Cymbeline 2.iii

SCENE III.
CYMBELINE'S palace. An ante-chamber adjoining IMOGEN'S apartments

Enter CLOTEN and LORDS

[This is a scene about frustration. At its start, Cloten has once-again lost at cards (or maybe dice). He's being forced to woo Imogen, who continually rebuffs him. The Queen is frustrated by her idiot son, who has to be told how to woo; Cymbeline is frustrated by the political situation in Rome; Lord 2, presumably sick and tired of Cloten, is sulking in silence; Imogen is angry because her bracelet is gone -- and then, to make matters worse -- Cloten invades her space.]


[Action: flatter]

FIRST LORD. Your lordship is the most patient man in loss, the most coldest that ever turn'd up [] ace [the card with the lowest value].

[Action: shrug off, swat away a gnat. Or maybe, push for a better compliment]

CLOTEN. It would make any man cold to lose.

[Action: turn the volume up to eleven]

FIRST LORD. But not every man patient after the noble temper of your lordship. You are most hot and furious when you win.

[Action: Change the subject]

CLOTEN. Winning will put any man into courage. If I could get this foolish Imogen, I should have gold enough. It's almost morning, is't not?
FIRST LORD. Day, my lord.

[It seems as if Cloten wants to talk about Imogen. But Lord 2 is silent and Lord 1, usually Cloten follower, doesn't respond. Maybe everyone is aware of how hopeless things are with Imogen.]

CLOTEN. I would this music would come. I am advised to give her music [] a mornings [every morning]; they say it will [] penetrate [touch her heart].

Enter musicians

Come on, tune. If you can penetrate her with your fingering, so. We'll try with tongue too. If none will do, let her remain; but I'll never give [] o'er [up]. First, a very excellent [] good-conceited [witty, clever] thing; after, a wonderful [] sweet air [solo, light song], with admirable rich words to it -- and then let her consider.

[Is Cloten making these sexual puns on purpose? Or is he unaware?]


SONG

Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And [] Phoebus 'gins arise [the sun begins to rise],
His steeds to water at those springs
On [] chalic'd [cuplike] flow'rs that [] lies [lie];
And [] winking Mary-buds [closed marigold buds] begin
To ope their golden eyes.
With everything that pretty bin,
My lady sweet, arise;
Arise, arise!

So, get you gone. If this penetrate, I will consider your music the better; if it do not, it is a vice in her ears which horsehairs and calves' guts, nor the voice of [] unpaved [castrated: without stones/balls] eunuch to boot, can never amend. Exeunt musicians


Enter CYMBELINE and QUEEN

[Perhaps the king has been less-than-impressed by Cloten's gambeling. Now is Cloten's chance to show off that he's been doing more obedient things. The King and Queen treat Cloten as if he's a little boy. He boasts; they instruct him.]

SECOND LORD. Here comes the King.
CLOTEN. I am glad I was up so late, for that's the reason I was up so early. He cannot choose but take this service I have done fatherly. -- Good morrow to your Majesty and to my gracious mother.
CYMBELINE. Attend you here the door of our stern daughter?
Will she not forth?
CLOTEN. I have assail'd her with musics, but she [] vouchsafes [grants] no notice.
CYMBELINE. The exile of her minion is too new;
She hath not yet forgot him; some more time
Must wear the print of his remembrance out,
And then she's yours.
QUEEN. You are most bound to th' King,
Who lets go by no [] vantages [opportunities] that may
[] Prefer [recommend] you to his daughter. Frame yourself
To [] orderly [regular] [] soliciting [entreating], and [] be friended
With aptness of the season [be ready to take advantage of good luck]; 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 [deaf].
CLOTEN. [] Senseless? [stupid?] Not so.

Enter a MESSENGER

MESSENGER. So like you, sir, ambassadors from Rome;
The one is Caius Lucius.

[Action: teach, instruct, lecture]

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 [that he already spent] 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 is supposed to woo her, but (maybe because he doesn't know how) he seeks a shortcut -- bribing his way into her chamber.]


[Action: Justify (slacking off)]

CLOTEN. If she be up, I'll speak with her; if not,
Let her lie still and dream.

By your leave, ho! [Knocks]


[He needs to SOMEHOW impress the king and queen...]

[Action: weigh the evidence (that money is the answer to all problems)]

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 [Diana's nymphs] [] false themselves [break their oaths], yield up
Their deer to th' [] stand [ambush] 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

[There are many actions the lady can play here. She could be trying to tactfully rebuff Cloten; she could be flirting with him; she could be mocking him.]

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 [to her] chamber.
CLOTEN. There is gold for you; sell me your good report.
LADY. How? [] My good name? [pun on "report" as "reputation"] or to report of you
What I shall think is good? The Princess!


Enter IMOGEN

[Action: flatter]
CLOTEN. Good morrow, fairest sister. Your sweet hand.
Exit LADY

[Action: dismiss (with the minimum of politeness)]
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.

[Action: woo (his last -- maybe best -- attempt)]
CLOTEN. Still I swear I love you.

[Action: scorn]
IMOGEN. If you but [] said [as opposed to swore] so, 'twere as [] deep [important] with me.
If you swear still, your recompense is still
That I regard it not.

[Action: stand fast]
CLOTEN. This is no answer.

[Action: reason]
IMOGEN. [] But that you shall not [if not for fear you would] 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.

[Action: refuse to budge]
CLOTEN. To leave you in your madness 'twere my sin;
I will not.

[Action: insult]
IMOGEN. Fools are not mad folks.
[This line doesn't make sense. Some editors change it to Fools CURE not mad folks.
Pelican edition's translation: "I am a fool to talk to you, but not mad"]

[Action: warn]
CLOTEN. Do you call me fool?

[Action: apologize, reason]
IMOGEN. As I am mad, I do;
If you'll be patient, I'll no more be mad;
That cures us both. I am much sorry, sir,
You put me to forget a lady's manners
By being so verbal; and learn now, for all,
That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce,
By th' very truth of it, I care not for you,
And am so near the lack of charity
To accuse myself I hate you; which I had rather
You felt than make't my boast.

[Action: chastise ... then insult]
CLOTEN. You sin against
Obedience, which you owe your father. For
The contract you pretend with that base wretch,
One bred of alms and foster'd with cold dishes,
With scraps o' th' court -- it is no contract, none.
[] And [even] though it be allowed [] in meaner parties [among commoners] --
Yet who than he more mean? -- to knit their souls --
On whom there is no more dependency
But brats and beggary -- [] in self-figur'd knot [marriage of their own making (as opposed to arranged)],
Yet you are curb'd from that enlargement by
The consequence o' th' crown, and must not foil
The precious note of it with a base slave,
A [] hilding [contemptible person] [] for a livery [only fit to wear a servant's univform], a squire's cloth,
A [] pantler [servant in change of the pantry]-- not so eminent!

[Action: curse]
IMOGEN. Profane fellow!
Wert thou the son of Jupiter, and no more
But what thou art besides, thou wert too base
To be his groom. Thou wert dignified [] enough [too much],
Even to the point of envy, if 'twere made
Comparative for your virtues to be styl'd
The under-hangman of his kingdom, and hated
For being preferr'd so well.

[Action: curse]
CLOTEN. The south fog rot him!

[Action: insult]
IMOGEN. He never can meet more mischance than come
To be but [] nam'd of [named by] thee. His mean'st garment
That ever hath but [] clipp'd [encircled] his body is dearer
In my respect than all the hairs above thee,
Were they all made such men. How now, Pisanio!



[From here on out, the scene between Imogen and Cloten is done, as-far-as she's concerned. He keeps trying to bait her. She ignores him, intent on finding her bracelet.]

Enter PISANIO

CLOTEN. 'His garments'! Now the devil --
IMOGEN. To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently.
CLOTEN. 'His garment'!
IMOGEN. I am sprited with a fool;
Frighted, and ang'red worse. Go bid my woman
Search for a jewel that too casually
Hath left mine arm. It was thy master's; [] shrew me [may I be cursed],
If I would lose it for a revenue
Of any king's in Europe! I do think
I saw't this morning; confident I am
Last night 'twas on mine arm; I kiss'd it.
I hope it be not gone to tell my lord
That I kiss [] aught [anything] but he.
PISANIO. 'Twill not be lost.
IMOGEN. I hope so. Go and search. Exit PISANIO
CLOTEN. You have abus'd me.
'His meanest garment'!
IMOGEN. Ay, I said so, sir.
If you will make 't an action, call witness to 't.
CLOTEN. I will inform your father.
IMOGEN. Your mother too.
She's my good lady and will conceive, I hope,
But the worst of me. So I leave you, sir,
To th' worst of discontent. Exit
CLOTEN. I'll be reveng'd.
'His mean'st garment'! Well. Exit