Exit CLOTEN I love and hate her: for she's fair and royal, And that she hath all courtly parts more exquisite Than lady, ladies, woman; from every one The best she hath, and she, of all compounded, Outsells them all; I love her therefore: but Disdaining me and throwing favours on The low Posthumus slanders so her judgment That what's else rare is choked; and in that point I will conclude to hate her, nay, indeed, To be revenged upon her. For when fools Shall--Enter PISANIO
Who is here? What, are you packing, sirrah?
Come hither: ah, you precious pander! Villain, Where is thy lady? In a word; or else Thou art straightway with the fiends. PISANIO O, good my lord! CLOTEN Where is thy lady? Or, by Jupiter,--I will not ask again. Close villain, I'll have this secret from thy heart, or rip Thy heart to find it. Is she with Posthumus?
From whose so many weights of baseness cannot A dram of worth be drawn. PISANIO Alas, my lord, How can she be with him? When was she missed?
He is in Rome. CLOTEN Where is she, sir? Come nearer;No further halting: satisfy me home What is become of her. PISANIO O, my all-worthy lord! CLOTEN All-worthy villain!
Discover where thy mistress is at once, At the next word: no more of 'worthy lord!'
Speak, or thy silence on the instant is Thy condemnation and thy death. PISANIO Then, sir, This paper is the history of my knowledge Touching her flight.
Presenting a letter CLOTEN Let's see't. I will pursue her Even to Augustus' throne. PISANIO [Aside] Or this, or perish.
She's far enough; and what he learns by this May prove his travel, not her danger. CLOTEN Hum! PISANIO [Aside] I'll write to my lord she's dead.
O Imogen, Safe mayst thou wander, safe return again! CLOTEN Sirrah, is this letter true? PISANIO Sir, as I think. CLOTEN It is Posthumus' hand; I know't. Sirrah, if thou wouldst not be a villain, but do me true service, undergo those employments wherein I should have cause to use thee with a serious industry, that is, what villany soe'er I bid thee do, to perform it directly and truly, I would think thee an honest man: thou shouldst neither want my means for thy relief nor my voice for thy preferment. PISANIO Well, my good lord. CLOTEN Wilt thou serve me? for since patiently and constantly thou hast stuck to the bare fortune of that beggar Posthumus, thou canst not, in the course of gratitude, but be a diligent follower of mine: wilt thou serve me? PISANIO Sir, I will. CLOTEN Give me thy hand; here's my purse. Hast any of thy late master's garments in thy possession? PISANIO I have, my lord, at my lodging, the same suit he wore when he took leave of my lady and mistress. CLOTEN The first service thou dost me, fetch that suit hither: let it be thy lint service; go. PISANIO I shall, my lord.
Exit CLOTEN Meet thee at Milford-Haven!--I forgot to ask him one thing; I'll remember't anon:--even there, thou villain Posthumus, will I kill thee. I would these garments were come. She said upon a time--the bitterness of it I now belch from my heart--that she held the very garment of Posthumus in more respect than my noble and natural person together with the adornment of my qualities. With that suit upon my back, will I ravish her: first kill him, and in her eyes; there shall she see my valour, which will then be a torment to her contempt. He on the ground, my speech of insultment ended on his dead body, and when my lust hath dined,--which, as I say, to vex her I will execute in the clothes that she so praised,--to the court I'll knock her back, foot her home again. She hath despised me rejoicingly, and I'll be merry in my revenge.
Re-enter PISANIO, with the clothes Be those the garments? PISANIO Ay, my noble lord. CLOTEN How long is't since she went to Milford-Haven? PISANIO She can scarce be there yet. CLOTEN Bring this apparel to my chamber; that is the second thing that I have commanded thee: the third is, that thou wilt be a voluntary mute to my design.
Be but duteous, and true preferment shall tender itself to thee. My revenge is now at Milford: would I had wings to follow it! Come, and be true.
Exit PISANIO Thou bid'st me to my loss: for true to thee Were to prove false, which I will never be, To him that is most true. To Milford go, And find not her whom thou pursuest. Flow, flow, You heavenly blessings, on her! This fool's speed Be cross'd with slowness; labour be his meed!
