[Exit.]
IMOGEN.
There cannot be a pinch in death
More sharp than this is.
CYMBELINE.
O disloyal thing,
That shouldst repair my youth, thou heap’st
A year’s age on me!
IMOGEN.
I beseech you, sir,
Harm not yourself with your vexation.
I am senseless of your wrath; a touch more rare
Subdues all pangs, all fears.
CYMBELINE.
Past grace? obedience?
IMOGEN.
Past hope, and in despair; that way past grace.
CYMBELINE.
That mightst have had the sole son of my queen!
IMOGEN.
O blessed that I might not! I chose an eagle,
And did avoid a puttock.
CYMBELINE.
Thou took’st a beggar, wouldst have made my throne
A seat for baseness.
IMOGEN.
No; I rather added
A lustre to it.