Part 16

Pis. I am most glad You thinke of other place: Th' Ambassador, Lucius the Romane comes to Milford-Hauen To morrow. Now, if you could weare a minde Darke, as your Fortune is, and but disguise That which t' appeare it selfe, must not yet be, But by selfe-danger, you should tread a course Pretty, and full of view: yea, happily, neere The residence of Posthumus; so nie (at least) That though his Actions were not visible, yut Report should render him hourely to your eare, As truely as he mooues

Imo. Oh for such meanes, Though perill to my modestie, not death on't I would aduenture

Pis. Well then, heere's the point: You must forget to be a Woman: change Command, into obedience. Feare, and Nicenesse (The Handmaides of all Women, or more truely Woman it pretty selfe) into a waggish courage, Ready in gybes, quicke-answer'd, sawcie, and As quarrellous as the Weazell: Nay, you must Forget that rarest Treasure of your Cheeke, Exposing it (but oh the harder heart, Alacke no remedy) to the greedy touch Of common-kissing Titan: and forget Your laboursome and dainty Trimmes, wherein You made great Iuno angry

Imo. Nay be breefe? I see into thy end, and am almost A man already

Pis. First, make your selfe but like one, Fore-thinking this. I haue already fit ('Tis in my Cloake-bagge) Doublet, Hat, Hose, all That answer to them: Would you in their seruing, (And with what imitation you can borrow From youth of such a season) 'fore Noble Lucius Present your selfe, desire his seruice: tell him Wherein you're happy; which will make him know, If that his head haue eare in Musicke, doubtlesse With ioy he will imbrace you: for hee's Honourable, And doubling that, most holy. Your meanes abroad: You haue me rich, and I will neuer faile Beginning, nor supplyment

Imo. Thou art all the comfort The Gods will diet me with. Prythee away, There's more to be consider'd: but wee'l euen All that good time will giue vs. This attempt, I am Souldier too, and will abide it with A Princes Courage. Away, I prythee

Pis. Well Madam, we must take a short farewell, Least being mist, I be suspected of Your carriage from the Court. My Noble Mistris, Heere is a boxe, I had it from the Queene, What's in't is precious: If you are sicke at Sea, Or Stomacke-qualm'd at Land, a Dramme of this Will driue away distemper. To some shade, And fit you to your Manhood: may the Gods Direct you to the best

Imo. Amen: I thanke thee.

Exeunt.

Scena Quinta.

Enter Cymbeline, Queene, Cloten, Lucius, and Lords.

Cym. Thus farre, and so farewell

Luc. Thankes, Royall Sir: My Emperor hath wrote, I must from hence, And am right sorry, that I must report ye My Masters Enemy

Cym. Our Subiects (Sir) Will not endure his yoake; and for our selfe To shew lesse Soueraignty then they, must needs Appeare vn-Kinglike

Luc. So Sir: I desire of you A Conduct ouer Land, to Milford-Hauen. Madam, all ioy befall your Grace, and you

Cym. My Lords, you are appointed for that Office: The due of Honor, in no point omit: So farewell Noble Lucius

Luc. Your hand, my Lord

Clot. Receiue it friendly: but from this time forth I weare it as your Enemy

Luc. Sir, the Euent Is yet to name the winner. Fare you well

Cym. Leaue not the worthy Lucius, good my Lords Till he haue crost the Seuern. Happines.

Exit Lucius, &c Qu. He goes hence frowning: but it honours vs That we haue giuen him cause

Clot. 'Tis all the better, Your valiant Britaines haue their wishes in it

Cym. Lucius hath wrote already to the Emperor How it goes heere. It fits vs therefore ripely Our Chariots, and our Horsemen be in readinesse: The Powres that he already hath in Gallia Will soone be drawne to head, from whence he moues His warre for Britaine

Qu. 'Tis not sleepy businesse, But must be look'd too speedily, and strongly

Cym. Our expectation that it would be thus Hath made vs forward. But my gentle Queene, Where is our Daughter? She hath not appear'd Before the Roman, nor to vs hath tender'd The duty of the day. She looke vs like A thing more made of malice, then of duty, We haue noted it. Call her before vs, for We haue beene too slight in sufferance

Qu. Royall Sir, Since the exile of Posthumus, most retyr'd Hath her life bin: the Cure whereof, my Lord, 'Tis time must do. Beseech your Maiesty, Forbeare sharpe speeches to her. Shee's a Lady So tender of rebukes, that words are stroke; And strokes death to her. Enter a Messenger.

Cym. Where is she Sir? How Can her contempt be answer'd? Mes. Please you Sir, Her Chambers are all lock'd, and there's no answer That will be giuen to'th' lowd of noise, we make

Qu. My Lord, when last I went to visit her, She pray'd me to excuse her keeping close, Whereto constrain'd by her infirmitie, She should that dutie leaue vnpaide to you Which dayly she was bound to proffer: this She wish'd me to make knowne: but our great Court Made me too blame in memory