IMOGEN.
Well, or ill,
I am bound to you.
BELARIUS.
And shalt be ever.
[Exit Imogen into the cave.]
This youth, howe’er distress’d, appears he hath had
Good ancestors.
ARVIRAGUS.
How angel-like he sings!
GUIDERIUS.
But his neat cookery! He cut our roots in characters,
And sauc’d our broths as Juno had been sick,
And he her dieter.
ARVIRAGUS.
Nobly he yokes
A smiling with a sigh, as if the sigh
Was that it was for not being such a smile;
The smile mocking the sigh that it would fly
From so divine a temple to commix
With winds that sailors rail at.
GUIDERIUS.
I do note
That grief and patience, rooted in him both,
Mingle their spurs together.
ARVIRAGUS.
Grow patience!
And let the stinking elder, grief, untwine
His perishing root with the increasing vine!
BELARIUS.
It is great morning. Come, away! Who’s there?