Britain. A Room in Cymbeline's Palace.
 Enter CYMBELINE, QUEEN, CLOTEN, LUCIUS, and LORDS.

Cymbeline	Thus far, and so farewell.

Lucius									Thanks, royal sir.
	My emperor hath wrote, I must from hence,
	And am right sorry that I must report ye
	My master's enemy.

Cymbeline								Our subjects, sir,
	Will not endure his yoke; and for ourself
	To show less sovereignty than they must needs
	Appear unkinglike.

Lucius							So, sir, I desire of you
	A conduct over land to Milford Haven.
	Madam, all joy befall your grace, [To CLOTEN.] and you!

Cymbeline	My lords, you are appointed for that office;
	The due of honour in no point omit.
	So farewell, noble Lucius.

Lucius										Your hand, my lord.

Cloten	Receive it friendly; but from this time forth
	I wear it as your enemy.

Lucius								Sir, the event
	Is yet to name the winner. Fare you well.

Cymbeline	Leave not the worthy Lucius, good my lords,
	Till he have crossed the Severn. Happiness!
										 [Exeunt LUCIUS and some LORDS.

Queen	He goes hence frowning; but it honours us
	That we have given him cause.

Cloten										'Tis all the better;
	Your valiant Britons have their wishes in it.

Cymbeline	Lucius hath wrote already to the emperor
	How it goes here. It fits us therefore ripely
	Our chariots and our horsemen be in readiness.
	The powers that he already hath in Gallia
	Will soon be drawn to head, from whence he moves
	His war for Britain.

Queen								'Tis not sleepy business,
	But must be looked to speedily, and strongly.

Cymbeline	Our expectation that it would be thus
	Hath made us forward. But, my gentle queen,
	Where is our daughter? She hath not appeared
	Before the Roman, nor to us hath tendered
	The duty of the day. She looks us like
	A thing more made of malice than of duty;
	We have noted it. Call her before us, for
	We have been too slight in sufferance.
													[Exit a LORD.
Queen											Royal sir,
	Since the exile of Posthumus, most retired
	Hath her life been; the cure whereof, my lord,
	'Tis time must do. Beseech your majesty,
	Forbear sharp speeches to her; she's a lady
	So tender of rebukes that words are strokes,
	And strokes death to her.

                              Re-enter LORD.

Cymbeline										Where is she, sir? How
	Can her contempt be answered?

Lord											Please you, sir,
	Her chambers are all locked, and there's no answer
	That will be given to th' loud of noise we make.

Queen	My lord, when last I went to visit her
	She prayed me to excuse her keeping close,
	Whereto constrained by her infirmity,
	She should that duty leave unpaid to you,
	Which daily she was bound to proffer. This
	She wished me to make known; but our great court
	Made me to blame in memory.

Cymbeline										Her doors locked?
	Not seen of late? Grant, heavens, that which I fear
	Prove false!
													[Exit.
Queen					Son, I say, follow the king.

Cloten	That man of hers, Pisanio, her old servant,
	I have not seen these two days.

Queen											Go, look after.
													[Exit CLOTEN.
	Pisanio, thou that stand'st so for Posthumus!
	He hath a drug of mine; I pray his absence
	Proceed by swallowing that, for he believes
	It is a thing most precious. But for her,
	Where is she gone? Haply despair hath seized her,
	Or, winged with fervour of her love, she's flown
	To her desired Posthumus. Gone she is
	To death, or to dishonour, and my end
	Can make good use of either. She being down,
	I have the placing of the British crown.

                             Re-enter CLOTEN

	How now, my son?

Cloten							'Tis certain she is fled.
	Go in and cheer the king. He rages, none
	Dare come about him.

Queen								All the better. May
	This night forestall him of the coming day!
													[Exit.
Cloten	I love and hate her; for she's fair and royal,
	And that she hath all courtly parts more exquisite
	Than lady, ladies, woman, from every one
	The best she hath, and she, of all compounded,
	Outsells them all. I love her therefore; but
	Disdaining me, and throwing favours on
	The low Posthumus, slanders so her judgement
	That what's else rare is choked. And in that point
	I will conclude to hate her, nay, indeed,
	To be revenged upon her. For when fools
	Shall-

                              Enter PISANIO.

				Who is here? What, are you packing, sirrah?
	Come hither; ah, you precious pandar! Villain,
	Where is thy lady? In a word, or else
	Thou art straightway with the fiends.

Pisanio											O, good my lord!

Cloten	Where is thy lady? Or, by Jupiter,
	I will not ask again. Close villain,
	I'll have this secret from thy heart, or rip
	Thy heart to find it. Is she with Posthumus?
	From whose so many weights of baseness cannot
	A dram of worth be drawn.

Pisanio										Alas, my lord,
	How can she be with him? When was she missed?
	He is in Rome.

Cloten						Where is she, sir? Come nearer.
	No further halting. Satisfy me home
	What is become of her?

Pisanio	O, my all-worthy lord!

Cloten									All-worthy villain!
	Discover where thy mistress is at once,
	At the next word. No more of 'worthy lord'.
	Speak, or thy silence on the instant is
	Thy condemnation and thy death.

Pisanio											Then, sir,
	This paper is the history of my knowledge
	Touching her flight.
													[Presenting a letter.

Cloten								Let's see't. I will pursue her
	Even to Augustus' throne.

Pisanio					[Aside.]			Or this or perish.
	She's far enough; and what he learns by this
	May prove his travel, not her danger.

Cloten											Hum!

Pisanio	[Aside.] I'll write to my lord she's dead. O Innogen,
	Safe mayst thou wander, safe return again!

Cloten	Sirrah, is this letter true?

Pisanio	Sir, as I think.

Cloten	It is Posthumus' hand, I know't. Sirrah, if thou wouldst 
	not be a villain, but do me true service, undergo those 
	employments wherein I should have cause to use thee with a 
	serious industry, that is, what villainy soe'er I bid thee 
	do, to perform it directly and truly I would think thee an 
	honest man. Thou shouldst neither want my means for thy 
	relief, nor my voice for thy preferment.

Pisanio	Well, my good lord.

Cloten	Wilt thou serve me? For since patiently and constantly thou 
	hast stuck to the bare fortune of that beggar Posthumus, 
	thou canst not, in the course of gratitude, but be a 
	diligent follower of mine. Wilt thou serve me?

Pisanio	Sir, I will.

Cloten	Give me thy hand, here's my purse. Hast any of thy late 
	master's garments in thy possession?

Pisanio	I have, my lord, at my lodging, the same suit he wore when 
	he took leave of my lady and mistress.

Cloten	The first service thou dost me, fetch that suit hither. Let 
	it be thy first service; go.

Pisanio	I shall, my lord.
													[Exit.

Cloten	Meet thee at Milford Haven! - I forgot to ask him one 
	thing; I'll remember't anon. Even there, thou villain 
	Posthumus, will I kill thee. I would these garments were 
	come. She said upon a time - the bitterness of it I now 
	belch from my heart - that she held the very garment of 
	Posthumus in more respect than my noble and natural person, 
	together with the adornment of my qualities. With that suit 
	upon my back will I ravish her - first kill him, and in her 
	eyes. There shall she see my valour, which will then be a 
	torment to her contempt. He on the ground, my speech of 
	insultment ended on his dead body, and when my lust hath 
	dined - which, as I say, to vex her I will execute in the 
	clothes that she so praised - to the court I'll knock her 
	back, foot her home again. She hath despised me 
	rejoicingly, and I'll be merry in my revenge.

                   Re-enter PISANIO, with the clothes.

	Be those the garments?

Pisanio	Ay, my noble lord.

Cloten	How long is't since she went to Milford Haven?

Pisanio	She can scarce be there yet.

Cloten	Bring this apparel to my chamber; that is the second thing 
	that I have commanded thee. The third is that thou wilt be 
	a voluntary mute to my design. Be but duteous, and true 
	preferment shall tender itself to thee. My revenge is now 
	at Milford; would I had wings to follow it! Come, and be 
	true.
													[Exit.
Pisanio	Thou bidd'st me to my loss; for true to thee
	Were to prove false, which I will never be,
	To him that is most true. To Milford go,
	And find not her whom thou pursuest. Flow, flow,
	You heavenly blessings, on her! This fool's speed
	Be crossed with slowness; labour be his meed!
													[Exit.
