Shee being downe,
I haue the placing of the Brittish Crowne.
Enter Cloten.
How now, my Sonne?
Clot. 'Tis certaine she is fled:
Go in and cheere the King, he rages, none
Dare come about him
Qu. All the better: may
This night fore-stall him of the comming day.
Exit Qu.
Clo. I loue, and hate her: for she's Faire and Royall,
And that she hath all courtly parts more exquisite
Then Lady, Ladies, Woman, from euery one
The best she hath, and she of all compounded
Out-selles them all. I loue her therefore, but
Disdaining me, and throwing Fauours on
The low Posthumus, slanders so her iudgement,
That what's else rare, is choak'd: and in that point
I will conclude to hate her, nay indeede,
To be reueng'd vpon her. For, when Fooles shall-
Enter Pisanio.
Who is heere? What, are you packing sirrah?
Come hither: Ah you precious Pandar, Villaine,
Where is thy Lady? In a word, or else
Thou art straightway with the Fiends
Pis. Oh, good my Lord
Clo. Where is thy Lady? Or, by Iupiter,
I will not aske againe. Close Villaine,
Ile haue this Secret from thy heart, or rip
Thy heart to finde it. Is she with Posthumus?
From whose so many waights of basenesse, cannot
A dram of worth be drawne
Pis. Alas, nay Lord,
How can she be with him? When was she miss'd?
He is in Rome
Clot. Where is she Sir? Come neerer:
No farther halting: satisfie me home,
What is become of her?
Pis. Oh, my all-worthy Lord
Clo.
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