Hark, hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings,
And Phœbus ’gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chalic’d flow’rs that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes.
With everything that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise;
Arise, arise!
CLOTEN.
So, get you gone. If this penetrate, I will consider your music the better; if it do not, it is a vice in her ears which horsehairs and calves’ guts, nor the voice of unpaved eunuch to boot, can never amend.
[Exeunt Musicians.]
Enter Cymbeline and Queen.
SECOND LORD.
Here comes the King.
CLOTEN.
I am glad I was up so late, for that’s the reason I was up so early. He cannot choose but take this service I have done fatherly.—Good morrow to your Majesty and to my gracious mother.
CYMBELINE.
Attend you here the door of our stern daughter?
Will she not forth?
CLOTEN.
I have assail’d her with musics, but she vouchsafes no notice.
CYMBELINE.
The exile of her minion is too new;
She hath not yet forgot him; some more time
Must wear the print of his remembrance on’t,
And then she’s yours.
QUEEN.
You are most bound to th’ King,
Who lets go by no vantages that may
Prefer you to his daughter. Frame yourself
To orderly solicits, and be friended
With aptness of the season; make denials
Increase your services; so seem as if
You were inspir’d to do those duties which
You tender to her; that you in all obey her,
Save when command to your dismission tends,
And therein you are senseless.