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Under these windows white and azure, lac'd |
With blue of heaven's own tinct. But my design |
To note the chamber. I will write all down: |
Such and such pictures; there the window; such |
Th' adornment of her bed; the arras, figures- |
Why, such and such; and the contents o' th' story. |
Ah, but some natural notes about her body |
Above ten thousand meaner movables |
Would testify, t' enrich mine inventory. |
O sleep, thou ape of death, lie dull upon her! |
And be her sense but as a monument, |
Thus in a chapel lying! Come off, come off; |
[Taking off her bracelet] |
As slippery as the Gordian knot was hard! |
'Tis mine; and this will witness outwardly, |
As strongly as the conscience does within, |
To th' madding of her lord. On her left breast |
A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops |
I' th' bottom of a cowslip. Here's a voucher |
Stronger than ever law could make; this secret |
Will force him think I have pick'd the lock and ta'en |
The treasure of her honour. No more. To what end? |
Why should I write this down that's riveted, |
Screw'd to my memory? She hath been reading late |
The tale of Tereus; here the leaf's turn'd down |
Where Philomel gave up. I have enough. |
To th' trunk again, and shut the spring of it. |
Swift, swift, you dragons of the night, that dawning |
May bare the raven's eye! I lodge in fear; |
Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here. [Clock strikes] |
One, two, three. Time, time! Exit into the trunk |
SCENE III. |
CYMBELINE'S palace. An ante-chamber adjoining IMOGEN'S apartments |
Enter CLOTEN and LORDS |
FIRST LORD. Your lordship is the most patient man in loss, the most |
coldest that ever turn'd up ace. |
CLOTEN. It would make any man cold to lose. |
FIRST LORD. But not every man patient after the noble temper of |
your lordship. You are most hot and furious when you win. |
CLOTEN. Winning will put any man into courage. If I could get this |
foolish Imogen, I should have gold enough. It's almost morning, |
is't not? |
FIRST LORD. Day, my lord. |
CLOTEN. I would this music would come. I am advised to give her |
music a mornings; they say it will penetrate. |
Enter musicians |
Come on, tune. If you can penetrate her with your fingering, so. |
We'll try with tongue too. If none will do, let her remain; but |
I'll never give o'er. First, a very excellent good-conceited |
thing; after, a wonderful sweet air, with admirable rich words to |
it- and then let her consider. |
SONG |
Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, |
And Phoebus 'gins arise, |
His steeds to water at those springs |
On chalic'd flow'rs that lies; |
And winking Mary-buds begin |
To ope their golden eyes. |
With everything that pretty bin, |
My lady sweet, arise; |
Arise, arise! |
So, get you gone. If this penetrate, I will consider your music |
the better; if it do not, it is a vice in her ears which |
horsehairs and calves' guts, nor the voice of unpaved eunuch to |
boot, can never amend. Exeunt musicians |
Enter CYMBELINE and QUEEN |
SECOND LORD. Here comes the King. |
CLOTEN. I am glad I was up so late, for that's the reason I was up |
so early. He cannot choose but take this service I have done |
fatherly.- Good morrow to your Majesty and to my gracious mother. |
CYMBELINE. Attend you here the door of our stern daughter? |
Will she not forth? |
CLOTEN. I have assail'd her with musics, but she vouchsafes no |
notice. |
CYMBELINE. The exile of her minion is too new; |
She hath not yet forgot him; some more time |
Must wear the print of his remembrance out, |
And then she's yours. |
QUEEN. You are most bound to th' King, |
Who lets go by no vantages that may |
Prefer you to his daughter. Frame yourself |
To orderly soliciting, and be friended |
With aptness of the season; make denials |
Increase your services; so seem as if |
You were inspir'd to do those duties which |
You tender to her; that you in all obey her, |
Save when command to your dismission tends, |
And therein you are senseless. |
CLOTEN. Senseless? Not so. |
Enter a MESSENGER |
MESSENGER. So like you, sir, ambassadors from Rome; |
The one is Caius Lucius. |
CYMBELINE. A worthy fellow, |
Albeit he comes on angry purpose now; |
But that's no fault of his. We must receive him |
According to the honour of his sender; |
And towards himself, his goodness forespent on us, |
We must extend our notice. Our dear son, |
When you have given good morning to your mistress, |
Attend the Queen and us; we shall have need |
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