Pisanio

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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Queen
Now, Master Doctor, have you brought those drugs?
Cornelius 
Pleaseth your Highness, ay. Here they are, madam.
 He hands her a small box.
But I beseech your Grace, without offense—
My conscience bids me ask—wherefore you have
Commanded of me these most poisonous compounds,
Which are the movers of a languishing death,
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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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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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Pisanio
I heard no letter from my master since
I wrote him Imogen was slain. ’Tis strange.
Nor hear I from my mistress, who did promise
To yield me often tidings.

Fortune brings in some boats that are not steered.

Neither know I
What is betid to Cloten, but remain
Perplexed in all.
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Belarius, as Morgan
Is not this boy revived from death?
Arviragus, as Cadwal
One sand another
Not more resembles that sweet rosy lad
Who died, and was Fidele. What think you?

Since she is living, let the time run on
To good or bad.

Guiderius,
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Cymbeline, to Imogen
Come, stand thou by our side.
Make thy demand aloud. (To Iachimo.) Sir, step you forth.
Give answer to this boy, and do it freely,
Or by our greatness and the grace of it,
Which is our honor, bitter torture shall
Winnow the truth from falsehood.—On. Speak to him.
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