Why, good fellow, What shall I do the while? Where bide?

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, but not in ’t,
In a great pool a swan’s nest.

Imogen
No court, no father, nor no more ado
With that harsh, noble, simple nothing,
That Cloten, whose love suit hath been to me
As fearful as a siege.
Pisanio
If not at court,
Then not in Britain must you bide.
Imogen
Where, then?
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, but not in ’t,
In a great pool a swan’s nest. Prithee think
There’s livers out of Britain.
Pisanio
I am most glad
You think of other place. Th’ ambassador,
Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford Haven
Tomorrow. Now, if you could wear a mind
Dark as your fortune is, and but disguise
That which t’ appear itself must not yet be
But by self-danger, you should tread a course
Pretty and full of view: yea, haply near
The residence of Posthumus; so nigh, at least,
That though his actions were not visible, yet
Report should render him hourly to your ear
As truly as he moves.
Imogen
O, for such means,
Though peril to my modesty, not death on ’t,
I would adventure.
Pisanio
Well then, here’s the point:
You must forget to be a woman; change
Command into obedience, fear and niceness—
The handmaids of all women, or, more truly,
Woman it pretty self—into a waggish courage,
Ready in gibes, quick-answered, saucy, and
As quarrelous as the weasel. Nay, you must
Forget that rarest treasure of your cheek,
Exposing it—but O, the harder heart!
Alack, no remedy—to the greedy touch
Of common-kissing Titan, and forget
Your laborsome and dainty trims, wherein
You made great Juno angry.
Imogen
Nay, be brief.
I see into thy end and am almost
A man already.
Pisanio
First, make yourself but like one.
Forethinking this, I have already fit—
’Tis in my cloakbag—doublet, hat, hose, all
That answer to them. Would you, in their serving,
And with what imitation you can borrow
From youth of such a season, ’fore noble Lucius
Present yourself, desire his service, tell him
Wherein you’re happy—which will make him know,
If that his head have ear in music—doubtless
With joy he will embrace you, for he’s honorable
And, doubling that, most holy. Your means abroad:
You have me, rich, and I will never fail
Beginning nor supplyment.
Imogen, taking the cloakbag
Thou art all the comfort
The gods will diet me with. Prithee, away.
There’s more to be considered, but we’ll even
All that good time will give us. This attempt
I am soldier to, and will abide it with
A prince’s courage. Away, I prithee.
Pisanio
Well, madam, we must take a short farewell,
Lest, being missed, I be suspected of
Your carriage from the court. My noble mistress,
Here is a box. I had it from the Queen.
 He hands her the box.
What’s in ’t is precious. If you are sick at sea
Or stomach-qualmed at land, a dram of this
Will drive away distemper. To some shade,
And fit you to your manhood. May the gods
Direct you to the best.
Imogen
Amen. I thank thee.
 They exit.