CLOTEN.
Not easily, I think.
SECOND LORD.
[Aside.] You are a fool granted; therefore your issues, being foolish, do not derogate.
CLOTEN.
Come, I’ll go see this Italian. What I have lost today at bowls I’ll win tonight of him. Come, go.
SECOND LORD.
I’ll attend your lordship.
[Exeunt Cloten and First Lord.]
That such a crafty devil as is his mother
Should yield the world this ass! A woman that
Bears all down with her brain; and this her son
Cannot take two from twenty, for his heart,
And leave eighteen. Alas, poor princess,
Thou divine Imogen, what thou endur’st,
Betwixt a father by thy step-dame govern’d,
A mother hourly coining plots, a wooer
More hateful than the foul expulsion is
Of thy dear husband, than that horrid act
Of the divorce he’d make! The heavens hold firm
The walls of thy dear honour, keep unshak’d
That temple, thy fair mind, that thou mayst stand
T’ enjoy thy banish’d lord and this great land!
[Exit.]
SCENE II. Britain. Imogen’s bedchamber in Cymbeline’s palace; a trunk in one corner.
Enter Imogen in her bed, and a Lady attending.
IMOGEN.
Who’s there? My woman Helen?