Document:  All > Shakespeare > Comedies > Cymbeline > Act III, scene V



	[Enter CYMBELINE, QUEEN, CLOTEN, LUCIUS,
	Lords, and Attendants]

CYMBELINE: Thus far; and so farewell.

CAIUS LUCIUS: Thanks, royal sir.
	My emperor hath wrote, I must from hence;
	And am right sorry that I must report ye
	My master's enemy.

CYMBELINE:                   Our subjects, sir,
	Will not endure his yoke; and for ourself
	To show less sovereignty than they, must needs
	Appear unkinglike.

CAIUS LUCIUS:                   So, sir: I desire of you
	A conduct over-land to Milford-Haven.
	Madam, all joy befal your grace!

QUEEN: And you!

CYMBELINE: My lords, you are appointed for that office;
	The due of honour in no point omit.
	So farewell, noble Lucius.

CAIUS LUCIUS: Your hand, my lord.

CLOTEN: Receive it friendly; but from this time forth
	I wear it as your enemy.

CAIUS LUCIUS: Sir, the event
	Is yet to name the winner: fare you well.

CYMBELINE: Leave not the worthy Lucius, good my lords,
	Till he have cross'd the Severn. Happiness!

	[Exeunt LUCIUS and Lords]

QUEEN: He goes hence frowning: but it honours us
	That we have given him cause.

CLOTEN: 'Tis all the better;
	Your valiant Britons have their wishes in it.

CYMBELINE: Lucius hath wrote already to the emperor
	How it goes here. It fits us therefore ripely
	Our chariots and our horsemen be in readiness:
	The powers that he already hath in Gallia
	Will soon be drawn to head, from whence he moves
	His war for Britain.

QUEEN: 'Tis not sleepy business;
	But must be look'd to speedily and strongly.

CYMBELINE: Our expectation that it would be thus
	Hath made us forward. But, my gentle queen,
	Where is our daughter? She hath not appear'd
	Before the Roman, nor to us hath tender'd
	The duty of the day: she looks us like
	A thing more made of malice than of duty:
	We have noted it. Call her before us; for
	We have been too slight in sufferance.

	[Exit an Attendant]

QUEEN: Royal sir,
	Since the exile of Posthumus, most retired
	Hath her life been; the cure whereof, my lord,
	'Tis time must do. Beseech your majesty,
	Forbear sharp speeches to her: she's a lady
	So tender of rebukes that words are strokes
	And strokes death to her.

	[Re-enter Attendant]

CYMBELINE: Where is she, sir? How
	Can her contempt be answer'd?

Attendant: Please you, sir,
	Her chambers are all lock'd; and there's no answer
	That will be given to the loudest noise we make.

QUEEN: My lord, when last I went to visit her,
	She pray'd me to excuse her keeping close,
	Whereto constrain'd by her infirmity,
	She should that duty leave unpaid to you,
	Which daily she was bound to proffer: this
	She wish'd me to make known; but our great court
	Made me to blame in memory.

CYMBELINE: Her doors lock'd?
	Not seen of late? Grant, heavens, that which I fear
	Prove false!

	[Exit]

QUEEN: Son, I say, follow the king.

CLOTEN: That man of hers, Pisanio, her old servant,
	have not seen these two days.

QUEEN: Go, look after.

	[Exit CLOTEN]

	Pisanio, thou that stand'st so for Posthumus!
	He hath a drug of mine; I pray his absence
	Proceed by swallowing that, for he believes
	It is a thing most precious. But for her,
	Where is she gone? Haply, despair hath seized her,
	Or, wing'd with fervor of her love, she's flown
	To her desired Posthumus: gone she is
	To death or to dishonour; and my end
	Can make good use of either: she being down,
	I have the placing of the British crown.

	[Re-enter CLOTEN]

	How now, my son!

CLOTEN: 'Tis certain she is fled.
	Go in and cheer the king: he rages; none
	Dare come about him.

QUEEN: [Aside]            All the better: may
	This night forestall him of the coming day!

	[Exit]

CLOTEN: I love and hate her: for she's fair and royal,
	And that she hath all courtly parts more exquisite
	Than lady, ladies, woman; from every one
	The best she hath, and she, of all compounded,
	Outsells them all; I love her therefore: but
	Disdaining me and throwing favours on
	The low Posthumus slanders so her judgment
	That what's else rare is choked; and in that point
	I will conclude to hate her, nay, indeed,
	To be revenged upon her. For when fools Shall--

	[Enter PISANIO]

	Who is here? What, are you packing, sirrah?
	Come hither: ah, you precious pander! Villain,
	Where is thy lady? In a word; or else
	Thou art straightway with the fiends.

PISANIO: O, good my lord!

CLOTEN: Where is thy lady? Or, by Jupiter,--
	I will not ask again. Close villain,
	I'll have this secret from thy heart, or rip
	Thy heart to find it. Is she with Posthumus?
	From whose so many weights of baseness cannot
	A dram of worth be drawn.

PISANIO: Alas, my lord,
	How can she be with him? When was she missed?
	He is in Rome.

CLOTEN:                   Where is she, sir? Come nearer;
	No further halting: satisfy me home
	What is become of her.

PISANIO: O, my all-worthy lord!

CLOTEN: All-worthy villain!
	Discover where thy mistress is at once,
	At the next word: no more of 'worthy lord!'
	Speak, or thy silence on the instant is
	Thy condemnation and thy death.

PISANIO: Then, sir,
	This paper is the history of my knowledge
	Touching her flight.

	[Presenting a letter]

CLOTEN: Let's see't. I will pursue her
	Even to Augustus' throne.

PISANIO: [Aside]                 Or this, or perish.
	She's far enough; and what he learns by this
	May prove his travel, not her danger.

CLOTEN: Hum!

PISANIO: [Aside]  I'll write to my lord she's dead. O Imogen,
	Safe mayst thou wander, safe return again!

CLOTEN: Sirrah, is this letter true?

PISANIO: Sir, as I think.

CLOTEN: It is Posthumus' hand; I know't. Sirrah, if thou
	wouldst not be a villain, but do me true service,
	undergo those employments wherein I should have
	cause to use thee with a serious industry, that is,
	what villany soe'er I bid thee do, to perform it
	directly and truly, I would think thee an honest
	man: thou shouldst neither want my means for thy
	relief nor my voice for thy preferment.

PISANIO: Well, my good lord.

CLOTEN: Wilt thou serve me? for since patiently and
	constantly thou hast stuck to the bare fortune of
	that beggar Posthumus, thou canst not, in the
	course of gratitude, but be a diligent follower of
	mine: wilt thou serve me?

PISANIO: Sir, I will.

CLOTEN: Give me thy hand; here's my purse. Hast any of thy
	late master's garments in thy possession?

PISANIO: I have, my lord, at my lodging, the same suit he
	wore when he took leave of my lady and mistress.

CLOTEN: The first service thou dost me, fetch that suit
	hither: let it be thy lint service; go.

PISANIO: I shall, my lord.

	[Exit]

CLOTEN: Meet thee at Milford-Haven!--I forgot to ask him one
	thing; I'll remember't anon:--even there, thou
	villain Posthumus, will I kill thee. I would these
	garments were come. She said upon a time--the
	bitterness of it I now belch from my heart--that she
	held the very garment of Posthumus in more respect
	than my noble and natural person together with the
	adornment of my qualities. With that suit upon my
	back, will I ravish her: first kill him, and in her
	eyes; there shall she see my valour, which will then
	be a torment to her contempt. He on the ground, my
	speech of insultment ended on his dead body, and
	when my lust hath dined,--which, as I say, to vex
	her I will execute in the clothes that she so
	praised,--to the court I'll knock her back, foot
	her home again. She hath despised me rejoicingly,
	and I'll be merry in my revenge.

	[Re-enter PISANIO, with the clothes]

	Be those the garments?

PISANIO: Ay, my noble lord.

CLOTEN: How long is't since she went to Milford-Haven?

PISANIO: She can scarce be there yet.

CLOTEN: Bring this apparel to my chamber; that is the second
	thing that I have commanded thee: the third is,
	that thou wilt be a voluntary mute to my design. Be
	but duteous, and true preferment shall tender itself
	to thee. My revenge is now at Milford: would I had
	wings to follow it! Come, and be true.

	[Exit]

PISANIO: Thou bid'st me to my loss: for true to thee
	Were to prove false, which I will never be,
	To him that is most true. To Milford go,
	And find not her whom thou pursuest. Flow, flow,
	You heavenly blessings, on her! This fool's speed
	Be cross'd with slowness; labour be his meed!

	[Exit]




	CYMBELINE






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