IMOGEN.
Nay, stay a little.
Were you but riding forth to air yourself,
Such parting were too petty. Look here, love:
This diamond was my mother’s; take it, heart;
But keep it till you woo another wife,
When Imogen is dead.
POSTHUMUS.
How, how? Another?
You gentle gods, give me but this I have,
And sear up my embracements from a next
With bonds of death! Remain, remain thou here
[Puts on the ring.]
While sense can keep it on. And, sweetest, fairest,
As I my poor self did exchange for you,
To your so infinite loss, so in our trifles
I still win of you. For my sake wear this;
It is a manacle of love; I’ll place it
Upon this fairest prisoner.
[Puts a bracelet on her arm.]
IMOGEN.
O the gods!
When shall we see again?
Enter Cymbeline and Lords.
POSTHUMUS.
Alack, the King!
CYMBELINE.
Thou basest thing, avoid; hence from my sight
If after this command thou fraught the court
With thy unworthiness, thou diest. Away!
Thou’rt poison to my blood.
POSTHUMUS.
The gods protect you,
And bless the good remainders of the court!
I am gone.