CYMBELINE.
My tears that fall
Prove holy water on thee! Imogen,
Thy mother’s dead.
IMOGEN.
I am sorry for’t, my lord.
CYMBELINE.
O, she was naught, and long of her it was
That we meet here so strangely; but her son
Is gone, we know not how nor where.
PISANIO.
My lord,
Now fear is from me, I’ll speak troth. Lord Cloten,
Upon my lady’s missing, came to me
With his sword drawn, foam’d at the mouth, and swore,
If I discover’d not which way she was gone,
It was my instant death. By accident
I had a feigned letter of my master’s
Then in my pocket, which directed him
To seek her on the mountains near to Milford;
Where, in a frenzy, in my master’s garments,
Which he enforc’d from me, away he posts
With unchaste purpose, and with oath to violate
My lady’s honour. What became of him
I further know not.
GUIDERIUS.
Let me end the story:
I slew him there.
CYMBELINE.
Marry, the gods forfend!
I would not thy good deeds should from my lips
Pluck a hard sentence. Prithee, valiant youth,
Deny’t again.
GUIDERIUS.
I have spoke it, and I did it.
CYMBELINE.
He was a prince.
GUIDERIUS.
A most incivil one. The wrongs he did me
Were nothing prince-like; for he did provoke me
With language that would make me spurn the sea,
If it could so roar to me. I cut off’s head,
And am right glad he is not standing here
To tell this tale of mine.
CYMBELINE.
I am sorry for thee.
By thine own tongue thou art condemn’d, and must
Endure our law. Thou’rt dead.