QUEEN.
Fie! you must give way.
Here is your servant. How now, sir! What news?
PISANIO.
My lord your son drew on my master.
QUEEN.
Ha!
No harm, I trust, is done?
PISANIO.
There might have been,
But that my master rather play’d than fought,
And had no help of anger; they were parted
By gentlemen at hand.
QUEEN.
I am very glad on’t.
IMOGEN.
Your son’s my father’s friend; he takes his part
To draw upon an exile! O brave sir!
I would they were in Afric both together;
Myself by with a needle, that I might prick
The goer-back. Why came you from your master?
PISANIO.
On his command. He would not suffer me
To bring him to the haven; left these notes
Of what commands I should be subject to,
When’t pleas’d you to employ me.
QUEEN.
This hath been
Your faithful servant. I dare lay mine honour
He will remain so.
PISANIO.
I humbly thank your Highness.
QUEEN.
Pray walk awhile.