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Clo.

Imo. Good-morrow, sir: You lay out too much

pains
For purchasing but trouble: the thanks I give,
Is telling you that I am poor of thanks,
And scarce can spare them.

Still, I swear, I love you.
Imo. If you but said so, 'twere as deep with me:
If you swear still, your recompense is still
That I regard it not.
Clo.

This is no answer. Imo. But that you shall not say I yield, being

silent, I would not speak. I pray you, spare me, I shall unfold equal discourtesy To best kindness; one of your great knowing Should learn, being taught, forbearance.

Clo. To leave you in your madness, 'twere my

your

sin :

I will not

Imo. Fools are not mad folks.
Clo.

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 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 the 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. Clo.

You sin against Obedience, which you owe your father. For The contract you pretend with that base wretch, (One, bred of alms, and foster'd with cold dishes, With

scraps o'the court,) it is no contract, none: And though it be allow'd in meaner parties,

2 So verbose, so full of talk.

(Yet who, than he, more mean?) to knit their souls
On whom there is no more dependency
But brats and beggary) in self-figur'd knot };
Yet you are curb'd from that enlargement by
The consequence o'the crown ; and must not soil.
The precious note of it with a base slave,
A hilding 4 for a livery, a squire's cloth,
A pantler, not so eminent.
Imo.

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 styl'd
The under-hangman of his kingdom; and hated
For being preferr'd so well.
Clo.

The south-fog rot him !
Imo. He never can meet more mischance, than

come
To be but nam'd of thee. His meanest garment,
That ever hath but clipp'd his body, is dearer,
In my respect, than all the hairs above thee,
Were they all made such men. -How now, Pisanio?

Enter PISANIO.
Clo. His garment ? Now, the devil -
Imo. To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently :-
Clo. His garment ?
Imo.

I am sprighted with a fool;
Frighted, and anger'd 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,

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3 In knots of their own tying. 4 A low fellow only fit to wear a livery.

VOL. IX.

5 Haunted.

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Last night 'twas on mine arm ; I kiss'd it:
I hope, it be not gone, to tell my

lord
That I kiss aught but he.
Pis.

'Twill not be lost. Imo. I hope so; go, and search. [Exit Pis. Clo.

You have abus'd me :
His meanest garment ?
Imo.

Ay; I said so, sir.
If
you will make't an action, call witness to’t.
Clo. I will inform

your

father. Imo.

Your mother too ; She's my good lady; and will conceive, I hope, But the worst of me. So I leave you, sir, To the worst of discontent.

[Erit. Clo.

I'll be reveng'd: His meanest garment? Well.

[Exit.

SCENE IV.

Rome. An Apartment in Philario's House.

Enter Posthumus and PhilARIO. Post. Fear it not, sir : I would, I were so sure To win the king, as I am bold, her honour Will remain hers. Phi. What means do

you

make to him? Post. Not any; but abide the change of time; Quake in the present winter's state, and wish That warmer days would come : In these fear'd

hopes, I barely gratify your love; they failing, I must die much your debtor.

Phi. Your very goodness, and your company, O'erpays all I can do. By this, your king Hath heard of great Augustus : Caius Lucius Will do his commission thoroughly : And, I think, He'll grant the tribute, send the arrearages,

Or look upon our Romans, whose remembrance
Is yet fresh in their grief.
Post.

I do believe,
(Statist though I am none, nor like to be,)
That this will prove a war ;

and
you

shall hear
The legions, now in Gallia, sooner landed
In our not-fearing Britain, than have tidings
Of any penny tribute paid. Our countrymen
Are men more order'd, than when Julius Cæsar
Smild at their lack of skill, but found their courage
Worthy his frowning at: Their discipline
(Now mingled with their courages) will make known
To their approvers’, they are people, such
That mend upon the world.

Enter Iachimo.

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Phi.

See! Iachimo ? Post. The swiftest harts have posted you by land : And winds of all the corners kiss'd

your sails, To make your vessel nimble. Phi.

Welcome, sir. Post. I hope, the briefness of

your answer made The speediness of your return. Iach.

Your lady
Is one the fairest that I have look'd upon.
Post. And, therewithal, the best; or let her

beauty
Look through a casement to allure false hearts,
And be false with them.
Iach.

Here are letters for you.
Post. Their tenour good, I trust.
Iach.

'Tis very like. Phi. Was Caius Lucius in the Britain court, When you were there? lach.

He was expected then, But not approach'd.

6 Statesmen.

7 To those who try them.

Post.

All is well yet.
Sparkles this stone as it was wont? or is't not
Too dull for your good wearing ?
Iach.

If I have lost it,
I should have lost the worth of it in gold.
I'll make a journey twice as far, to enjoy
What was in Britain mine. The ring is won.

Post. The stone's too hard to come by.
Iach.

Not a.whit,
Your lady being so easy.
Post.

Make not, sir,
Your loss your sport: I hope, you know that we
Must not continue friends.
Iach.

Good sir, we must,
If you keep covenant: Had I not brought
The knowledge of your mistress home, I grant
We were to question further : but I now
Profess myself the winner of her honour,
Together with your ring; and not the wronger
Of her, or you, having proceeded but
By both your wills.
Post.

If you can make't apparent,
The ring is yours : If not, the foul opinion
You had of her pure honour, gains, or loses,
Your sword, or mine; or masterless leaves both
To who shall find them.
Iach.

Sir, my circumstances,
Being so near the truth, as I will make them,
Must first induce you to believe : whose strength
I will confirm with oath ; which, I doubt not,
You'll give me leave to spare, when you shall find
You need it not.
Post.

Proceed.
Iach.

First, her bed-chamber,
(Where, I confess, I slept not ;) It was hang'd
With tapestry of silk and silver? the story
Proud Cleopatra, when she met her Roman,
And Cydnus swell'd above the banks, or for

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