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.Away to BritainePoste I in this designe: Well may you (Sir)Remember me at Court, where I was taughtOf your chaste Daughter, the wide difference'Twixt Amorous, and Villanous.Being thus quench'dOf hope, not longing; mine Italian braine,Gan in your duller Britaine operateMost vildely: for my vantage excellent.And to be breefe, my practise so preuayl'dThat I return'd with simular proofe enough,To make the Noble Leonatus mad,By wounding his beleefe in her Renowne,With Tokens thus, and thus: auerring notesOf Chamber-hanging, Pictures, this her Bracelet(Oh cunning how I got) nay some markesOf secret on her person, that he could notBut thinke her bond of Chastity quite crack'd,I hauing 'tane the forfeyt.Whereupon,Me thinkes I see him nowPost.I so thou do'st,Italian Fiend.Aye me, most credulous Foole,Egregious murtherer, Theefe, any thingThat's due to all the Villaines past, in beingTo come.Oh giue me Cord, or knife, or poyson,Some vpright Iusticer.Thou King, send outFor Torturors ingenious: it is IThat all th' abhorred things o'th' earth amendBy being worse then they.I am Posthumus,That kill'd thy Daughter: Villain-like, I lye,That caus'd a lesser villaine then my selfe,A sacrilegious Theefe to doo't.The TempleOf Vertue was she; yea, and she her selfe.Spit, and throw stones, cast myre vpon me, setThe dogges o'th' street to bay me: euery villaineBe call'd Posthumus Leonatus, andBe villany lesse then 'twas.Oh Imogen!My Queene, my life, my wife: oh Imogen,Imogen, ImogenImo.Peace my Lord, heare, hearePost.Shall's haue a play of this?Thou scornfull Page, there lye thy partPis.Oh Gentlemen, helpe,Mine and your Mistris: Oh my Lord Posthumus,You ne're kill'd Imogen till now: helpe, helpe,Mine honour'd LadyCym.Does the world go round?Posth.How comes these staggers on mee?Pisa.Wake my MistrisCym.If this be so, the Gods do meane to strike meTo death, with mortall ioyPisa.How fares my Mistris?Imo.Oh get thee from my sight,Thou gau'st me poyson: dangerous Fellow hence,Breath not where Princes areCym.The tune of ImogenPisa.Lady, the Gods throw stones of sulpher on me, ifThat box I gaue you, was not thought by meeA precious thing, I had it from the QueeneCym.New matter stillImo.It poyson'd meCorn.Oh Gods!I left out one thing which the Queene confest,Which must approue thee honest.If PasanioHaue (said she) giuen his Mistris that ConfectionWhich I gaue him for Cordiall, she is seru'd,As I would serue a RatCym.What's this, Cornelius?Corn.The Queene (Sir) very oft importun'd meTo temper poysons for her, still pretendingThe satisfaction of her knowledge, onelyIn killing Creatures vilde, as Cats and DoggesOf no esteeme.I dreading, that her purposeWas of more danger, did compound for herA certaine stuffe, which being tane, would ceaseThe present powre of life, but in short time,All Offices of Nature, should againeDo their due Functions.Haue you tane of it?Imo.Most like I did, for I was deadBel.My Boyes, there was our errorGui.This is sure FideleImo.Why did you throw your wedded Lady fro[m] you?Thinke that you are vpon a Rocke, and nowThrow me againePost.Hang there like fruite, my soule,Till the Tree dyeCym.How now, my Flesh? my Childe?What, mak'st thou me a dullard in this Act?Wilt thou not speake to me?Imo.Your blessing, SirBel.Though you did loue this youth, I blame ye not,You had a motiue for'tCym.My teares that fallProue holy-water on thee; Imogen,Thy Mothers deadImo.I am sorry for't, my LordCym.Oh, she was naught; and long of her it wasThat we meet heere so strangely: but her SonneIs gone, we know not how, nor wherePisa.My Lord,Now feare is from me, Ile speake troth.Lord ClotenVpon my Ladies missing, came to meWith his Sword drawne, foam'd at the mouth, and sworeIf I discouer'd not which way she was gone,It was my instant death.By accident,I had a feigned Letter of my MastersThen in my pocket, which directed himTo seeke her on the Mountaines neere to Milford,Where in a frenzie, in my Masters Garments(Which he inforc'd from me) away he postesWith vnchaste purpose, and with oath to violateMy Ladies honor, what became of him,I further know notGui.Let me end the Story: I slew him thereCym.Marry, the Gods forefend.I would not thy good deeds, should from my lipsPlucke a hard sentence: Prythee valiant youthDeny't againeGui.I haue spoke it, and I did itCym.He was a PrinceGui.A most inciuill one.The wrongs he did meeWere nothing Prince-like; for he did prouoke meWith Language that would make me spurne the Sea,If it could so roare to me.I cut off's head,And am right glad he is not standing heereTo tell this tale of mineCym.I am sorrow for thee:By thine owne tongue thou art condemn'd, and mustEndure our Law: Thou'rt deadImo.That headlesse man I thought had bin my LordCym.Binde the Offender,And take him from our presenceBel.Stay, Sir King.This man is better then the man he slew,As well descended as thy selfe, and hathMore of thee merited, then a Band of ClotensHad euer scarre for.Let his Armes alone,They were not borne for bondageCym.Why old Soldier:Wilt thou vndoo the worth thou art vnpayd forBy tasting of our wrath? How of descentAs good as we?Arui.In that he spake too farreCym.And thou shalt dye for'tBel.We will dye all three,But I will proue that two one's are as goodAs I haue giuen out him.My Sonnes, I mustFor mine owne part, vnfold a dangerous speech,Though haply well for youArui.Your danger's oursGuid.And our good hisBel.Haue at it then, by leaueThou hadd'st (great King) a Subiect, whoWas call'd BelariusCym.What of him? He is a banish'd TraitorBel.He it is, that hathAssum'd this age: indeed a banish'd man,I know not how, a TraitorCym.Take him hence,The whole world shall not saue himBel.Not too hot;First pay me for the Nursing of thy Sonnes,And let it be confiscate all, so sooneAs I haue receyu'd itCym.Nursing of my Sonnes?Bel.I am too blunt, and sawcy: heere's my knee:Ere I arise, I will preferre my Sonnes,Then spare not the old Father.Mighty Sir,These two young Gentlemen that call me Father,And thinke they are my Sonnes, are none of mine,They are the yssue of your Loynes, my Liege,And blood of your begettingCym.How? my IssueBel
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