CYMBELINE.
Attend you here the door of our stern daughter?
Will she not forth?
CLOTEN.
I have assail’d her with musics, but she vouchsafes no notice.
CYMBELINE.
The exile of her minion is too new;
She hath not yet forgot him; some more time
Must wear the print of his remembrance on’t,
And then she’s yours.
QUEEN.
You are most bound to th’ King,
Who lets go by no vantages that may
Prefer you to his daughter. Frame yourself
To orderly solicits, and be friended
With aptness of the season; make denials
Increase your services; so seem as if
You were inspir’d to do those duties which
You tender to her; that you in all obey her,
Save when command to your dismission tends,
And therein you are senseless.
CLOTEN.
Senseless? Not so.
Enter a Messenger.
MESSENGER.
So like you, sir, ambassadors from Rome;
The one is Caius Lucius.
CYMBELINE.
A worthy fellow,
Albeit he comes on angry purpose now;
But that’s no fault of his. We must receive him
According to the honour of his sender;
And towards himself, his goodness forespent on us,
We must extend our notice. Our dear son,
When you have given good morning to your mistress,
Attend the Queen and us; we shall have need
T’ employ you towards this Roman. Come, our queen.
[Exeunt all but Cloten.]
CLOTEN.
If she be up, I’ll speak with her; if not,
Let her lie still and dream. By your leave, ho!