Cymbeline by William Shakespeare
Act 3 - Scene 5
A room in Cymbeline’s palace.
Cymbeline : Thus far; and so farewell.
Caius Lucius : Thanks, royal sir.
[p]My emperor hath wrote, I must from hence;
[p]And
am right sorry that I must report ye
[p]My master's enemy.
Cymbeline : Our subjects, sir,
[p]Will not endure his yoke; and for ourself
[p]To
show less sovereignty than they, must needs
[p]Appear unkinglike.
Caius Lucius : So, sir: I desire of you
[p]A conduct over-land to
Milford-Haven.
[p]Madam, all joy befal your grace!
Queen : And you!
Cymbeline : My lords, you are appointed for that office;
[p]The due of honour in
no point omit.
[p]So farewell, noble Lucius.
Caius Lucius : Your hand, my lord.
Cloten : Receive it friendly; but from this time forth
[p]I wear it as your
enemy.
Caius Lucius : Sir, the event
[p]Is yet to name the winner: fare you well.
Cymbeline : Leave not the worthy Lucius, good my lords,
[p]Till he have cross'd
the Severn. Happiness!
Queen : He goes hence frowning: but it honours us
[p]That we have given him
cause.
Cloten : 'Tis all the better;
[p]Your valiant Britons have their wishes in it.
Cymbeline : Lucius hath wrote already to the emperor
[p]How it goes here. It fits
us therefore ripely
[p]Our chariots and our horsemen be in
readiness:
[p]The powers that he already hath in Gallia
[p]Will soon
be drawn to head, from whence he moves
[p]His war for Britain.
Queen : 'Tis not sleepy business;
[p]But must be look'd to speedily and
strongly.
Cymbeline : Our expectation that it would be thus
[p]Hath made us forward. But, my
gentle queen,
[p]Where is our daughter? She hath not
appear'd
[p]Before the Roman, nor to us hath tender'd
[p]The duty of
the day: she looks us like
[p]A thing more made of malice than of
duty:
[p]We have noted it. Call her before us; for
[p]We have been too
slight in sufferance.
Queen : Royal sir,
[p]Since the exile of Posthumus, most retired
[p]Hath her
life been; the cure whereof, my lord,
[p]'Tis time must do. Beseech
your majesty,
[p]Forbear sharp speeches to her: she's a lady
[p]So
tender of rebukes that words are strokes
[p]And strokes death to her.
Cymbeline : Where is she, sir? How
[p]Can her contempt be answer'd?
Attendant : Please you, sir,
[p]Her chambers are all lock'd; and there's no
answer
[p]That will be given to the loudest noise we make.
Queen : My lord, when last I went to visit her,
[p]She pray'd me to excuse her
keeping close,
[p]Whereto constrain'd by her infirmity,
[p]She should
that duty leave unpaid to you,
[p]Which daily she was bound to
proffer: this
[p]She wish'd me to make known; but our great
court
[p]Made me to blame in memory.
Cymbeline : Her doors lock'd?
[p]Not seen of late? Grant, heavens, that which I
fear
[p]Prove false!
Queen : Son, I say, follow the king.
Cloten : That man of hers, Pisanio, her old servant,
[p]have not seen these two
days.
Queen : Go, look after.
[p][Exit CLOTEN]
[p]Pisanio, thou that stand'st so for
Posthumus!
[p]He hath a drug of mine; I pray his absence
[p]Proceed by
swallowing that, for he believes
[p]It is a thing most precious. But
for her,
[p]Where is she gone? Haply, despair hath seized her,
[p]Or,
wing'd with fervor of her love, she's flown
[p]To her desired
Posthumus: gone she is
[p]To death or to dishonour; and my end
[p]Can
make good use of either: she being down,
[p]I have the placing of the
British crown.
[p][Re-enter CLOTEN]
[p]How now, my son!
Cloten : 'Tis certain she is fled.
[p]Go in and cheer the king: he rages;
none
[p]Dare come about him.
Queen : [Aside] All the better: may
[p]This night forestall him of the coming
day!
Cloten : I love and hate her: for she's fair and royal,
[p]And that she hath
all courtly parts more exquisite
[p]Than lady, ladies, woman; from
every one
[p]The best she hath, and she, of all
compounded,
[p]Outsells them all; I love her therefore:
but
[p]Disdaining me and throwing favours on
[p]The low Posthumus
slanders so her judgment
[p]That what's else rare is choked; and in
that point
[p]I will conclude to hate her, nay, indeed,
[p]To be
revenged upon her. For when fools Shall--
[p][Enter PISANIO]
[p]Who is
here? What, are you packing, sirrah?
[p]Come hither: ah, you precious
pander! Villain,
[p]Where is thy lady? In a word; or else
[p]Thou art
straightway with the fiends.
Pisanio : O, good my lord!
Cloten : Where is thy lady? Or, by Jupiter,--
[p]I will not ask again. Close
villain,
[p]I'll have this secret from thy heart, or rip
[p]Thy heart
to find it. Is she with Posthumus?
[p]From whose so many weights of
baseness cannot
[p]A dram of worth be drawn.
Pisanio : Alas, my lord,
[p]How can she be with him? When was she missed?
[p]He
is in Rome.
Cloten : Where is she, sir? Come nearer;
[p]No further halting: satisfy me
home
[p]What is become of her.
Pisanio : O, my all-worthy lord!
Cloten : All-worthy villain!
[p]Discover where thy mistress is at once,
[p]At
the next word: no more of 'worthy lord!'
[p]Speak, or thy silence on
the instant is
[p]Thy condemnation and thy death.
Pisanio : Then, sir,
[p]This paper is the history of my knowledge
[p]Touching
her flight.
Cloten : Let's see't. I will pursue her
[p]Even to Augustus' throne.
Pisanio : [Aside] Or this, or perish.
[p]She's far enough; and what he learns by
this
[p]May prove his travel, not her danger.
Cloten : Hum!
Pisanio : [Aside] I'll write to my lord she's dead. O Imogen,
[p]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
[p]wouldst not be a
villain, but do me true service,
[p]undergo those employments wherein
I should have
[p]cause to use thee with a serious industry, that
is,
[p]what villany soe'er I bid thee do, to perform it
[p]directly
and truly, I would think thee an honest
[p]man: thou shouldst neither
want my means for thy
[p]relief nor my voice for thy preferment.
Pisanio : Well, my good lord.
Cloten : Wilt thou serve me? for since patiently and
[p]constantly thou hast
stuck to the bare fortune of
[p]that beggar Posthumus, thou canst not,
in the
[p]course of gratitude, but be a diligent follower of
[p]mine:
wilt thou serve me?
Pisanio : Sir, I will.
Cloten : Give me thy hand; here's my purse. Hast any of thy
[p]late master's
garments in thy possession?
Pisanio : I have, my lord, at my lodging, the same suit he
[p]wore when he took
leave of my lady and mistress.
Cloten : The first service thou dost me, fetch that suit
[p]hither: let it be
thy lint service; go.
Pisanio : I shall, my lord.
Cloten : Meet thee at Milford-Haven!--I forgot to ask him one
[p]thing; I'll
remember't anon:--even there, thou
[p]villain Posthumus, will I kill
thee. I would these
[p]garments were come. She said upon a
time--the
[p]bitterness of it I now belch from my heart--that
she
[p]held the very garment of Posthumus in more respect
[p]than my
noble and natural person together with the
[p]adornment of my
qualities. With that suit upon my
[p]back, will I ravish her: first
kill him, and in her
[p]eyes; there shall she see my valour, which
will then
[p]be a torment to her contempt. He on the ground,
my
[p]speech of insultment ended on his dead body, and
[p]when my lust
hath dined,--which, as I say, to vex
[p]her I will execute in the
clothes that she so
[p]praised,--to the court I'll knock her back,
foot
[p]her home again. She hath despised me rejoicingly,
[p]and I'll
be merry in my revenge.
[p][Re-enter PISANIO, with the clothes]
[p]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
[p]thing that I
have commanded thee: the third is,
[p]that thou wilt be a voluntary
mute to my design. Be
[p]but duteous, and true preferment shall tender
itself
[p]to thee. My revenge is now at Milford: would I had
[p]wings
to follow it! Come, and be true.
Pisanio : Thou bid'st me to my loss: for true to thee
[p]Were to prove false,
which I will never be,
[p]To him that is most true. To Milford
go,
[p]And find not her whom thou pursuest. Flow, flow,
[p]You
heavenly blessings, on her! This fool's speed
[p]Be cross'd with
slowness; labour be his meed!
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Next: Act 3 - Scene 6
