Oh Gods!
I left out one thing which the Queene confest,
Which must approue thee honest. If Pasanio
Haue (said she) giuen his Mistris that Confection
Which I gaue him for Cordiall, she is seru'd,
As I would serue a Rat
Cym. What's this, Cornelius?
Corn. The Queene (Sir) very oft importun'd me
To temper poysons for her, still pretending
The satisfaction of her knowledge, onely
In killing Creatures vilde, as Cats and Dogges
Of no esteeme. I dreading, that her purpose
Was of more danger, did compound for her
A certaine stuffe, which being tane, would cease
The present powre of life, but in short time,
All Offices of Nature, should againe
Do their due Functions. Haue you tane of it?
Imo. Most like I did, for I was dead
Bel. My Boyes, there was our error
Gui. This is sure Fidele
Imo. Why did you throw your wedded Lady fro[m] you?
Thinke that you are vpon a Rocke, and now
Throw me againe
Post. Hang there like fruite, my soule,
Till the Tree dye
Cym. How now, my Flesh? my Childe?
What, mak'st thou me a dullard in this Act?
Wilt thou not speake to me?
Imo. Your blessing, Sir
Bel. Though you did loue this youth, I blame ye not,
You had a motiue for't
Cym. My teares that fall
Proue holy-water on thee; Imogen,
Thy Mothers dead
Imo. I am sorry for't, my Lord
Cym. Oh, she was naught; and long of her it was
That we meet heere so strangely: but her Sonne
Is gone, we know not how, nor where
Pisa.
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