Imogen, in whose tenderness there is nothing jealous or fantastic, does not seriously apprehend that her husband will woo another wife when she is dead. It is one of those fond fancies which women are apt to express in moments of feeling, merely for the pleasure of hearing a protestation to the contrary. When Posthumus leaves her, she does not burst forth in eloquent lamentation; but that silent, stunning, overwhelming sorrow, which renders the mind insensible to all things else, is represented with equal force and simplicity.
IMOGEN.
There cannot be a pinch in death
More sharp than this is.
CYMBELINE.
O disloyal thing,
That should'st repair my youth; thou heapeat
A year's age on me!
IMOGEN.
I beseech you, sir,
Harm not yourself with your vexation; I
Am senseless of your wrath; a touch more rare[58]
Subdues all pangs, all fears.
CYMBELINE.
Past grace? obedience?
IMOGEN.