Wales. Near the Cave of Belarius.
 Enter CLOTEN, dressed in the clothes of Posthumus.

Cloten	I am near to th' place where they should meet, if Pisanio 
	have mapped it truly. How fit his garments serve me! Why 
	should his mistress, who was made by him that made the 
	tailor, not be fit too? The rather - saving reverence of 
	the word - for 'tis said a woman's fitness comes by fits. 
	Therein I must play the workman. I dare speak it to myself, 
	for it is not vainglory for a man and his glass to confer 
	in his own chamber; I mean, the lines of my body are as 
	well drawn as his, no less young, more strong, not beneath 
	him in fortunes, beyond him in the advantage of the time, 
	above him in birth, alike conversant in general services, 
	and more remarkable in single oppositions. Yet this 
	imperceiverant thing loves him in my despite. What 
	mortality is! Posthumus, thy head, which now is growing 
	upon thy shoulders, shall within this hour be off, thy 
	mistress enforced, thy garments cut to pieces before thy 
	face; and all this done, spurn her home to her father, who 
	may haply be a little angry for my so rough usage; but my 
	mother, having power of his testiness, shall turn all into 
	my commendations. My horse is tied up safe. Out, sword, and 
	to a sore purpose!  Fortune, put them into my hand! This is 
	the very description of their meeting-place; and the fellow 
	dares not deceive me.
													[Exit.
