PISANIO.
If not at court,
Then not in Britain must you bide.
IMOGEN.
Where then?
Hath Britain all the sun that shines? Day, night,
Are they not but in Britain? I’ th’ world’s volume
Our Britain seems as of it, but not in’t;
In a great pool a swan’s nest. Prithee think
There’s livers out of Britain.
PISANIO.
I am most glad
You think of other place. Th’ ambassador,
Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford Haven
Tomorrow. Now, if you could wear a mind
Dark as your fortune is, and but disguise
That which t’ appear itself must not yet be
But by self-danger, you should tread a course
Pretty and full of view; yea, happily, near
The residence of Posthumus; so nigh, at least,
That though his actions were not visible, yet
Report should render him hourly to your ear
As truly as he moves.
IMOGEN.
O! for such means,
Though peril to my modesty, not death on’t,
I would adventure.
PISANIO.
Well then, here’s the point:
You must forget to be a woman; change
Command into obedience; fear and niceness
(The handmaids of all women, or, more truly,
Woman it pretty self) into a waggish courage;
Ready in gibes, quick-answer’d, saucy, and
As quarrelous as the weasel. Nay, you must
Forget that rarest treasure of your cheek,
Exposing it (but, O, the harder heart!
Alack, no remedy) to the greedy touch
Of common-kissing Titan, and forget
Your laboursome and dainty trims wherein
You made great Juno angry.
IMOGEN.
Nay, be brief;
I see into thy end, and am almost
A man already.
PISANIO.
First, make yourself but like one.
Fore-thinking this, I have already fit
(’Tis in my cloak-bag) doublet, hat, hose, all
That answer to them. Would you, in their serving,
And with what imitation you can borrow
From youth of such a season, ’fore noble Lucius
Present yourself, desire his service, tell him
Wherein you’re happy; which will make him know
If that his head have ear in music; doubtless
With joy he will embrace you; for he’s honourable,
And, doubling that, most holy. Your means abroad:
You have me, rich; and I will never fail
Beginning nor supplyment.
IMOGEN.
Thou art all the comfort
The gods will diet me with. Prithee away!
There’s more to be consider’d; but we’ll even
All that good time will give us. This attempt
I am soldier to, and will abide it with
A prince’s courage. Away, I prithee.
PISANIO.
Well, madam, we must take a short farewell,
Lest, being miss’d, I be suspected of
Your carriage from the court. My noble mistress,
Here is a box; I had it from the Queen.
What’s in’t is precious. If you are sick at sea
Or stomach-qualm’d at land, a dram of this
Will drive away distemper. To some shade,
And fit you to your manhood. May the gods
Direct you to the best!
IMOGEN.
Amen. I thank thee.