Still I swear I love you

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.
Imogen
But that you shall not say I yield being silent,
I would not speak. I pray you, spare me. Faith,
I shall unfold equal discourtesy
To your best kindness. One of your great knowing
Should learn, being taught, forbearance.
Cloten
To leave you in your madness ’twere my sin.
I will not.
Imogen
Fools are not mad folks.
Cloten
Do you call me fool?
Imogen
As I am mad, I do.
If you’ll be patient, I’ll no more be mad.
That cures us both. I am much sorry, sir,
You put me to forget a lady’s manners
By being so verbal; and learn now for all
That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce,
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—which I had rather
You felt than make ’t my boast.
Cloten
You sin against
Obedience, which you owe your father. For
The contract you pretend with that base wretch—
One bred of alms and fostered with cold dishes,
With scraps o’ th’ court—it is no contract, none;
And though it be allowed in meaner parties—
Yet who than he more mean?—to knit their souls,
On whom there is no more dependency
But brats and beggary, in self-figured knot;
Yet you are curbed from that enlargement by
The consequence o’ th’ crown, and must not foil
The precious note of it with a base slave,
A hilding for a livery, a squire’s cloth,
A pantler—not so eminent.
Imogen
Profane fellow,
Wert thou the son of Jupiter and no more
But what thou art besides, thou wert too base
To be his groom. Thou wert dignified enough,
Even to the point of envy, if ’twere made
Comparative for your virtues to be styled
The under-hangman of his kingdom and hated
For being preferred so well.
Cloten
The south fog rot him!
Imogen
He never can meet more mischance than come
To be but named of thee. His mean’st garment
That ever hath but clipped his body is dearer
In my respect than all the hairs above thee,
Were they all made such men.—How now, Pisanio!
 Enter Pisanio.
Cloten
“His garment”? Now the devil—
Imogen, to Pisanio
To Dorothy, my woman, hie thee presently.
Cloten
“His garment”?
Imogen, to Pisanio
I am sprighted with a fool,
Frighted and angered worse. Go bid my woman
Search for a jewel that too casually
Hath left mine arm. It was thy master’s. Shrew me
If I would lose it for a revenue
Of any king’s in Europe. I do think
I saw ’t this morning. Confident I am
Last night ’twas on mine arm; I kissed it.
I hope it be not gone to tell my lord
That I kiss aught but he.
Pisanio
’Twill not be lost.
Imogen
I hope so. Go and search.
 Pisanio exits.
Cloten
You have abused me.
“His meanest garment”?
Imogen
Ay, I said so, sir.
If you will make ’t an action, call witness to ’t.
Cloten
I will inform your father.
Imogen
Your mother too.
She’s my good lady and will conceive, I hope,
But the worst of me. So I leave you, sir,
To th’ worst of discontent.
 She exits.
Cloten
I’ll be revenged! “His mean’st garment”? Well.
 He exits.