Act II - Act II, Scene 1
ACT II. SCENE I.
Britain. Before CYMBELINE'S palace.
[Enter CLOTEN and the two LORDS.]
Was there ever man had such luck! When I kiss'd the jack,
upon an up-cast to be hit away! I had a hundred pound on't; and
then a whoreson jackanapes must take me up for swearing, as if I
borrowed mine oaths of him and might not spend them at my
What got he by that? You have broke his pate with your bowl.
If his wit had been like him that broke it, it would have run all
When a gentleman is dispos'd to swear, it is not for any
standers-by to curtail his oaths, ha?
No, my lord;
nor crop the ears of them.
Whoreson dog! I give him satisfaction? Would he had been one of
To have smelt like a fool.
I am not vex'd more at anything in the earth; a pox on't! I had
rather not be so noble as I am. They dare not fight with me,
because of the Queen my mother. Every Jack-slave hath his
bellyful of fighting, and I must go up and down like a cock
that nobody can match.
You are cock and capon too; and you crow, cock, with your comb
It is not fit your lordship should undertake every companion that
you give offence to.
No, I know that; but it is fit I should commit offence to my
Ay, it is fit for your lordship only.
Why, so I say.
Did you hear of a stranger that's come to court to-night?
A stranger, and I not known on't!
He's a strange fellow himself, and knows it not.
There's an Italian come; and, 'tis thought, one of Leonatus'
Leonatus! a banish'd rascal; and he's another, whatsoever he be.
Who told you of this stranger?
One of your lordship's pages.
Is it fit I went to look upon him? Is there no derogation in't?
You cannot derogate, my lord.
Not easily, I think.
You are a fool granted; therefore your issues, being foolish, do
Come, I'll go see this Italian. What I have lost to-day at bowls
I'll win to-night of him. Come, go.
I'll attend your lordship.
[Exeunt CLOTEN and FIRST LORD.]
That such a crafty devil as is his mother
Should yield the world this ass! A woman that
Bears all down with her brain; and this her son
Cannot take two from twenty, for his heart,
And leave eighteen. Alas, poor princess,
Thou divine Imogen, what thou endur'st,
Betwixt a father by thy step-dame govern'd,
A mother hourly coining plots, a wooer
More hateful than the foul expulsion is
Of thy dear husband! Then that horrid act
Of the divorce he'd make! The heavens hold firm
The walls of thy dear honour, keep unshak'd
That temple, thy fair mind, that thou mayst stand
To enjoy thy banish'd lord and this great land!