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Scena Tertia.
Enter Clotten, and Lords.
1. Your Lords.h.i.+p is the most patient man in losse, the most coldest that euer turn'd vp Ace
Clot. It would make any man cold to loose
1. But not euery man patient after the n.o.ble temper of your Lords.h.i.+p; You are most hot, and furious when you winne.
Winning will put any man into courage: if I could get this foolish Imogen, I should haue Gold enough: it's almost morning, is't not?
1 Day, my Lord
Clot. I would this Musicke would come: I am aduised to giue her Musicke a mornings, they say it will penetrate.
Enter Musitians.
Come on, tune: If you can penetrate her with your fingering, so: wee'l try with tongue too: if none will do, let her remaine: but Ile neuer giue o're. First, a very excellent good conceyted thing; after a wonderful sweet aire, with admirable rich words to it, and then let her consider.
SONG.
Hearke, hearke, the Larke at Heauens gate sings, and Phoebus gins arise, His Steeds to water at those Springs on chalic'd Flowres that lyes: And winking Mary-buds begin to ope their Golden eyes With euery thing that pretty is, my Lady sweet arise: Arise, arise.
So, get you gone: if this penetrate, I will consider your Musicke the better: if it do not, it is a voyce in her eares which Horse-haires, and Calues-guts, nor the voyce of vnpaued Eunuch to boot, can neuer amend.
Enter Cymbaline, and Queene.
2 Heere comes the King
Clot. I am glad I was vp so late, for that's the reason I was vp so earely: he cannot choose but take this Seruice I haue done, fatherly. Good morrow to your Maiesty, and to my gracious Mother
Cym. Attend you here the doore of our stern daughter Will she not forth?
Clot. I haue a.s.sayl'd her with Musickes, but she vouchsafes no notice
Cym. The Exile of her Minion is too new, She hath not yet forgot him, some more time Must weare the print of his remembrance on't, And then she's yours
Qu. You are most bound to'th' King, Who let's go by no vantages, that may Preferre you to his daughter: Frame your selfe To orderly solicity, and be friended With aptnesse of the season: make denials Encrease your Seruices: so seeme, as if You were inspir'd to do those duties which You tender to her: that you in all obey her, Saue when command to your dismission tends, And therein you are senselesse
Clot. Senselesse? Not so
Mes. So like you (Sir) Amba.s.sadors from Rome; The one is Caius Lucius
Cym. A worthy Fellow, Albeit he comes on angry purpose now; But that's no fault of his: we must receyue him According to the Honor of his Sender, And towards himselfe, his goodnesse fore-spent on vs We must extend our notice: Our deere Sonne, When you haue giuen good morning to your Mistris, Attend the Queene, and vs, we shall haue neede T' employ you towards this Romane.
Come our Queene.
Exeunt.
Clot. If she be vp, Ile speake with her: if not Let her lye still, and dreame: by your leaue hoa, I know her women are about her: what If I do line one of their hands, 'tis Gold Which buyes admittance (oft it doth) yea, and makes Diana's Rangers false themselues, yeeld vp Their Deere to'th' stand o'th' Stealer: and 'tis Gold Which makes the True-man kill'd, and saues the Theefe: Nay, sometime hangs both Theefe, and True-man: what Can it not do, and vndoo? I will make One of her women Lawyer to me, for I yet not vnderstand the case my selfe.
By your leaue.
Knockes.
Enter a Lady.
La. Who's there that knockes?
Clot. A Gentleman
La. No more
Clot. Yes, and a Gentlewomans Sonne
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
