Enter a Lady.

Lady. Who's there, that knocks?

Clot. A gentleman.

Lady. No more ?

Clot. Yes, and a gentlewoman's fon.

Lady. That's more

Than fome, whofe tailors are as dear as yours,

Can justly boast of: what's your lordship's pleasure ?
Clot. Your lady's perfon; is fhe ready?"

Lady. Ay, to keep her chamber.

Clot. There is gold for you, fell me your good report. Lady. How, my good name? or to report of you What I fhall think is good? The Princess

Enter Imogen.

Clot. Good morrow, faireft: fifter, your fweet hand. Imo. Good morrow, Sir; you lay out too much pains For purchafing but trouble; the thanks I give,

Is telling you that I am poor of thanks,

And fcarce can fpare them.

Clot. Still, I fwear, I love you.

Imo. If you but faid fo, "twere as deep with me: fwear ftill, your recompence is ftill

If you

That I regard it not.

Clot. This is no answer.

Imo. But that you shall not fay I yield, being filent,
I would not speak. I pray you, fpare me-faith,
I fhall unfold equal difcourtefie

To your best kindnefs: one of your great knowing,
Should learn (being taught) forbearance.

Clot. (8) To leave you in your madness, 'twere my fin;

I will not.

(8) To leave you in your Madness, 'twere my Sinż

I will not.

Imo. Fools are not Modfolks.

Imo.

Clot. Do

you

call me fool?

Imo. As I am mad, I do.

Fut

Imo. Fools cure not mad folks.
Clot. Do you call me fool?

Imo. As I am mad, I do :

If you'll be patient, I'll no more be mad ;
That cures us both. I am much forry, Sir,
You put me to forget a lady's manners
By being fo verbal and learn now for all,
That I, who know my heart, do here pronounce
By th' very truth of it, I care not for you:
And am fo near the lack of charity

T'accuse my self, I hate you: which I had rather
You felt, than make my boast.

Clot. You fin against

Obedience, which you owe your father; for
The contract you pretend with that base wretch,
(One, bred of alms, and fofter'd with cold dishes,
With fcraps o'th' court,) it is no contract, none;
And though it be allow'd in meaner parties,
(Yet who than he, more mean?) to knit their fouls
(On whom there is no more dependency
But brats and beggary,) in felf-figur'd knot;
Yet you are curb'd from that enlargement by
The confequence o'th' crown; and must not foil

But does the really call him fool? The foundeft Logician would be puzzled to find it out, as the Text ftands. The reafoning is perplex'd in a flight Corruption; and we must restore, as Mr. Warburton likewise saw,

Fools cure not Madfolks.

You are mad, fays He, and it would be a Crime in me to leave you to yourself.- -Nay fays fhe, why should you ftay? A Fool never cur'd Madness. -Do you call me Fool? replies he, &c. All this is eafy and natural. And that cure was certainly the Poet's Word, I think, is very evident from what Imogen immediately fubjoins.

If you'll be patient, I'll no more be mad,

That cures us both.

i. e. If you'll cease to torture me with your foolish Sollicitations, I'll cease to fhew towards you any Thing like Madness: fo a double cure will be effected, of your Folly, and my suppos'd Frenzy.

The

The precious note of it with a base flave,
A hilding for a livery, a fquire's cloth;
A pantler; not fo eminent-
Imo. Prophane fellow!

Wert thou the fon of Jupiter, and no more
But what thou art befides, thou wert too base
To be his groom: thou wert dignify'd enough,
Ev'n to the point of Envy, if 'twere made
Comparative for your virtues, to be stil'd
The under-hangman of his realm; and hated
For being preferr'd fo well.

Clot. The fouth-fog rot him!

Imo. He never can meet more mifchance, than come To be but nam'd of thee. His meaneft garment,

That ever hath but clipt his body, 's dearer

In my refped, than all the hairs above thee,

Were they all made fuch men. How now, Pifanio?

Enter Pifanio.

Clot. His garment? now, the devil ·

Imo. To Dorothy, my woman, hye thee presently.
Clot. His garment?

Imo. I am fprighted with a fool,

Frighted, and angred worfe-go, bid

Search for a jewel, that too cafually

my woman

Hath left mine arm- it was thy master's. 'Shrew me,

If I would lofe it for a revenue

Of any King in Europe. I do think,

I faw't this morning; confident I am,
Laft night 'twas on my arm; I kiffed it.
I hope, it be not gone, to tell my lord
That I kifs aught but him.

Pif. Twill not be loft.

Imo. I hope fo; go, and fearch.

Clat. You have abus'd me

His meanest garment ?

Imo. Ay, I faid fo, Sir;

If you will make't an action, call witness to't.

Clot. I will inform your father.

Imo. Your mother too;

She's

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.

Clot. I'll be reveng'd,

His meanest garment?.

well.

SCENE changes to Rome.

Pof. F

Enter Pofthumus, and Philario.

[Exit.

[Exit.

EAR it not, Sir; I would, I were fo fure To win the King, as I am bold, her honour Will remain hers.

Phi. What means do you make to him?

Poft. Not any, but abide the change of time; Quake in the present winter's state, and wifh, That warmer days would come; in these fear'd hopes, I barely gratifie your love; they failing,

I muft die much your debtor.

Phi. Your very goodness, and your company,
O'er pays all I can do. By this, your King
Hath heard of great Auguftus; Caius Lucius
Will do's commiffion throughly. And, I think, (9)
He'll grant the tribute; fend th' arrearages,
Ere look upon our Ramans, whofe remembrance
Is yet fresh in their grief.

Poft. I do believe,

(Statift though I am none, nor like to be,)
That this will prove a war; and you fhall hear
The legions, now in Gallia, fooner landed

(9)

-And, I think,

He'll grant the Tribute, fend th' Arrearages,
Or look upon our Romans, whofe Remembrance
Is yet fresh in their Grief.]

What a strange loofe Inference do the Editors here make Pbilarie guilty of, that Cymbeline would do One Thing, or t'other; either fubmit to pay Tribute, or difpute the Demand at Sword's Point? Who doubts it? But this was none of the Speaker's Meaning; he would give it as his Thoughts, that the Britons would pay, ere they would conteft the Matter: and fo I have reform'd the Text.

In

In our not-fearing Britain, than have tidings
Of any penny tribute paid. Our Countrymen
Are men more order'd, than when Julius Cæfar
Smil'd at their lack of skill, but found their courage
Worthy of frowning at. Their discipline,

Now mingled with their courages, will make known
To their approvers, they are people fuch
As mend upon the world.

Enter Iachimo.

Phil. See, Iachimo.

Poft. Sure, the fwift hats have pofted you by land, And winds of all the corners kifs'd your fails, To make your vessel nimble.

Poft. Welcome, Sir.

Phil. I hope, the briefnefs of your answer made The speediness of your Return.

lach. Your lady

Is of the faireft I'e'er look'd upon.

Poft. And, therewithal, the beft; or let her beauty Look through a cafement to allure false hearts,

And be falfe with them.

Iach. Here are letters for you.

Poft. Their tenour good, I trust.

Iach. 'Tis very like.

Poft. Was Caius Lucius in the Britain Court,

When you were there?

lach. He was expected then,

But not approach'd.

Poft. All is well yet.

Sparkles this flone as it was wont, or is't not
Too dull for your good wearing?

lach. If I've loft it,

I fhould have loft the worth of it in gold;
I'll make a journey twice as far, t'enjoy
A fecond night of fuch fweet fhortnefs, which
Was mine in Britain; for the ring is won.
Poft. The ftone's too hard to come by.

lach. Not a whit,

Your lady being fo eafie.

Paft.