Pisanio, thou that stand’st so for Posthumus! He hath a drug of mine. I pray his absence Proceed by swallowing that; for he believes It is a thing most precious. But for her, Where is she gone? Haply despair hath seiz’d her; Or, wing’d with fervour of her love, she’s flown To her desir’d Posthumus. Gone she is To death or to dishonour, and my end Can make good use of either. She being down, I have the placing of the British crown. Enter Cloten. How now, my son? CLOTEN. ’Tis certain she is fled. Go in and cheer the King. He rages; none Dare come about him. QUEEN. All the better. May This night forestall him of the coming day! [_Exit._] CLOTEN. I love and hate her; for she’s fair and royal, And that she hath all courtly parts more exquisite Than lady, ladies, woman. From every one The best she hath, and she, of all compounded, Outsells them all. I love her therefore; but Disdaining me and throwing favours on The low Posthumus slanders so her judgement That what’s else rare is chok’d; and in that point I will conclude to hate her, nay, indeed, To be reveng’d upon her. For when fools Shall— Enter Pisanio. Who is here? What, are you packing, sirrah? Come hither. Ah, you precious pandar! Villain, Where is thy lady? In a word, or else Thou art straightway with the fiends. PISANIO. O good my lord! CLOTEN. Where is thy lady? or, by Jupiter— I will not ask again. Close villain, I’ll have this secret from thy heart, or rip Thy heart to find it. Is she with Posthumus? From whose so many weights of baseness cannot A dram of worth be drawn. PISANIO. Alas, my lord, How can she be with him? When was she miss’d? He is in Rome. CLOTEN. Where is she, sir? Come nearer. No farther halting! Satisfy me home What is become of her. PISANIO. O my all-worthy lord! CLOTEN. All-worthy villain! Discover where thy mistress is at once, At the next word. No more of ‘worthy lord’! Speak, or thy silence on the instant is Thy condemnation and thy death. PISANIO. Then, sir, This paper is the history of my knowledge Touching her flight. [_Presenting a letter._] CLOTEN. Let’s see’t. I will pursue her Even to Augustus’ throne. PISANIO. [_Aside._] Or this or perish. She’s far enough; and what he learns by this May prove his travel, not her danger. CLOTEN. Humh! PISANIO. [_Aside._] I’ll write to my lord she’s dead. O Imogen, Safe mayst thou wander, safe return again! CLOTEN. Sirrah, is this letter true? PISANIO. Sir, as I think. CLOTEN. It is Posthumus’ hand; I know’t. Sirrah, if thou wouldst not be a villain, but do me true service, undergo those employments wherein I should have cause to use thee with a serious industry—that is, what villainy soe’er I bid thee do, to perform it directly and truly—I would think thee an honest man; thou shouldst neither want my means for thy relief nor my voice for thy preferment. PISANIO. Well, my good lord.