CYMBELINE.
O thou vile one!
IMOGEN.
Sir,
It is your fault that I have lov’d Posthumus.
You bred him as my playfellow, and he is
A man worth any woman; overbuys me
Almost the sum he pays.
CYMBELINE.
What, art thou mad?
IMOGEN.
Almost, sir. Heaven restore me! Would I were
A neat-herd’s daughter, and my Leonatus
Our neighbour shepherd’s son!
Enter Queen.
CYMBELINE.
Thou foolish thing!
[To the Queen.] They were again together. You have done
Not after our command. Away with her,
And pen her up.
QUEEN.
Beseech your patience. Peace,
Dear lady daughter, peace!—Sweet sovereign,
Leave us to ourselves, and make yourself some comfort
Out of your best advice.
CYMBELINE.
Nay, let her languish
A drop of blood a day and, being aged,
Die of this folly.
[Exit with Lords.]
Enter Pisanio.