Cymbeline — Act 3, Scene 4 · Shakespeare for Bharat

IMOGEN

Thou told'st me, when we came from horse, the placeWas near at hand: ne'er long'd my mother soTo see me first, as I have now. Pisanio! man!Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind,That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that sighFrom the inward of thee? One, but painted thus,Would be interpreted a thing perplex'dBeyond self-explication: put thyselfInto a havior of less fear, ere wildnessVanquish my staider senses. What's the matter?Why tender'st thou that paper to me, withA look untender? If't be summer news,Smile to't before; if winterly, thou need'stBut keep that countenance still. My husband's hand!That drug-damn'd Italy hath out-craftied him,And he's at some hard point. Speak, man: thy tongueMay take off some extremity, which to readWould be even mortal to me.

PISANIO

Please you, read;And you shall find me, wretched man, a thingThe most disdain'd of fortune.

IMOGEN

[Reads] 'Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath played thestrumpet in my bed; the testimonies whereof liebleeding in me. I speak not out of weak surmises,but from proof as strong as my grief and as certainas I expect my revenge. That part thou, Pisanio,must act for me, if thy faith be not tainted withthe breach of hers. Let thine own hands take awayher life: I shall give thee opportunity atMilford-Haven. She hath my letter for the purposewhere, if thou fear to strike and to make me certainit is done, thou art the pandar to her dishonour andequally to me disloyal.'

PISANIO

What shall I need to draw my sword? the paperHath cut her throat already. No, 'tis slander,Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongueOutvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breathRides on the posting winds and doth belieAll corners of the world: kings, queens and states,Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the graveThis viperous slander enters. What cheer, madam?

IMOGEN

False to his bed! What is it to be false?To lie in watch there and to think on him?To weep 'twixt clock and clock? if sleepcharge nature,To break it with a fearful dream of himAnd cry myself awake? that's false to's bed, is it?

PISANIO

Alas, good lady!

IMOGEN

I false! Thy conscience witness: Iachimo,Thou didst accuse him of incontinency;Thou then look'dst like a villain; now methinksThy favour's good enough. Some jay of ItalyWhose mother was her painting, hath betray'd him:Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion;And, for I am richer than to hang by the walls,I must be ripp'd:--to pieces with me!--O,Men's vows are women's traitors! All good seeming,By thy revolt, O husband, shall be thoughtPut on for villany; not born where't grows,But worn a bait for ladies.

PISANIO

Good madam, hear me.

IMOGEN

True honest men being heard, like false Aeneas,Were in his time thought false, and Sinon's weepingDid scandal many a holy tear, took pityFrom most true wretchedness: so thou, Posthumus,Wilt lay the leaven on all proper men;Goodly and gallant shall be false and perjuredFrom thy great fall. Come, fellow, be thou honest:Do thou thy master's bidding: when thou see'st him,A little witness my obedience: look!I draw the sword myself: take it, and hitThe innocent mansion of my love, my heart;Fear not; 'tis empty of all things but grief;Thy master is not there, who was indeedThe riches of it: do his bidding; strikeThou mayst be valiant in a better cause;But now thou seem'st a coward.

PISANIO

Hence, vile instrument!Thou shalt not damn my hand.

IMOGEN

Why, I must die;And if I do not by thy hand, thou artNo servant of thy master's. Against self-slaughterThere is a prohibition so divineThat cravens my weak hand. Come, here's my heart.Something's afore't. Soft, soft! we'll no defence;Obedient as the scabbard. What is here?The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus,All turn'd to heresy? Away, away,Corrupters of my faith! you shall no moreBe stomachers to my heart. Thus may poor foolsBelieve false teachers: though those thatare betray'dDo feel the treason sharply, yet the traitorStands in worse case of woe.And thou, Posthumus, thou that didst set upMy disobedience 'gainst the king my fatherAnd make me put into contempt the suitsOf princely fellows, shalt hereafter findIt is no act of common passage, butA strain of rareness: and I grieve myselfTo think, when thou shalt be disedged by herThat now thou tirest on, how thy memoryWill then be pang'd by me. Prithee, dispatch:The lamb entreats the butcher: where's thy knife?Thou art too slow to do thy master's bidding,When I desire it too.

PISANIO

O gracious lady,Since I received command to do this businessI have not slept one wink.

IMOGEN

Do't, and to bed then.

PISANIO

I'll wake mine eye-balls blind first.

IMOGEN

Wherefore thenDidst undertake it? Why hast thou abusedSo many miles with a pretence? this place?Mine action and thine own? our horses' labour?The time inviting thee? the perturb'd court,For my being absent? whereunto I neverPurpose return. Why hast thou gone so far,To be unbent when thou hast ta'en thy stand,The elected deer before thee?

PISANIO

But to win timeTo lose so bad employment; in the whichI have consider'd of a course. Good lady,Hear me with patience.

IMOGEN

Talk thy tongue weary; speakI have heard I am a strumpet; and mine earTherein false struck, can take no greater wound,Nor tent to bottom that. But speak.

PISANIO

Then, madam,I thought you would not back again.

IMOGEN

Most like;Bringing me here to kill me.

PISANIO

Not so, neither:But if I were as wise as honest, thenMy purpose would prove well. It cannot beBut that my master is abused:Some villain, ay, and singular in his art.Hath done you both this cursed injury.

IMOGEN

Some Roman courtezan.

PISANIO

No, on my life.I'll give but notice you are dead and send himSome bloody sign of it; for 'tis commandedI should do so: you shall be miss'd at court,And that will well confirm it.

IMOGEN

Why good fellow,What shall I do the where? where bide? how live?Or in my life what comfort, when I amDead to my husband?

PISANIO

If you'll back to the court--

IMOGEN

No court, no father; nor no more adoWith that harsh, noble, simple nothing,That Cloten, whose love-suit hath been to meAs fearful as a siege.

PISANIO

If not at court,Then not in Britain must you bide.

IMOGEN

Where thenHath Britain all the sun that shines? Day, night,Are they not but in Britain? I' the world's volumeOur Britain seems as of it, but not in 't;In a great pool a swan's nest: prithee, thinkThere's livers out of Britain.

PISANIO

I am most gladYou think of other place. The ambassador,Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford-HavenTo-morrow: now, if you could wear a mindDark as your fortune is, and but disguiseThat which, to appear itself, must not yet beBut by self-danger, you should tread a coursePretty and full of view; yea, haply, nearThe residence of Posthumus; so nigh at leastThat though his actions were not visible, yetReport should render him hourly to your earAs truly as he moves.

IMOGEN

O, for such means!Though peril to my modesty, not death on't,I would adventure.

PISANIO

Well, then, here's the point:You must forget to be a woman; changeCommand into obedience: fear and niceness--The handmaids of all women, or, more truly,Woman its pretty self--into a waggish courage:Ready in gibes, quick-answer'd, saucy andAs quarrelous as the weasel; nay, you mustForget that rarest treasure of your cheek,Exposing it--but, O, the harder heart!Alack, no remedy!--to the greedy touchOf common-kissing Titan, and forgetYour laboursome and dainty trims, whereinYou made great Juno angry.

IMOGEN

Nay, be briefI see into thy end, and am almostA man already.

PISANIO

First, make yourself but like one.Fore-thinking this, I have already fit--'Tis in my cloak-bag--doublet, hat, hose, allThat answer to them: would you in their serving,And with what imitation you can borrowFrom youth of such a season, 'fore noble LuciusPresent yourself, desire his service, tell himwherein you're happy,--which you'll make him know,If that his head have ear in music,--doubtlessWith joy he will embrace you, for he's honourableAnd doubling that, most holy. Your means abroad,You have me, rich; and I will never failBeginning nor supplyment.

IMOGEN

Thou art all the comfortThe gods will diet me with. Prithee, away:There's more to be consider'd; but we'll evenAll that good time will give us: this attemptI am soldier to, and will abide it withA prince's courage. Away, I prithee.

PISANIO

Well, madam, we must take a short farewell,Lest, being miss'd, I be suspected ofYour carriage from the court. My noble mistress,Here is a box; I had it from the queen:What's in't is precious; if you are sick at sea,Or stomach-qualm'd at land, a dram of thisWill drive away distemper. To some shade,And fit you to your manhood. May the godsDirect you to the best!

IMOGEN

Amen: I thank thee.