Post. How, how? Another?
You gentle Gods, giue me but this I haue,
And seare vp my embracements from a next,
With bonds of death. Remaine, remaine thou heere,
While sense can keepe it on: And sweetest, fairest,
As I (my poore selfe) did exchange for you
To your so infinite losse; so in our trifles
I still winne of you. For my sake weare this,
It is a Manacle of Loue, Ile place it
Vpon this fayrest Prisoner
Imo. O the Gods!
When shall we see againe?
Enter Cymbeline, and Lords.
Post. Alacke, the King
Cym. Thou basest thing, auoyd hence, from my sight:
If after this command thou fraught the Court
With thy vnworthinesse, thou dyest. Away,
Thou'rt poyson to my blood
Post. The Gods protect you,
And blesse the good Remainders of the Court:
I am gone
Imo. There cannot be a pinch in death
More sharpe then this is
Cym. O disloyall thing,
That should'st repayre my youth, thou heap'st
A yeares age on mee
Imo. I beseech you Sir,
Harme not your selfe with your vexation,
I am senselesse of your Wrath; a Touch more rare
Subdues all pangs, all feares
Cym. Past Grace? Obedience?
Imo. Past hope, and in dispaire, that way past Grace
Cym. That might'st haue had
The sole Sonne of my Queene