CYMBELINE.
Past grace? obedience?
IMOGEN.
Past hope, and in despair; that way past grace.
CYMBELINE.
That mightst have had the sole son of my queen!
IMOGEN.
O blessed that I might not! I chose an eagle,
And did avoid a puttock.
CYMBELINE.
Thou took’st a beggar, wouldst have made my throne
A seat for baseness.
IMOGEN.
No; I rather added
A lustre to it.
CYMBELINE.
O thou vile one!
IMOGEN.
Sir,
It is your fault that I have lov’d Posthumus.
You bred him as my playfellow, and he is
A man worth any woman; overbuys me
Almost the sum he pays.
CYMBELINE.
What, art thou mad?
IMOGEN.
Almost, sir. Heaven restore me! Would I were
A neat-herd’s daughter, and my Leonatus
Our neighbour shepherd’s son!