IMOGEN.
No, no! Alack,
There’s other work in hand. I see a thing
Bitter to me as death; your life, good master,
Must shuffle for itself.
LUCIUS.
The boy disdains me,
He leaves me, scorns me. Briefly die their joys
That place them on the truth of girls and boys.
Why stands he so perplex’d?
CYMBELINE.
What wouldst thou, boy?
I love thee more and more; think more and more
What’s best to ask. Know’st him thou look’st on? Speak,
Wilt have him live? Is he thy kin? thy friend?
IMOGEN.
He is a Roman, no more kin to me
Than I to your Highness; who, being born your vassal,
Am something nearer.
CYMBELINE.
Wherefore ey’st him so?
IMOGEN.
I’ll tell you, sir, in private, if you please
To give me hearing.
CYMBELINE.
Ay, with all my heart,
And lend my best attention. What’s thy name?
IMOGEN.
Fidele, sir.
CYMBELINE.
Thou’rt my good youth, my page;
I’ll be thy master. Walk with me; speak freely.
[Cymbeline and Imogen converse apart.]