Part 19 (1/2)

Pis. Oh Gentlemen, helpe, Mine and your Mistris: Oh my Lord Posthumus, You ne're kill'd Imogen till now: helpe, helpe, Mine honour'd Lady

Cym. Does the world go round?

Posth. How comes these staggers on mee?

Pisa. Wake my Mistris

Cym. If this be so, the G.o.ds do meane to strike me To death, with mortall ioy

Pisa. How fares my Mistris?

Imo. Oh get thee from my sight, Thou gau'st me poyson: dangerous Fellow hence, Breath not where Princes are

Cym. The tune of Imogen

Pisa. Lady, the G.o.ds throw stones of sulpher on me, if That box I gaue you, was not thought by mee A precious thing, I had it from the Queene

Cym. New matter still

Imo. It poyson'd me

Corn. Oh G.o.ds!

I left out one thing which the Queene confest, Which must approue thee honest. If Pasanio Haue (said she) giuen his Mistris that Confection Which I gaue him for Cordiall, she is seru'd, As I would serue a Rat

Cym. What's this, Cornelius?

Corn. The Queene (Sir) very oft importun'd me To temper poysons for her, still pretending The satisfaction of her knowledge, onely In killing Creatures vilde, as Cats and Dogges Of no esteeme. I dreading, that her purpose Was of more danger, did compound for her A certaine stuffe, which being tane, would cease The present powre of life, but in short time, All Offices of Nature, should againe Do their due Functions. Haue you tane of it?

Imo. Most like I did, for I was dead

Bel. My Boyes, there was our error

Gui. This is sure Fidele

Imo. Why did you throw your wedded Lady fro[m] you?

Thinke that you are vpon a Rocke, and now Throw me againe

Post. Hang there like fruite, my soule, Till the Tree dye

Cym. How now, my Flesh? my Childe?

What, mak'st thou me a dullard in this Act?

Wilt thou not speake to me?

Imo. Your blessing, Sir

Bel. Though you did loue this youth, I blame ye not, You had a motiue for't

Cym. My teares that fall Proue holy-water on thee; Imogen, Thy Mothers dead

Imo. I am sorry for't, my Lord

Cym. Oh, she was naught; and long of her it was That we meet heere so strangely: but her Sonne Is gone, we know not how, nor where