Should we be taking leave

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. Look here, love:
This diamond was my mother’s.
 She offers a ring.
Take it, heart,
But keep it till you woo another wife
When Imogen is dead.
Posthumus
How, how? Another?
You gentle gods, give me but this I have,
And cere up my embracements from a next
With bonds of death.
 He puts the ring on his finger.
Remain, remain thou here,
While sense can keep it on.—And sweetest, fairest,
As I my poor self did exchange for you
To your so infinite loss, so in our trifles
I still win of you. For my sake, wear this.
 He offers a bracelet.
It is a manacle of love. I’ll place it
Upon this fairest prisoner.
 He puts it on her wrist.
Imogen
O the gods!
When shall we see again?
 Enter Cymbeline and Lords.
Posthumus
Alack, the King.
Cymbeline
Thou basest thing, avoid hence, from my sight!
If after this command thou fraught the court
With thy unworthiness, thou diest. Away!
Thou ’rt poison to my blood.
Posthumus
The gods protect you,
And bless the good remainders of the court.
I am gone.  He exits.
Imogen
There cannot be a pinch in death
More sharp than this is.
Cymbeline
O disloyal thing
That shouldst repair my youth, thou heap’st
A year’s age on me.
Imogen
I beseech you, sir,
Harm not yourself with your vexation.
I am senseless of your wrath. A touch more rare
Subdues all pangs, all fears.
Cymbeline
Past grace? Obedience?
Imogen
Past hope and in despair; that way past grace.
Cymbeline
That mightst have had the sole son of my queen!
Imogen
O, blessèd that I might not! I chose an eagle
And did avoid a puttock.
Cymbeline
Thou took’st a beggar, wouldst have made my throne
A seat for baseness.
Imogen
No, I rather added
A luster to it.
Cymbeline
O thou vile one!
Imogen
Sir,
It is your fault that I have loved Posthumus.
You bred him as my playfellow, and he is
A man worth any woman, overbuys me
Almost the sum he pays.
Cymbeline
What, art thou mad?
Imogen
Almost, sir. Heaven restore me! Would I were
A neatherd’s daughter, and my Leonatus
Our neighbor shepherd’s son.  She weeps.
Cymbeline
Thou foolish thing!