Qu. Royall Sir,
Since the exile of Posthumus, most retyr'd
Hath her life bin: the Cure whereof, my Lord,
'Tis time must do. Beseech your Maiesty,
Forbeare sharpe speeches to her. Shee's a Lady
So tender of rebukes, that words are stroke;
And strokes death to her.
Enter a Messenger.
Cym. Where is she Sir? How
Can her contempt be answer'd?
Mes. Please you Sir,
Her Chambers are all lock'd, and there's no answer
That will be giuen to'th' lowd of noise, we make
Qu. My Lord, when last I went to visit her,
She pray'd me to excuse her keeping close,
Whereto constrain'd by her infirmitie,
She should that dutie leaue vnpaide to you
Which dayly she was bound to proffer: this
She wish'd me to make knowne: but our great Court
Made me too blame in memory
Cym. Her doores lock'd?
Not seene of late? Grant Heauens, that which I
Feare, proue false.
Enter.
Qu. Sonne, I say, follow the King
Clot. That man of hers, Pisanio, her old Seruant
I haue not seene these two dayes.
Enter.
Qu. Go, looke after:
Pisanio, thou that stand'st so for Posthumus,
He hath a Drugge of mine: I pray, his absence
Proceed by swallowing that. For he beleeues
It is a thing most precious. But for her,
Where is she gone? Haply dispaire hath seiz'd her:
Or wing'd with feruour of her loue, she's flowne
To her desir'd Posthumus: gone she is,
To death, or to dishonor, and my end
Can make good vse of either. Shee being downe,
I haue the placing of the Brittish Crowne.
Enter Cloten.
How now, my Sonne?
Clot. 'Tis certaine she is fled:
Go in and cheere the King, he rages, none
Dare come about him
Qu. All the better: may
This night fore-stall him of the comming day.
Exit Qu.