| ACT IV SCENE III | A room in 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, | 5 |
| | 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, | 10 |
| | 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, | 15 |
| | I nothing know where she remains, why gone, | |
| | Nor when she purposes return. Beseech your highness, | |
| | Hold me your loyal servant. | |
| First Lord | Good my liege, | |
| | The day that she was missing he was here: | 20 |
| | 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. | 25 |
| | To PISANIO | |
| | We'll slip you for a season; but our jealousy | |
| | Does yet depend. | |
| First Lord | So please your majesty, | |
| | The Roman legions, all from Gallia drawn, | |
| | Are landed on your coast, with a supply | 30 |
| | Of Roman gentlemen, by the senate sent. | |
| CYMBELINE | Now for the counsel of my son and queen! | |
| | I am amazed with matter. | |
| First Lord | Good my liege, | |
| | Your preparation can affront no less | 35 |
| | Than what you hear of: come more, for more | |
| | you're ready: | |
| | The want is but to put those powers in motion | |
| | That long to move. | |
| CYMBELINE | I thank you. Let's withdraw; | 40 |
| | 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: | 45 |
| | 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. | 50 |
| | These present wars shall find I love my country, | |
| | Even to the note o' the 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 | |
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