William Shakespeare's Cymbeline in the complete original text.
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Cymbeline

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Act III. Scene II.

Scene II.—Another Room in the Same.

Enter PISANIO, reading a letter.

Pis. How! of adultery! Wherefore write you
not
What monster's her accuser? Leonatus!
O master! what a strange infection
Is fall'n into thy ear! What false Italian—
As poisonous-tongued as handed—bath pre-
vail'd
On thy too ready hearing? Disloyal! No:
She's punish'd for her truth, and undergoes,
More goddess-like than wife-like, such assaults
As would take in some virtue. O my master!
Thy mind to her is now as low as were
Thy fortunes. How! that I should murder her?
Upon the love and truth and vows which I
Have made to thy command? I, her? her
blood?
If it be so to do good service, never
Let me be counted serviceable. How look I,
That I should seem to lack humanity
So much as this fact comes to?—Do 't: the letter
That I have sent her by her own command
Shall give thee opportunity:—O damn'd paper!
Black as the ink that's on thee. Senseless
bauble,
Art thou a feodary for this act, and look'st
So virgin-like without? Lo! here she comes.
I am ignorant in what I am commanded.

Enter IMOGEN.
Imo. How now, Pisanio!
Pis. Madam, here is a letter from my lord.
Imo. Who? thy lord? that is my lord, Leo-
natus.
O! learn'd indeed were that astronomer
That knew the stars as I his characters;
He'd lay the future open. You good gods,
Let what is here contain'd relish of love,
Of my lord's health, of his content, yet not
That we two are asunder; let that grieve him,—
Some griefs are med'cinable; that is one of them,
For it doth physic love,—of his content,
All but in that! Good wax, thy leave. Bless'd
be
You bees that make these locks of counsel!
Lovers
And men in dangerous bonds pray not alike;
Though forfeiters you cast in prison, yet
You clasp young Cupid's tables. Good news,
gods!
Justice, and your father's wrath, should he
take me in his dominion, could not be so cruel to
me, as you, O the dearest of creatures, would not
even renew me with your eyes. Take notice that
I am in Cambria, at Milford-Haven; what
your own love will out of this advise you, fol-
low. So, he wishes you all happiness, that re-
mains loyal to his vow, and your, increasing in
love, LEONATUS POSTHUMUS.
O! for a horse with wings! Hearest thou, Pi-
sanio?
He is at Milford-Haren; read, and tell me
How far 'tis thither. If one of mean affairs
May plod it in a week, why may not I
Glide thither in a day? Then, true Pisamo,—
Who long'st, like me, to see thy lord; who
long'st,—
O! let me 'bate,—but not like me; yet long'st,
But in a fainter kind:—O! not like me,
For mine's beyond beyond; say, and speak
thick;—
Love's counsellor should fill the bores of hear-
ing,
To the smothering of the sense,—how far it is
To this same blessed Milford; and, by the way,
Tell me how Wales was made so happy as
T' inherit such a haven; but, first of all,
How we may steal from hence, and, for the
gap
That we shall make in time, from our hence-
going
And our return, to excuse; but first, how get
hence.
Why should excuse be born or ere begot?
We'll talk of that hereafter. Prithee, speak,
How many score of miles may we well ride
'Twixt hour and hour?
Pis. One score 'twixt sun and sun,
Madam,'s enough for you, and too much too.
Imo. Why, one that rode to's execution,
man,
Could never go so slow: I have heard of riding
wagers,
Where horses have been nimbler than the sands
That run i' the clock's behalf. But this is
foolery;
Go bid my woman feign a sickness; say
She'll home to her father; and provide me pre-
sently
A riding-suit, no costher than would fit
A franklin's housewife.
Pis. Madam, you're best consider.
Imo. I see before me, man; nor here, nor
here,
Nor what ensues, but have a fog in them,
That I cannot look through. Away, I prithee;
Do as I bid thee. There's no more to say;
Accessible is none but Milford way. [Exeunt.
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