QUEEN. You are most bound to th’ King, Who lets go by no vantages that may Prefer you to his daughter. Frame yourself To orderly solicits, and be friended With aptness of the season; make denials Increase your services; so seem as if You were inspir’d to do those duties which You tender to her; that you in all obey her, Save when command to your dismission tends, And therein you are senseless. CLOTEN. Senseless? Not so. Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. So like you, sir, ambassadors from Rome; The one is Caius Lucius. CYMBELINE. A worthy fellow, Albeit he comes on angry purpose now; But that’s no fault of his. We must receive him According to the honour of his sender; And towards himself, his goodness forespent on us, We must extend our notice. Our dear son, When you have given good morning to your mistress, Attend the Queen and us; we shall have need T’ employ you towards this Roman. Come, our queen. [_Exeunt all but Cloten._] CLOTEN. If she be up, I’ll speak with her; if not, Let her lie still and dream. By your leave, ho! [_Knocks._] I know her women are about her; what If I do line one of their hands? ’Tis gold Which buys admittance (oft it doth) yea, and makes Diana’s rangers false themselves, yield up Their deer to th’ stand o’ th’ stealer; and ’tis gold Which makes the true man kill’d and saves the thief; Nay, sometime hangs both thief and true man. What Can it not do and undo? I will make One of her women lawyer to me, for I yet not understand the case myself. By your leave. [_Knocks._] Enter a Lady. LADY. Who’s there that knocks? CLOTEN. A gentleman. LADY. No more? CLOTEN. Yes, and a gentlewoman’s son. LADY. That’s more Than some whose tailors are as dear as yours Can justly boast of. What’s your lordship’s pleasure? CLOTEN. Your lady’s person; is she ready? LADY. Ay, To keep her chamber. CLOTEN. There is gold for you; sell me your good report. LADY. How? My good name? or to report of you What I shall think is good? The Princess! Enter Imogen. CLOTEN. Good morrow, fairest sister. Your sweet hand. [_Exit Lady._] IMOGEN. Good morrow, sir. You lay out too much pains For purchasing but trouble. The thanks I give Is telling you that I am poor of thanks, And scarce can spare them. CLOTEN. Still I swear I love you. IMOGEN. If you but said so, ’twere as deep with me. If you swear still, your recompense is still That I regard it not. CLOTEN. This is no answer. IMOGEN. But that you shall not say I yield, being silent, I would not speak. I pray you spare me. Faith, I shall unfold equal discourtesy To your best kindness; one of your great knowing Should learn, being taught, forbearance. CLOTEN. To leave you in your madness ’twere my sin; I will not. IMOGEN. Fools are not mad folks. CLOTEN. Do you call me fool?