Cym. All that belongs to this.
lach. That paragon, thy daughter,
For whom my heart drops blood, and my false spirits
Quail to remember
Cym. My daughter, what of her? renew thy strength,
I'ad rather thou fhouldft live while nature will,
Than die ere I hear more: ftrive man, and speak.
lach. Upon a time, (unhappy was the clock
That struck the hour) it was in Rome, (accurs'd
The mansion where) 'twas at a feast, (oh would
Our viands had been poison'd! or at least
Those which I heav'd to head:) the good Pofthumus
What should I say? he was too good to be
Where ill men were, and was the best of all
Amongst the rar'st of good ones ---- fitting fadly,
Hearing us praise our loves of Italy ·
For beauty, that made barren the fwell'd boast
Of him that best could speak; for feature, laming
The shrine of Venus, or ftraight-pight Minerva;
Postures, beyond brief nature; for condition,
A shop of all the qualities, that man
Loves woman for; befides that hook of wiving,
Fairness, which strikes the
Cym. I ftand on fire.
Come to the matter.
lach. All too foon I shall,
Unless thou wouldst grieve quickly. This Pofthumus,
(Most like a noble lord in love, and one
That had a royal lover) took his hint;
And, not difpraifing whom we prais'd, (therein
He was as calm as virtue) he began
His mistress' picture; which by his tongue made,
And then a mind put in't; either our brags
Were crack'd of kitching-trulls, or his description
Prov'd us unspeaking fots.
Cym. Nay, nay, to th' purpose.
lach. Your daughter's chastity; there it begins:
He spake of her, as Dian had hot dreams,
And she alone were cold; whereat, I wretch
Made fcruple of his praise, and wag'd with him
Pieces of gold, 'gainst this which then he wore
Upon his honour'd finger, to attain
In fuit the place of's bed, and win this ring,
By hers and mine adultery. He, true knight,
No leffer of her honour confident
Than I did truly find her, stakes this ring,
(And would fo, had it been a carbuncle
Of Phabus' wheel; and might so safely, had it
Been all the worth of's car.) Away to Britain
Post I in this design: well may you, Sir,
Remember me at court, where I was taught
By your chafte daughter the wide difference
'Twixt amorous, and villainous. Being thus quench'd
Of hope, not longing; mine Italian brain
'Gan in your duller Britain operate
Moft vilely for my vantage excellent,
And to be brief, my practice fo prevail'd,
That I return'd with fimular proof enough
To make the noble Leonatus mad,
By wounding his belief in her renown,
With tokens thus, and thus; averring notes
Of chamber-hanging, pictures, this her bracelet
(Oh cunning how I got it) nay fome marks
Of fecret on her perfon, that he could not
But think her bond of chastity quite crack'd,
I having ta'en the forfeit; whereupon,
Methinks I fee him now ---
Poft. Ay, fo thou do'st,
Italian fiend! ay me, moft credulous fool,
Egregious murtherer, thief, any thing
That's due to all the villains past, in being,
oh give me cord, or knife, or poison,
Some upright jufticer! Thou king, send out
For torturers ingenious; it is I
That all th'abhorred things o'th' earth amend,
By being worse than they. I am Pofthumus,
That kill'd thy daughter: villain-like, I lie,
That caus'd a leffer villain than my self
A facrilegious thief to do't. The temple
Of virtue was she, yea, and fhe her self----
Spit, and throw ftones, caft myre upon me, set
The dogs o'th' street to bait me: every villain
Be call'd Pofthumus Leonatus, and
Be villainy-less than 'twas. Oh Imogen!
My queen, my life, my wife! oh Imogen,
Imogen, Imogen!
Imo. Peace, my lord, hear, hear--
Poft. Shall's have a play of this?
Thou scornful page, there lie thy part.
Pif. Oh gentlemen, help,
Mine and your mistress
Oh, my lord Pofthumus!
You ne'er kill'd Imogen 'till now ---- help, help,
Cym. Does the world go round?
Poft. How come these ftaggers on me?
Pif. Wake, my mistress.
Cym. If this be fo, the gods do mean to strike me
To death with mortal joy.
Pif. How fares my mistress?
Imo. Oh get thee from my fight,
Thou gav❜ft me poison: dang'rous fellow hence,
Breathe not where princes are.
Cym. The tune of Imogen!
Pif. Lady, the gods throw ftones of fulphur on me,
If what I gave you was not thought by me
A precious thing, I had it from the queen.
Cym. New matter still?
Imo. It poifon'd me.
Cor. Oh gods!
I left out one thing which the queen confefs'd,
Which must approve thee honest. If Pisanie
Have, faid fhe, giv'n his mistress that confection
Which I gave him for cordial, she is serv'd
As I would ferve a rat.
Cym. What's this, Cornelius?
Cor. The queen, Sir, very oft importun'd me
To temper poisons for her; ftill pretending
The fatisfaction of her knowledge, only
In killing creatures vile, as cats and dogs
Of no esteem; I dreading that her purpose
Was of more danger, did compound for her
A certain ftuff, which being ta'en would seize
The present power of life, but in short time
All offices of nature should again
Do their due functions. Have you ta'en of it?
Imo. Moft like I did, for I was dead.
Bel. My boys, there was our error.
Guid. This is fure Fidele.
What, mak'st thou me a dullard in this act?
Wilt thou not speak to me?
Imo. Your bleffing, Sir.
Bel. Tho' you did love this youth, I blame you not,
Imo. I'm forry for't, my lord.
Cym. Oh, fhe was naught; and long of her it was That we meet here fo ftrangely; but her fon
Is gone, we know not how, nor where.
Now fear is from me, I'll speak truth. Lord Cloten,
Upon my lady's miffing, came to me
With his fword drawn, foam'd at the mouth, and swore
If I discover'd not which way she went
It was my instant death. By accident
I had a feigned letter of my master's
Then in my pocket, which directed her
To feek him on the mountains near to Milford:
Where in a frenzy, in my master's garments,
Which he inforc'd from me, away he posts
With unchafte purpose, and with oath to violate
My lady's honour: What became of him,
I further know not.
Guid. Let me end the story;
I flew him there.
Cym. Marry, the gods forefend.
I would not thy good deeds should from my lips
Pluck a hard sentence: pr'ythee valiant youth
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