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!