Die I a villain, then!
In this I do not call your faith in question,
So mainly as my merit—
—But be not tempted.
CRESSIDA.
Do you think I will?
In the eagerness of Imogen to meet her husband there is all a wife's fondness, mixed up with the breathless hurry arising from a sudden and joyful surprise; but nothing of the picturesque eloquence, the ardent, exuberant, Italian imagination of Juliet, who, to gratify her impatience, would have her heralds thoughts;—press into her service the nimble pinioned doves, and wind-swift Cupids,—change the course of nature, and lash the steeds of Phœbus to the west. Imogen only thinks "one score of miles, 'twixt sun and sun," slow travelling for a lover, and wishes for a horse with wings—
O for a horse with wings! Hear'st thou, Pisanio?
He is at Milford Haven. Read, and tell me
How far 'tis thither. If one of mean affairs
May plod it in a week, why may not I
Glide thither in a day? Then, true Pisanio,
(Who long'st like me, to see thy lord—who long'st—
O let me bate, but not like me—yet long'st,
But in a fainter kind—O not like me,
For mine's beyond beyond,) say, and speak thick—
(Love's counsellor should fill the bores of hearing
To the smothering of the sense)—how far is it
To this same blessed Milford? And by the way,
Tell me how Wales was made so happy, as
To inherit such a haven. But, first of all,
How we may steal from hence; and for the gap
That we shall make in time, from our hence going
And our return, to excuse. But first, how get hence.
Why should excuse be born, or e'er begot?
We'll talk of that hereafter. Pr'ythee speak,
How many score of miles may we well ride
'Twixt hour and hour?
PISANIO.
One score, 'twixt sun and sun,
Madam, 's enough for you; and too much too.
IMOGEN.
Why, one that rode to his execution, man,
Could never go so slow!