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Enter Cymbeline, Lords, Pisanio, and Attendants.
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| Cymbeline |
Again; and bring me word how ’tis with her. Exit an Attendant.
A fever with the absence of her son,
A madness, of which her life’s in danger. Heavens,
How deeply you at once do touch me! Imogen,
The great part of my comfort, gone; my queen
Upon a desperate bed, and in a time
When fearful wars point at me; her son gone,
So needful for this present: it strikes me, past
The hope of comfort. But for thee, fellow,
Who needs must know of her departure and
Dost seem so ignorant, we’ll enforce it from thee
By a sharp torture.
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| Pisanio |
Sir, my life is yours;
I humbly set it at your will; but, for my mistress,
I nothing know where she remains, why gone,
Nor when she purposes return. Beseech your highness,
Hold me your loyal servant.
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| First Lord |
Good my liege,
The day that she was missing he was here:
I dare be bound he’s true and shall perform
All parts of his subjection loyally. For Cloten,
There wants no diligence in seeking him,
And will, no doubt, be found.
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| Cymbeline |
The time is troublesome.
To Pisanio. We’ll slip you for a season; but our jealousy
Does yet depend.
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| First Lord |
So please your majesty,
The Roman legions, all from Gallia drawn,
Are landed on your coast, with a supply
Of Roman gentlemen, by the senate sent.
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| Cymbeline |
Now for the counsel of my son and queen!
I am amazed with matter.
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| First Lord |
Good my liege,
Your preparation can affront no less
Than what you hear of: come more, for more you’re ready:
The want is but to put those powers in motion
That long to move.
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| Cymbeline |
I thank you. Let’s withdraw;
And meet the time as it seeks us. We fear not
What can from Italy annoy us; but
We grieve at chances here. Away! Exeunt all but Pisanio.
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| Pisanio |
I heard no letter from my master since
I wrote him Imogen was slain: ’tis strange:
Nor hear I from my mistress, who did promise
To yield me often tidings; neither know I
What is betid to Cloten; but remain
Perplex’d in all. The heavens still must work.
Wherein I am false I am honest; not true, to be true.
These present wars shall find I love my country,
Even to the note o’ the king, or I’ll fall in them.
All other doubts, by time let them be clear’d:
Fortune brings in some boats that are not steer’d. Exit.
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