Imogen

Queen
No, be assured you shall not find me, daughter,
After the slander of most stepmothers,
Evil-eyed unto you. You’re my prisoner, but
Your jailer shall deliver you the keys
That lock up your restraint.—For you, Posthumus,
So soon as I can win th’ offended king,
I will be known your advocate. Marry, yet
The fire of rage is in him,
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Posthumus
Should we be taking leave
As long a term as yet we have to live,
The loathness to depart would grow. Adieu.

There cannot be a pinch in death
More sharp than this is.

Imogen
Nay, stay a little!
Were you but riding forth to air yourself,
Such parting were too petty.
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Imogen
What was the last
That he spake to thee?
Pisanio
It was his queen, his queen!
Imogen
Then waved his handkerchief?
Pisanio
And kissed it, madam.
Imogen
Senseless linen, happier therein than I.
And that was all?
Pisanio
No,
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Imogen
A father cruel and a stepdame false,
A foolish suitor to a wedded lady
That hath her husband banished. O, that husband,
My supreme crown of grief and those repeated
Vexations of it! Had I been thief-stol’n,
As my two brothers, happy; but most miserable
Is the desire that’s glorious. Blessed be those,
How mean soe’er,
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Imogen
You do seem to know
Something of me or what concerns me. Pray you,
Since doubting things go ill often hurts more
Than to be sure they do—for certainties
Either are past remedies, or, timely knowing,
The remedy then born—discover to me
What both you spur and stop.

I dedicate myself to your sweet pleasure

Iachimo
Had I this cheek
To bathe my lips upon;
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Imogen
Who’s there? My woman Helen?
Lady
Please you, madam.

To your protection I commend me, gods.
From fairies and the tempters of the night
Guard me, beseech you.

Imogen
What hour is it?
Lady
Almost midnight, madam.
Imogen
I have read three hours then.
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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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Pisanio
How? Of adultery? Wherefore write you not
What monsters her accuse? Leonatus,
O master, what a strange infection
Is fall’n into thy ear! What false Italian,
As poisonous-tongued as handed, hath prevailed
On thy too ready hearing? Disloyal? No.

I see before me, man. Nor here, nor here,
Nor what ensues, but have a fog in them
That I cannot look through.
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Imogen
Pisanio, man,
Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind
That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that sigh
From th’ inward of thee? One but painted thus
Would be interpreted a thing perplexed
Beyond self-explication. Put thyself
Into a havior of less fear, ere wildness
Vanquish my staider senses. What’s the matter?

Men’s vows are women’s traitors!
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Imogen
Why, good fellow,
What shall I do the while? Where bide? How live?
Or in my life what comfort when I am
Dead to my husband?
Pisanio
If you’ll back to th’ court—

Hath Britain all the sun that shines? Day, night,
Are they not but in Britain? I’ th’ world’s volume
Our Britain seems as of it,
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