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'accuse my self, I hate you: which I had rather
You felt, than make my boaft.

Clot. You fin against

Obedience, which you owe your father; for
The contract you pretend with that base wretch,
(One, bred of alms, and fofter'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

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

Fools cure not Madfolks.

You are mad, fays He, and it would be a Crime in me to leave you to yourself.- -Nay, fays fhe, why should you ftay? 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 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.

The

The precious note of it with a base slave,
A hilding for a livery, a fquire's cloth; .
A pantler; not fo eminent.
Imo. Prophane fellow !

Wert thou the son 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 stil'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 respect, than all the hairs above thee,

Were they all made such men.

How now, Pifanio ?

Enter Pifanio.

Clot. His garment? now, the devil

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

Imo. I am fprighted with a fool,

Frighted, and angred worfego, bid my woman
Search for a jewel, that too cafually

Hath left mine arm -it was thy master'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; I 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 fearch.

Clot. You have abus'd me

His meaneft garment ?.

Imo. Ay, I faid 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

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.

Clot. I'll be reveng'd,

His meanest garment ?

-well.

[Exit.

[Exit.

SCENE changes to Rome.

Enter Pofthumus, and Philario.

EAR it not, Sir; I would, I were fo fure To win the King, as I am bold, her honour Will remain hers.

Phi. What means do you make to him?

Poft. Not any, but abide the change of time; Quake in the present winter's ftate, and wish,

That warmer days would come; in these fear'd hopes, I barely gratifie your love; they failing,

I muft 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; Caius Lucius
Will do's commiffion throughly. And, I think, (9)
He'll grant the tribute; send th' arrearages,
E'er look upon our Romans, whofe remembrance
yet fresh in their grief.

Is

Poft. I do believe,

(Statift though I am none, nor like to be,) That this fhall prove a war; and you shall hear The legions, now in Gallia, fooner landed

He'll grant the Tribute, fend th' Arrearages,

Or look upon our Romans, whofe Remembrance
Is yet fresh in their Grief]

What a ftrange loofe Inference do the Editors here make Philario guilty of, that Cymbeline would do One Thing, or t'other; either fubmit to pay Tribute, or difpute 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 conteft the Matter: and so I have reform'd the Text.

In our not-fearing Britain, than have tidings
Of any penny tribute paid. Our Countrymen
Are men more order'd, than when Julius Cæfar
Smil'd at their lack of skill, but found their courage
Worthy of frowning at. Their difcipline,

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.

Poft. Sure, the fwift harts have 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 briefnefs of your answer made The speediness of your Return.

Iach. Your lady

Is of the fairest I e'er look'd upon.

Poft. And, therewithal, the beft; or let her beauty Look through a casement to allure false hearts,

And be falfe with them.

Iach. Here are letters for you.

Poft. Their tenour good, I trust.

Iach. 'Tis very like.

Poft. 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 ftone as it was wont, or is't not
Too dull for your good wearing?

Iach. If I've lost it,

I should have loft the worth of it in gold;
I'll make a journey twice as far, t'enjoy

A fecond night of fuch sweet shortnefs, which
Was mine in Britain; for the ring is won.
Poft. The ftone's too hard to come by.
lach. Not a whit,
Your lady being so easie.

Poft.

Poft. Make not, Sir,

Your lofs your sport; I hope, you know, that we
Muft not continue friends.

Iach. Good Sir, we muft,

If you keep covenant; had I not brought
The knowledge of your mistress home, I grant,
We were to question farther; but I now
Profefs my felf the winner of her honour,
Together with your ring; and not the wronger
Of her, or you, having proceeded but
By both 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 lofes
Your fword or mine; or masterless leaves both
To who fhall find them.

Iach. Sir, my circumstances

Being fo near the truth, as I will make them,
Muft firft 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 confefs, I flept not; but profefs,
Had That was well worth watching) it was hang'd
With tapestry of filk and filver; the story
Proud Cleopatra, when the met her Roman,
And Cydnus fwell'd above the banks, or for
The prefs of boats, or pride: A piece of work
So bravely done, fo rich, that it did ftrive
In workmanship, and value; which, I wonder'd,
Could be fo 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 fome other.

Iach. More Particulars

Muft juftifie my knowledge.