Cymbeline by William Shakespeare
Act 2 - Scene 3
An ante-chamber adjoining Imogen’s apartments.
First Lord : Your lordship is the most patient man in loss, the
[p]most coldest
that ever turned up ace.
Cloten : It would make any man cold to lose.
First Lord : But not every man patient after the noble temper of
[p]your lordship.
You are most hot and furious when you win.
Cloten : Winning will put any man into courage. If I could
[p]get this foolish
Imogen, I should have gold enough.
[p]It's almost morning, is't not?
First Lord : Day, my lord.
Cloten : I would this music would come: I am advised to give
[p]her music o'
mornings; they say it will penetrate.
[p][Enter Musicians]
[p]Come on;
tune: if you can penetrate her with your
[p]fingering, so; we'll try
with tongue too: if none
[p]will do, let her remain; but I'll never
give o'er.
[p]First, a very excellent good-conceited thing;
[p]after,
a wonderful sweet air, with admirable rich
[p]words to it: and then
let her consider.
[p][SONG]
[p]Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate
sings,
[p]And Phoebus 'gins arise,
[p]His steeds to water at those
springs
[p]On chaliced flowers that lies;
[p]And winking Mary-buds
begin
[p]To ope their golden eyes:
[p]With every thing that pretty
is,
[p]My lady sweet, arise:
[p]Arise, arise.
Cloten : So, get you gone. If this penetrate, I will
[p]consider your music the
better: if it do not, it is
[p]a vice in her ears, which horse-hairs
and
[p]calves'-guts, nor the voice of unpaved eunuch to
[p]boot, can
never amend.
Second Lord : Here comes the king.
Cloten : I am glad I was up so late; for that's the reason I
[p]was up so
early: he cannot choose but take this
[p]service I have done
fatherly.
[p][Enter CYMBELINE and QUEEN]
[p]Good morrow to your
majesty and to my gracious mother.
Cymbeline : Attend you here the door of our stern daughter?
[p]Will she not
forth?
Cloten : I have assailed her with music, but she vouchsafes no notice.
Cymbeline : The exile of her minion is too new;
[p]She hath not yet forgot him:
some more time
[p]Must wear the print of his remembrance out,
[p]And
then she's yours.
Queen : You are most bound to the king,
[p]Who lets go by no vantages that
may
[p]Prefer you to his daughter. Frame yourself
[p]To orderly
soliciting, and be friended
[p]With aptness of the season; make
denials
[p]Increase your services; so seem as if
[p]You were inspired
to do those duties which
[p]You tender to her; that you in all obey
her,
[p]Save when command to your dismission tends,
[p]And therein you
are senseless.
Cloten : Senseless! not so.
Messenger : So like you, sir, ambassadors from Rome;
[p]The one is Caius Lucius.
Cymbeline : A worthy fellow,
[p]Albeit he comes on angry purpose now;
[p]But
that's no fault of his: we must receive him
[p]According to the honour
of his sender;
[p]And towards himself, his goodness forespent on
us,
[p]We must extend our notice. Our dear son,
[p]When you have given
good morning to your mistress,
[p]Attend the queen and us; we shall
have need
[p]To employ you towards this Roman. Come, our queen.
Cloten : If she be up, I'll speak with her; if not,
[p]Let her lie still and
dream.
[p][Knocks]
[p]By your leave, ho!
[p]I Know her women are about
her: what
[p]If I do line one of their hands? 'Tis gold
[p]Which buys
admittance; oft it doth; yea, and makes
[p]Diana's rangers false
themselves, yield up
[p]Their deer to the stand o' the stealer; and
'tis gold
[p]Which makes the true man kill'd and saves the
thief;
[p]Nay, sometime hangs both thief and true man: what
[p]Can it
not do and undo? I will make
[p]One of her women lawyer to me,
for
[p]I yet not understand the case myself.
[p][Knocks]
[p]By your
leave.
Lady : Who's there that knocks?
Cloten : A gentleman.
Lady : No more?
Cloten : Yes, and a gentlewoman's son.
Lady : That's more
[p]Than some, whose tailors are as dear as yours,
[p]Can
justly boast of. What's your lordship's pleasure?
Cloten : Your lady's person: is she ready?
Lady : Ay,
[p]To keep her chamber.
Cloten : There is gold for you;
[p]Sell me your good report.
Lady : How! my good name? or to report of you
[p]What I shall think is
good?--The princess!
Cloten : Good morrow, fairest: sister, your sweet hand.
Imogen : Good morrow, sir. You lay out too much pains
[p]For purchasing but
trouble; the thanks I give
[p]Is telling you that I am poor of
thanks
[p]And scarce can spare them.
Cloten : Still, I swear I love you.
Imogen : If you but said so, 'twere as deep with me:
[p]If you swear still,
your recompense is still
[p]That I regard it not.
Cloten : This is no answer.
Imogen : But that you shall not say I yield being silent,
[p]I would not speak.
I pray you, spare me: 'faith,
[p]I shall unfold equal
discourtesy
[p]To your best kindness: one of your great
knowing
[p]Should learn, being taught, forbearance.
Cloten : To leave you in your madness, 'twere my sin:
[p]I will not.
Imogen : Fools are not mad folks.
Cloten : Do you call me fool?
Imogen : As I am mad, I do:
[p]If you'll be patient, I'll no more be
mad;
[p]That cures us both. I am much sorry, sir,
[p]You put me to
forget a lady's manners,
[p]By being so verbal: and learn now, for
all,
[p]That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce,
[p]By the very
truth of it, I care not for you,
[p]And am so near the lack of
charity--
[p]To accuse myself--I hate you; which I had rather
[p]You
felt than make't my boast.
Cloten : You sin against
[p]Obedience, which you owe your father. For
[p]The
contract you pretend with that base wretch,
[p]One bred of alms and
foster'd with cold dishes,
[p]With scraps o' the court, it is no
contract, none:
[p]And though it be allow'd in meaner parties--
[p]Yet
who than he more mean?--to knit their souls,
[p]On whom there is no
more dependency
[p]But brats and beggary, in self-figured knot;
[p]Yet
you are curb'd from that enlargement by
[p]The consequence o' the
crown, and must not soil
[p]The precious note of it with a base
slave.
[p]A hilding for a livery, a squire's cloth,
[p]A pantler, not
so eminent.
Imogen : Profane fellow
[p]Wert thou the son of Jupiter and no more
[p]But what
thou art besides, thou wert too base
[p]To be his groom: thou wert
dignified enough,
[p]Even to the point of envy, if 'twere
made
[p]Comparative for your virtues, to be styled
[p]The
under-hangman of his kingdom, and hated
[p]For being preferred so
well.
Cloten : The south-fog rot him!
Imogen : He never can meet more mischance than come
[p]To be but named of thee.
His meanest garment,
[p]That ever hath but clipp'd his body, is
dearer
[p]In my respect than all the hairs above thee,
[p]Were they
all made such men. How now, Pisanio!
Cloten : 'His garment!' Now the devil--
Imogen : To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently--
Cloten : 'His garment!'
Imogen : I am sprited with a fool.
[p]Frighted, and anger'd worse: go bid my
woman
[p]Search for a jewel that too casually
[p]Hath left mine arm:
it was thy master's: 'shrew me,
[p]If I would lose it for a
revenue
[p]Of any king's in Europe. I do think
[p]I saw't this
morning: confident I am
[p]Last night 'twas on mine arm; I kiss'd
it:
[p]I hope it be not gone to tell my lord
[p]That I kiss aught but
he.
Pisanio : 'Twill not be lost.
Imogen : I hope so: go and search.
Cloten : You have abused me:
[p]'His meanest garment!'
Imogen : Ay, I said so, sir:
[p]If you will make't an action, call witness
to't.
Cloten : I will inform your father.
Imogen : Your mother too:
[p]She's my good lady, and will conceive, I
hope,
[p]But the worst of me. So, I leave you, sir,
[p]To the worst of
discontent.
Cloten : I'll be revenged:
[p]'His meanest garment!' Well.
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