SCENE III. Britain. Cymbeline’s palace.

Enter Cymbeline, Lords, Pisanio and Attendants.

CYMBELINE. Again! and bring me word how ’tis with her.

[ Exit an Attendant . ]

A fever with the absence of her son; A madness, of which her life’s in danger. Heavens, How deeply you at once do touch me! Imogen, The great part of my comfort, gone; my queen Upon a desperate bed, and in a time When fearful wars point at me; her son gone, So needful for this present. It strikes me past The hope of comfort. But for thee, fellow, Who needs must know of her departure and Dost seem so ignorant, we’ll enforce it from thee By a sharp torture.

PISANIO. Sir, my life is yours; I humbly set it at your will; but for my mistress, I nothing know where she remains, why gone, Nor when she purposes return. Beseech your Highness, Hold me your loyal servant.

LORD. Good my liege, The day that she was missing he was here. I dare be bound he’s true and shall perform All parts of his subjection loyally. For Cloten, There wants no diligence in seeking him, And will no doubt be found.

CYMBELINE. The time is troublesome. [ To Pisanio. ] We’ll slip you for a season; but our jealousy Does yet depend.

LORD. So please your Majesty, The Roman legions, all from Gallia drawn, Are landed on your coast, with a supply Of Roman gentlemen by the Senate sent.

CYMBELINE. Now for the counsel of my son and queen! I am amaz’d with matter.

LORD. Good my liege, Your preparation can affront no less Than what you hear of. Come more, for more you’re ready. The want is but to put those pow’rs in motion That long to move.

CYMBELINE. I thank you. Let’s withdraw, And meet the time as it seeks us. We fear not What can from Italy annoy us; but We grieve at chances here. Away!

[ Exeunt all but Pisanio . ]

PISANIO. I heard no letter from my master since I wrote him Imogen was slain. ’Tis strange. Nor hear I from my mistress, who did promise To yield me often tidings. Neither know I What is betid to Cloten, but remain Perplex’d in all. The heavens still must work. Wherein I am false I am honest; not true, to be true. These present wars shall find I love my country, Even to the note o’ th’ King, or I’ll fall in them. All other doubts, by time let them be clear’d: Fortune brings in some boats that are not steer’d.

[ Exit. ]