Who lived in court, which it is rare to do,
Most praised, most loved:
A sample to the youngest; to the more mature,
A glass that feated them.
And with what beauty and delicacy is her conjugal and matronly character discriminated! Her love for her husband is as deep as Juliet's for her lover, but without any of that headlong vehemence, that fluttering amid hope, fear, and transport—that giddy intoxication of heart and sense, which belongs to the novelty of passion, which we feel once, and but once, in our lives. We see her love for Posthumus acting upon her mind with the force of an habitual feeling, heightened by enthusiastic passion, and hallowed by the sense of duty. She asserts and justifies her affection with energy indeed, but with a calm and wife-like dignity:—
CYMBELINE.
Thou took'st a beggar, would'st have made my throne
A seat for baseness.
IMOGEN.
No, I rather added a lustre to it
CYMBELINE.
O thou vile one!
IMOGEN.
Sir,
It is your fault that I have loved Posthumus;
You bred him as my playfellow, and he is
A man worth any woman; overbuys me,
Almost the sum he pays.