Cloten

Cloten
And that she should love this fellow and
refuse me!
Second Lord, aside
If it be a sin to make a true election,
she is damned.

She shines not upon fools, lest
the reflection should hurt her.

First Lord
Sir, as I told you always,
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Cloten
Was there ever man had such luck? When I
kissed the jack, upon an upcast to be hit away? I
had a hundred pound on ’t. And then a whoreson
jackanapes must take me up for swearing, as if I
borrowed mine oaths of him and might not spend
them at my pleasure.

That such a crafty devil as is his mother
Should yield the world this ass!
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Cloten
I would this music would come. I am advised
to give her music a-mornings; they say it will
penetrate.

And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes.
With everything that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise,

 Enter Musicians.
Come on,
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Cloten 
If she be up, I’ll speak with her; if not,
Let her lie still and dream. (He knocks.) By your leave, ho!—
I know her women are about her. What
If I do line one of their hands?

and ’tis gold
Which makes the true man killed and saves the thief,
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Cloten
Still I swear I love you.
Imogen
If you but said so, ’twere as deep with me.
If you swear still, your recompense is still
That I regard it not.

By th’ very truth of it, I care not for you,
And am so near the lack of charity
To accuse myself I hate you

Cloten
This is no answer.
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Cloten
There be many Caesars
Ere such another Julius. Britain’s a world
By itself, and we will nothing pay
For wearing our own noses.

A kind of conquest
Caesar made here, but made not here his brag
Of “came, and saw, and overcame.”

Queen
That opportunity
Which then they had to take from ’s,
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Lucius
I am sorry, Cymbeline,
That I am to pronounce Augustus Caesar—
Caesar, that hath more kings his servants than
Thyself domestic officers—thine enemy.
Receive it from me, then: war and confusion
In Caesar’s name pronounce I ’gainst thee. Look
For fury not to be resisted. Thus defied,
I thank thee for myself.

Receive it from me,
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Cloten
I love and hate her; for she’s fair and royal,
And that she hath all courtly parts more exquisite
Than lady, ladies, woman, from every one
The best she hath, and she, of all compounded,
Outsells them all. I love her therefore, but
Disdaining me and throwing favors on
The low Posthumus slanders so her judgment
That what’s else rare is chok’d;
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Cloten
I am near to th’ place where they should meet,
if Pisanio have mapped it truly. How fit his garments
serve me! Why should his mistress, who
was made by him that made the tailor, not be fit too?

I dare speak it to myself, for it is not
vainglory for a man and his glass to
confer in his own chamber.
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Cloten, to himself
I cannot find those runagates. That villain
Hath mocked me. I am faint.
Belarius, as Morgan, to Polydor and Cadwal
“Those runagates”?
Means he not us? I partly know him. ’Tis
Cloten, the son o’ th’ Queen. I fear some ambush.
I saw him not these many years,
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