IMOGEN. Why, I must die; And if I do not by thy hand, thou art No servant of thy master’s. Against self-slaughter There is a prohibition so divine That cravens my weak hand. Come, here’s my heart: Something’s afore’t. Soft, soft! we’ll no defence, Obedient as the scabbard. What is here? The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus All turn’d to heresy? Away, away, Corrupters of my faith, you shall no more Be stomachers to my heart. Thus may poor fools Believe false teachers; though those that are betray’d Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor Stands in worse case of woe. And thou, Posthumus, That didst set up my disobedience ’gainst the King My father, and make me put into contempt the suits Of princely fellows, shalt hereafter find It is no act of common passage but A strain of rareness; and I grieve myself To think, when thou shalt be disedg’d by her That now thou tirest on, how thy memory Will then be pang’d by me. Prithee dispatch. The lamb entreats the butcher. Where’s thy knife? Thou art too slow to do thy master’s bidding, When I desire it too. PISANIO. O gracious lady, Since I receiv’d command to do this busines I have not slept one wink. IMOGEN. Do’t, and to bed then. PISANIO. I’ll wake mine eyeballs first. IMOGEN. Wherefore then Didst undertake it? Why hast thou abus’d So many miles with a pretence? This place? Mine action and thine own? our horses’ labour? The time inviting thee? The perturb’d court, For my being absent? whereunto I never Purpose return. Why hast thou gone so far To be unbent when thou hast ta’en thy stand, Th’ elected deer before thee? PISANIO. But to win time To lose so bad employment, in the which I have consider’d of a course. Good lady, Hear me with patience. IMOGEN. Talk thy tongue weary, speak. I have heard I am a strumpet, and mine ear, Therein false struck, can take no greater wound, Nor tent to bottom that. But speak. PISANIO. Then, madam, I thought you would not back again. IMOGEN. Most like, Bringing me here to kill me. PISANIO. Not so, neither; But if I were as wise as honest, then My purpose would prove well. It cannot be But that my master is abus’d. Some villain, Ay, and singular in his art, hath done you both This cursed injury. IMOGEN. Some Roman courtezan! PISANIO. No, on my life! I’ll give but notice you are dead, and send him Some bloody sign of it, for ’tis commanded I should do so. You shall be miss’d at court, And that will well confirm it. IMOGEN. Why, good fellow, What shall I do the while? Where bide? How live? Or in my life what comfort, when I am Dead to my husband? PISANIO. If you’ll back to th’ court— IMOGEN. No court, no father, nor no more ado With that harsh, noble, simple nothing, That Cloten, whose love-suit hath been to me As fearful as a siege. PISANIO. If not at court, Then not in Britain must you bide.