PISANIO.
[Aside.] I’ll write to my lord she’s dead. O Imogen,
Safe mayst thou wander, safe return again!
CLOTEN.
Sirrah, is this letter true?
PISANIO.
Sir, as I think.
CLOTEN.
It is Posthumus’ hand; I know’t. Sirrah, if thou wouldst not be a villain, but do me true service, undergo those employments wherein I should have cause to use thee with a serious industry—that is, what villainy soe’er I bid thee do, to perform it directly and truly—I would think thee an honest man; thou shouldst neither want my means for thy relief nor my voice for thy preferment.
PISANIO.
Well, my good lord.
CLOTEN.
Wilt thou serve me? For since patiently and constantly thou hast stuck to the bare fortune of that beggar Posthumus, thou canst not, in the course of gratitude, but be a diligent follower of mine. Wilt thou serve me?
PISANIO.
Sir, I will.
CLOTEN.
Give me thy hand; here’s my purse. Hast any of thy late master’s garments in thy possession?
PISANIO.
I have, my lord, at my lodging, the same suit he wore when he took leave of my lady and mistress.
CLOTEN.
The first service thou dost me, fetch that suit hither. Let it be thy first service; go.