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A Room in CYMBELINE’S Palace. | |
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Enter CYMBELINE, Lords, PISANIO, and Attendants. | |
| Cym. Again; and bring me word how ’tis with her. [Exit an Attendant. | |
| A fever with the absence of her son, | |
| A madness, of which her life’s in danger. Heavens! | 5 |
| How deeply you at once do touch me. Imogen, | |
| The great part of my comfort, gone; my queen | |
| Upon a desperate bed, and in a time | |
| When fearful wars point at me; her son gone, | |
| So needful for this present: it strikes me, past | 10 |
| The hope of comfort. But for thee, fellow, | |
| Who needs must know of her departure and | |
| Dost seem so ignorant, we’ll enforce it from thee | |
| By a sharp torture. | |
| Pis. Sir, my life is yours, | 15 |
| I humbly set it at your will; but, for my mistress, | |
| I nothing know where she remains, why gone, | |
| Nor when she purposes return. Beseech your highness, | |
| Hold me your loyal servant. | |
| First Lord. Good my liege, | 20 |
| The day that she was missing he was here; | |
| I dare be bound he’s true and shall perform | |
| All parts of his subjection loyally. For Cloten, | |
| There wants no diligence in seeking him, | |
| And will, no doubt, be found. | 25 |
| Cym. The time is troublesome. | |
| [To PISANIO.] We’ll slip you for a season; but our jealousy | |
| Does yet depend. | |
| First Lord. So please your majesty, | |
| The Roman legions, all from Gallia drawn, | 30 |
| Are landed on your coast, with a supply | |
| Of Roman gentlemen, by the senate sent. | |
| Cym. Now for the counsel of my son and queen! | |
| I am amaz’d with matter. | |
| First Lord. Good my liege, | 35 |
| Your preparation can affront no less | |
| Than what you hear of; come more, for more you’re ready: | |
| The want is, but to put those powers in motion | |
| That long to move. | |
| Cym. I thank you. Let’s withdraw; | 40 |
| And meet the time as it seeks us. We fear not | |
| What can from Italy annoy us, but | |
| We grieve at chances here. Away! [Exeunt all but PISANIO. | |
| Pis. I heard no letter from my master since | |
| I wrote him Imogen was slain; ’tis strange; | 45 |
| Nor hear I from my mistress, who did promise | |
| To yield me often tidings; neither know I | |
| What is betid to Cloten; but remain | |
| Perplex’d in all: the heavens still must work. | |
| Wherein I am false I am honest; not true to be true: | 50 |
| These present wars shall find I love my country, | |
| Even to the note o’ the king, or I’ll fall in them. | |
| All other doubts, by time let them be clear’d; | |
| Fortune brings in some boats that are not steer’d. [Exit. | |
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