
Clot. His garment? now, the devil-
Imo. To Dorothy, my woman, hye thee presently
Clot. His garment ?

Imo. I am sprighted with a fool,
Frighted, and angred 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 in Europe. I do think,
I saw't this morning ; confident I am,
Last night 'twas on my arm; I kissed it.
I hope, it be not gone, to tell my lord
That I kiss aught but him.

Pif. 'Twill not be loft.
Imo. I hope fo; go, and search.

Clot. You have abus'd me,
His meanest garment ?-

Imo. Ay, I said fo, 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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She's my good lady ; and will conceive, I hope,
But the worst of me. So I leave you, Sir,
To th' worst of discontent.

[Exit. Clot. I'll be reveng'd, His meanest garment ?

-well.

[Exit. SCENE changes to Rome.

Enter Posthumus, and Philario.
EAR it not, Sir; I would, I were so sure

To win the King, as I am bold, her honour Will remain hers.

Phi. What means do you make to him ?

Pot. Not any, but abide the change of time ;
Quake in the present winter's state, and with,
That warmer days would come ; in these fear'd hopes,
I barely gratifie your love; they failing,
I must die much your debtor.

Phi. Your very goodness, and your company,
O'er-pays all I can do. By this, your King
Hath heard of great Auguftus ; Gaius Lucius
Will do's commision throughly. And, I think, (9)
He'll grant the tribute; send th' arrearages,
E'er look upon our Romans, whose remembrance
Is
yet

fresh in their grief.
Poft. I do believe,
(Statist though I am none, nor like to be,)
That this shall prove a war; and you shall hear
The legions, now in Gallia, sooner landed
(9)

And, I think,
He'll grant the Tribute, send th' Arrearages,
Or look upon our Romans, whose Remembrance

Is yet fresh in their Grief ] What a strange loose Inference do the Editors here make Philaria guilty ot, that Cymbeline would do One Thing, or t’other; cither submit to pay Tribute, or dispute the Demand at Sword's Point ? Who doubts it? But this was none of the Speaker's Meaning: he would give it as his Thought, that the Britains would pay, e'er they would contest the Matter: and so I have reform'd the Text,

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In our not-fearing Britain, than have tidings
Of any penny tribute paid. Our Countrymen
Are men more order'd, than when Julius Cæfar
Smild at their lack of skill, but found their courage
Worthy of frowning at. Their discipline,
Now mingled with their courages, will make known
To their approvers, they are people fuch
As mend upon the world.

Enter Iachimo.
Phil. See, Iachimo.

Pot. Sure, the swift harts bave posted you by land,
And winds of all the corners kiss'd your fails,
To make

your

veffel nimble.
Poft. Welcome, Sir.

Phi. I hope, the briefness of your answer made
The speediness of your Return.

Iach. Your lady
Is of the faireft I e'er look'd upon.

Pot. And, therewithal, the best; or let her beauty
Look through a casement to allure false hearts,
And be false with them.
Iach. Here are letters for

you.
Poft. Their tenour good, I trust.
lach. 'Tis very like.

Pot. Was Caius Lucius in the Britain Court,
When you were there?

Iach. He was expected then,
But not approach'd.

Poft. All is well yet.
Sparkles this stone as it was wont, or is't not
Too dull for your good wearing?

Tach. If I've lost it,
| I should have lost the worth of it in gold;

I'll make a journey twice as far, t'enjoy
A second night of such sweet shortnefs, which
Was mine in Britain ; for the ring is won.

Poft. The stone's too hard to come by.

lach. Not a whit, Your lady being so easie.

Port. By boch

Poft. Make not, Sir,
Your loss your sport; I hope, you know, that we
Must not continue friends.

lach. Good Sir, we muft,
If you keep covenant; had I not brought
The knowledge of your mistress home, I grant, 9
We were to question farther ; but I now
Profess my self the winner of her honour,
Together with your ring; and not the wronger
Of her, or you, having proceeded but

your

wills.
Poft. If you can make't apparent
That you have tasted her in bed ; my hand,
And ring is yours. If not, the foul opinion,
You had of her pure honour, gains, or loses
Your sword or mine ; or masterless leaves back
To who shall find them.

lach. Sir, my circumstances
Being so near the truth, as I will make them,
Muft first induce you to believe ; whose strength
I will confirm with oath, which, I doubt not,
You'll give me leave to fpare, when you shall find
You need it not.

Poft. Proceed.

Iach. First, her bed-chamber,
(Where, I confess, I slept not; but profess,
Had That was well worth watching) it was hang'd
With tapestry of filk and silver; the story
Proud Cleopatra, when fhe met her Roman,
And Cydnus swell'd above the banks, or for
The press of boats, or pride :- A piece of work
So bravely done, so rich, that it did strive
In workmanship, and value; which, I wonder'd,
Could be so rarely and exactly wrought,
Since the true life on't was-

Poft. This is true ;
And this you might have heard of here, by me,
Or by some other.

lach. More Particulars Muft juftifie my knowledge.

Pot.

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