Cymbeline

by William Shakespeare

Act II, Scene I

Britain. Before Cymbeline's palace.

Enter CLOTEN and two Lords

Was there ever man had such luck! when I kissed 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 pleasure.

What got he by that? You have broke his pate with
your bowl.

[Aside] If his wit had been like him that broke it,
it would have run all out.

When a gentleman is disposed to swear, it is not for
any standers-by to curtail his oaths, ha?

No my lord;

Aside

nor crop the ears of them.

Whoreson dog! I give him satisfaction?
Would he had been one of my rank!

[Aside] To have smelt like a fool.

I am not vexed more at any thing 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.

[Aside] You are cock and capon too; and you crow,
cock, with your comb on.

Sayest thou?

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 inferiors.

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 know on't!

[Aside] He's a strange fellow himself, and knows it
not.

There's an Italian come; and, 'tis thought, one of
Leonatus' friends.

Leonatus! a banished 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.

[Aside] You are a fool granted; therefore your
issues, being foolish, do not derogate.

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 endurest,
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, than that horrid act
Of the divorce he'ld make! The heavens hold firm
The walls of thy dear honour, keep unshaked
That temple, thy fair mind, that thou mayst stand,
To enjoy thy banish'd lord and this great land!

Exit

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