Posthumus

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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Iachimo
Can we with manners ask what was the difference?
Frenchman
Safely, I think. ’Twas a contention in public,
which may without contradiction suffer the report.
It was much like an argument that fell out
last night, where each of us fell in praise of our
country mistresses, this gentleman at that time
vouching—and upon warrant of bloody affirmation—
his to be more fair,
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Iachimo
First, her bedchamber—
Where I confess I slept not, but profess
Had that was well worth watching—it was hanged
With tapestry of silk and silver, the story
Proud Cleopatra when she met her Roman
And Cydnus swelled above the banks, or for
The press of boats or pride. A piece of work
So bravely done,
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Posthumus
Is there no way for men to be, but women
Must be half-workers? We are all bastards,
And that most venerable man which I
Did call my father was I know not where
When I was stamped. Some coiner with his tools
Made me a counterfeit; yet my mother seemed
The Dian of that time;
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Posthumus 
Yea, bloody cloth, I’ll keep thee, for I wished
Thou shouldst be colored thus. You married ones,
If each of you should take this course, how many
Must murder wives much better than themselves
For wrying but a little!

You snatch some hence for little faults; that’s love,
To have them fall no more;
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Lord 
Cam’st thou from where they made the stand?
Posthumus
I did,
Though you, it seems, come from the fliers.
Lord
Ay.

Today how many would have given their honors
To have saved their carcasses, took heel to do ’t,
And yet died too!

Posthumus
No blame be to you,
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Posthumus
Most welcome, bondage,for thou art a way,
I think, to liberty. Yet am I better
Than one that’s sick o’ th’ gout, since he had rather
Groan so in perpetuity than be cured
By th’ sure physician, Death, who is the key
T’ unbar these locks. My conscience, thou art fettered
More than my shanks and wrists.
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Jailer
Come, sir, are you ready for death?
Posthumus
Over-roasted rather; ready long ago.
Jailer
Hanging is the word, sir. If you be ready for
that, you are well cooked.
Posthumus
So, if I prove a good repast to the spectators,
the dish pays the shot.

I am merrier to die than thou art to live.
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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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