Shakespeare's First Folio - LightNovelsOnl.com
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La. That's more Then some whose Taylors are as deere as yours, Can iustly boast of: what's your Lords.h.i.+ps pleasure?
Clot. Your Ladies person, is she ready?
La. I, to keepe her Chamber
Clot. There is Gold for you, Sell me your good report
La. How, my good name? or to report of you What I shall thinke is good. The Princesse.
Enter Imogen.
Clot. Good morrow fairest, Sister your sweet hand
Imo. Good morrow Sir, you lay out too much paines For purchasing but trouble: the thankes I giue, Is telling you that I am poore of thankes, And sca.r.s.e can spare them
Clot. Still I sweare I loue you
Imo. If you but said so, 'twere as deepe with me: If you sweare still, your recompence is still That I regard it not
Clot. This is no answer
Imo. But that you shall not say, I yeeld being silent, I would not speake. I pray you spare me, 'faith I shall vnfold equall discourtesie To your best kindnesse: one of your great knowing Should learne (being taught) forbearance
Clot. To leaue you in your madnesse, 'twere my sin, I will not
Imo. Fooles are not mad Folkes
Clot. Do you call me Foole?
Imo. As I am mad I do: If you'l be patient, Ile no more be mad, That cures vs both. I am much sorry (Sir) You put me to forget a Ladies manners By being so verball: and learne now, for all, That I which know my heart, do heere p.r.o.nounce By th' very truth of it, I care not for you, And am so neere the lacke of Charitie To accuse my selfe, I hate you: which I had rather You felt, then make't my boast
Clot. You sinne against Obedience, which you owe your Father, for The Contract you pretend with that base Wretch, One, bred of Almes, and foster'd with cold dishes, With sc.r.a.ps o'th' Court: It is no Contract, none; And though it be allowed in meaner parties (Yet who then he more meane) to knit their soules (On whom there is no more dependancie But Brats and Beggery) in selfe-figur'd knot, Yet you are curb'd from that enlargement, by The consequence o'th' Crowne, and must not foyle The precious note of it; with a base Slaue, A Hilding for a Liuorie, a Squires Cloth, A Pantler; not so eminent
Imo. Prophane Fellow: Wert thou the Sonne of Iupiter, and no more, But what thou art besides: thou wer't too base, To be his Groome: thou wer't dignified enough Euen to the point of Enuie. If 'twere made Comparatiue for your Vertues, to be stil'd The vnder Hangman of his Kingdome; and hated For being prefer'd so well
Clot. The South-Fog rot him
Imo. He neuer can meete more mischance, then come To be but nam'd of thee. His mean'st Garment That euer hath but clipt his body; is dearer In my respect, then all the Heires aboue thee, Were they all made such men: How now Pisanio?
Enter Pisanio.
Clot. His Garments? Now the diuell
Imo. To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently
Clot. His Garment?
Imo. I am sprighted with a Foole, Frighted, and angred worse: Go bid my woman Search for a Iewell, that too casually Hath left mine Arme: it was thy Masters. Shrew me If I would loose it for a Reuenew, Of any Kings in Europe. I do think, I saw't this morning: Confident I am.
Last night 'twas on mine Arme; I kiss'd it, I hope it be not gone, to tell my Lord That I kisse aught but he
Pis. 'Twill not be lost
Imo. I hope so: go and search
Clot. You haue abus'd me: His meanest Garment?
Imo. I, I said so Sir, If you will make't an Action, call witnesse to't
Clot. I will enforme your Father
Imo. Your Mother too: She's my good Lady; and will concieue, I hope But the worst of me. So I leaue you Sir, To'th' worst of discontent.
Enter.
Clot. Ile be reueng'd: His mean'st Garment? Well.
Enter.
Scena Quarta.
Enter Posthumus, and Philario.
Post. Feare it not Sir: I would I were so sure To winne the King, as I am bold, her Honour Will remaine her's
Phil. What meanes do you make to him?
Post. Not any: but abide the change of Time, Quake in the present winters state, and wish That warmer dayes would come: In these fear'd hope I barely gratifie your loue; they fayling I must die much your debtor
Phil. Your very goodnesse, and your company, Ore-payes all I can do. By this your King, Hath heard of Great Augustus: Caius Lucius, Will do's Commission throughly. And I think Hee'le grant the Tribute: send th' Arrerages, Or looke vpon our Romaines, whose remembrance Is yet fresh in their griefe
Post. I do beleeue (Statist though I am none, nor like to be) That this will proue a Warre; and you shall heare The Legion now in Gallia, sooner landed In our not-fearing-Britaine, then haue tydings Of any penny Tribute paid. Our Countrymen Are men more order'd, then when Iulius Caesar Smil'd at their lacke of skill, but found their courage Worthy his frowning at. Their discipline, (Now wing-led with their courages) will make knowne To their Approuers, they are People, such That mend vpon the world.
Enter Iachimo.
Phi. See Iachimo
Post. The swiftest Harts, haue posted you by land; And Windes of all the Corners kiss'd your Sailes, To make your vessell nimble
Phil. Welcome Sir
Post. I hope the briefenesse of your answere, made The speedinesse of your returne
Iachi. Your Lady, Is one of the fayrest that I haue look'd vpon Post. And therewithall the best, or let her beauty Looke thorough a Cas.e.m.e.nt to allure false hearts, And be false with them
Iachi. Heere are Letters for you
Post. Their tenure good I trust
Iach. 'Tis very like
Post. Was Caius Lucius in the Britaine Court, When you were there?
Iach. He was expected then, But not approach'd
Post. All is well yet, Sparkles this Stone as it was wont, or is't not Too dull for your good wearing?
Iach. If I haue lost it, I should haue lost the worth of it in Gold, Ile make a iourney twice as farre, t' enioy A second night of such sweet shortnesse, which Was mine in Britaine, for the Ring is wonne
Post. The Stones too hard to come by
