CYMBELINE.
Her doors lock’d?
Not seen of late? Grant, heavens, that which I fear
Prove false!
[Exit.]
QUEEN.
Son, I say, follow the King.
CLOTEN.
That man of hers, Pisanio, her old servant,
I have not seen these two days.
QUEEN.
Go, look after.
[Exit Cloten.]
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.