No, be assured you shall not find me, daughter,

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, and ’twere good
You leaned unto his sentence with what patience
Your wisdom may inform you.

O,
Dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant
Can tickle where she wounds!

Posthumus
Please your Highness,
I will from hence today.
Queen
You know the peril.
I’ll fetch a turn about the garden, pitying
The pangs of barred affections, though the King
Hath charged you should not speak together.
 She exits.
Imogen
O,
Dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant
Can tickle where she wounds! My dearest husband,
I something fear my father’s wrath, but nothing—
Always reserved my holy duty—what
His rage can do on me. You must be gone,
And I shall here abide the hourly shot
Of angry eyes, not comforted to live
But that there is this jewel in the world
That I may see again.  She weeps.
Posthumus
My queen, my mistress!
O lady, weep no more, lest I give cause
To be suspected of more tenderness
Than doth become a man. I will remain
The loyal’st husband that did e’er plight troth.
My residence in Rome at one Philario’s,
Who to my father was a friend, to me
Known but by letter; thither write, my queen,
And with mine eyes I’ll drink the words you send,
Though ink be made of gall.