[Strikes her. She falls.]
PISANIO.
O gentlemen, help!
Mine and your mistress! O, my lord Posthumus!
You ne’er kill’d Imogen till now. Help, help!
Mine honour’d lady!
CYMBELINE.
Does the world go round?
POSTHUMUS.
How comes these staggers on me?
PISANIO.
Wake, my mistress!
CYMBELINE.
If this be so, the gods do mean to strike me
To death with mortal joy.
PISANIO.
How fares my mistress?
IMOGEN.
O, get thee from my sight;
Thou gav’st me poison. Dangerous fellow, hence!
Breathe not where princes are.
CYMBELINE.
The tune of Imogen!
PISANIO.
Lady,
The gods throw stones of sulphur on me, if
That box I gave you was not thought by me
A precious thing! I had it from the Queen.