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,
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.
First Lord So please your majesty,
The Roman legions, all from Gallia drawn,
Are landed on your coast, with a supply
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
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;
[Exeunt all but PISANIO]
PISANIO I heard no letter from my master since
I wrote him Imogen was slain: ’tis strange:
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.
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.
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