PISANIO.
Not so, neither;
But if I were as wise as honest, then
My purpose would prove well. It cannot be
But that my master is abus’d. Some villain,
Ay, and singular in his art, hath done you both
This cursed injury.
IMOGEN.
Some Roman courtezan!
PISANIO.
No, on my life!
I’ll give but notice you are dead, and send him
Some bloody sign of it, for ’tis commanded
I should do so. You shall be miss’d at court,
And that will well confirm it.
IMOGEN.
Why, good fellow,
What shall I do the while? Where bide? How live?
Or in my life what comfort, when I am
Dead to my husband?
PISANIO.
If you’ll back to th’ court—
IMOGEN.
No court, no father, nor no more ado
With that harsh, noble, simple nothing,
That Cloten, whose love-suit hath been to me
As fearful as a siege.
PISANIO.
If not at court,
Then not in Britain must you bide.
IMOGEN.
Where then?
Hath Britain all the sun that shines? Day, night,
Are they not but in Britain? I’ th’ world’s volume
Our Britain seems as of it, but not in’t;
In a great pool a swan’s nest. Prithee think
There’s livers out of Britain.
PISANIO.
I am most glad
You think of other place. Th’ ambassador,
Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford Haven
Tomorrow. Now, if you could wear a mind
Dark as your fortune is, and but disguise
That which t’ appear itself must not yet be
But by self-danger, you should tread a course
Pretty and full of view; yea, happily, near
The residence of Posthumus; so nigh, at least,
That though his actions were not visible, yet
Report should render him hourly to your ear
As truly as he moves.
IMOGEN.
O! for such means,
Though peril to my modesty, not death on’t,
I would adventure.