SECOND LORD.
Well, my lord.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE IV. Britain. Cymbeline’s palace.
Enter Imogen and Pisanio.
IMOGEN.
I would thou grew’st unto the shores o’ th’ haven,
And questioned’st every sail; if he should write,
And I not have it, ’twere a paper lost,
As offer’d mercy is. What was the last
That he spake to thee?
PISANIO.
It was: his queen, his queen!
IMOGEN.
Then wav’d his handkerchief?
PISANIO.
And kiss’d it, madam.
IMOGEN.
Senseless linen, happier therein than I!
And that was all?
PISANIO.
No, madam; for so long
As he could make me with his eye, or ear
Distinguish him from others, he did keep
The deck, with glove, or hat, or handkerchief,
Still waving, as the fits and stirs of’s mind
Could best express how slow his soul sail’d on,
How swift his ship.