Imo. O blessed, that I might not: I chose an Eagle,
And did auoyd a Puttocke
Cym. Thou took'st a Begger, would'st haue made my
Throne, a Seate for basenesse
Imo. No, I rather added a lustre to it
Cym. O thou vilde one!
Imo. Sir,
It is your fault that I haue lou'd Posthumus:
You bred him as my Play-fellow, and he is
A man, worth any woman: Ouer-buyes mee
Almost the summe he payes
Cym. What? art thou mad?
Imo. Almost Sir: Heauen restore me: would I were
A Neat-heards Daughter, and my Leonatus
Our Neighbour-Shepheards Sonne.
Enter Queene.
Cym. Thou foolish thing;
They were againe together: you haue done
Not after our command. Away with her,
And pen her vp
Qu. Beseech your patience: Peace
Deere Lady daughter, peace. Sweet Soueraigne,
Leaue vs to our selues, and make your self some comfort
Out of your best aduice
Cym. Nay, let her languish
A drop of blood a day, and being aged
Dye of this Folly.
Enter.
Enter Pisanio.
Qu. Fye, you must giue way:
Heere is your Seruant. How now Sir? What newes?
Pisa. My Lord your Sonne, drew on my Master