Speeches (Lines) for Cloten in "Cymbeline, King of Britain"

First Lord. Sir, I would advise you to shift a shirt; the
violence of action hath made you reek as a
sacrifice: where air comes out, air comes in:
there's none abroad so wholesome as that you vent.

Cloten. If my shirt were bloody, then to shift it. Have I hurt him?

Second Lord. [Aside] His steel was in debt; it went o' the
backside the town.

Cloten. The villain would not stand me.

Second Lord. [Aside] As many inches as you have oceans. Puppies!

Cloten. I would they had not come between us.

Second Lord. [Aside] So would I, till you had measured how long
a fool you were upon the ground.

Cloten. And that she should love this fellow and refuse me!

Second Lord. [Aside] She shines not upon fools, lest the
reflection should hurt her.

Cloten. Come, I'll to my chamber. Would there had been some
hurt done!

Second Lord. [Aside] I wish not so; unless it had been the fall
of an ass, which is no great hurt.

Cloten. You'll go with us?

First Lord. I'll attend your lordship.

Cloten. Nay, come, let's go together.

Imogen. I will write.
Send your trunk to me; it shall safe be kept,
And truly yielded you. You're very welcome.

Cloten. Was there ever man had such luck! when I kissed the
jack, upon an up-cast to be hit away! I had a
hundred pound on't: and then a whoreson jackanapes
must take me up for swearing; as if I borrowed mine
oaths of him and might not spend them at my pleasure.

Second Lord. [Aside] If his wit had been like him that broke it,
it would have run all out.

Cloten. When a gentleman is disposed to swear, it is not for
any standers-by to curtail his oaths, ha?

Second Lord. No my lord;
[Aside]
nor crop the ears of them.

Cloten. Whoreson dog! I give him satisfaction?
Would he had been one of my rank!

Second Lord. [Aside] To have smelt like a fool.

Cloten. I am not vexed more at any thing in the earth: a
pox on't! I had rather not be so noble as I am;
they dare not fight with me, because of the queen my
mother: every Jack-slave hath his bellyful of
fighting, and I must go up and down like a cock that
nobody can match.

Second Lord. [Aside] You are cock and capon too; and you crow,
cock, with your comb on.

Cloten. Sayest thou?

Second Lord. It is not fit your lordship should undertake every
companion that you give offence to.

Cloten. No, I know that: but it is fit I should commit
offence to my inferiors.

Second Lord. Ay, it is fit for your lordship only.

Cloten. Why, so I say.

First Lord. Did you hear of a stranger that's come to court to-night?

Cloten. A stranger, and I not know on't!

First Lord. There's an Italian come; and, 'tis thought, one of
Leonatus' friends.

Cloten. Leonatus! a banished rascal; and he's another,
whatsoever he be. Who told you of this stranger?

First Lord. One of your lordship's pages.

Cloten. Is it fit I went to look upon him? is there no
derogation in't?

Second Lord. You cannot derogate, my lord.

Cloten. Not easily, I think.

Second Lord. [Aside] You are a fool granted; therefore your
issues, being foolish, do not derogate.

Cloten. Come, I'll go see this Italian: what I have lost
to-day at bowls I'll win to-night of him. Come, go.

First Lord. Your lordship is the most patient man in loss, the
most coldest that ever turned up ace.

Cloten. It would make any man cold to lose.

First Lord. But not every man patient after the noble temper of
your lordship. You are most hot and furious when you win.

Cloten. Winning will put any man into courage. If I could
get this foolish Imogen, I should have gold enough.
It's almost morning, is't not?

First Lord. Day, my lord.

Cloten. I would this music would come: I am advised to give
her music o' mornings; they say it will penetrate.
[Enter Musicians]
Come on; tune: if you can penetrate her with your
fingering, so; we'll try with tongue too: if none
will do, let her remain; but I'll never give o'er.
First, a very excellent good-conceited thing;
after, a wonderful sweet air, with admirable rich
words to it: and then let her consider.
[SONG]
Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes:
With every thing that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise:
Arise, arise.

Cloten. I would this music would come: I am advised to give
her music o' mornings; they say it will penetrate.
[Enter Musicians]
Come on; tune: if you can penetrate her with your
fingering, so; we'll try with tongue too: if none
will do, let her remain; but I'll never give o'er.
First, a very excellent good-conceited thing;
after, a wonderful sweet air, with admirable rich
words to it: and then let her consider.
[SONG]
Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes:
With every thing that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise:
Arise, arise.

Cloten. So, get you gone. If this penetrate, I will
consider your music the better: if it do not, it is
a vice in her ears, which horse-hairs and
calves'-guts, nor the voice of unpaved eunuch to
boot, can never amend.

Second Lord. Here comes the king.

Cloten. I am glad I was up so late; for that's the reason I
was up so early: he cannot choose but take this
service I have done fatherly.
[Enter CYMBELINE and QUEEN]
Good morrow to your majesty and to my gracious mother.

Cymbeline. Attend you here the door of our stern daughter?
Will she not forth?

Cloten. I have assailed her with music, but she vouchsafes no notice.

Queen. You are most bound to the king,
Who lets go by no vantages that may
Prefer you to his daughter. Frame yourself
To orderly soliciting, and be friended
With aptness of the season; make denials
Increase your services; so seem as if
You were inspired to do those duties which
You tender to her; that you in all obey her,
Save when command to your dismission tends,
And therein you are senseless.

Cloten. Senseless! not so.

Cymbeline. A worthy fellow,
Albeit he comes on angry purpose now;
But that's no fault of his: we must receive him
According to the honour of his sender;
And towards himself, his goodness forespent on us,
We must extend our notice. Our dear son,
When you have given good morning to your mistress,
Attend the queen and us; we shall have need
To employ you towards this Roman. Come, our queen.

Cloten. If she be up, I'll speak with her; if not,
Let her lie still and dream.
[Knocks]
By your leave, ho!
I Know her women are about her: what
If I do line one of their hands? 'Tis gold
Which buys admittance; oft it doth; yea, and makes
Diana's rangers false themselves, yield up
Their deer to the stand o' the stealer; and 'tis gold
Which makes the true man kill'd and saves the thief;
Nay, sometime hangs both thief and true man: what
Can it not do and undo? I will make
One of her women lawyer to me, for
I yet not understand the case myself.
[Knocks]
By your leave.

Lady. Who's there that knocks?

Cloten. A gentleman.

Lady. No more?

Cloten. Yes, and a gentlewoman's son.

Lady. That's more
Than some, whose tailors are as dear as yours,
Can justly boast of. What's your lordship's pleasure?

Cloten. Your lady's person: is she ready?

Lady. Ay,
To keep her chamber.

Cloten. There is gold for you;
Sell me your good report.

Lady. How! my good name? or to report of you
What I shall think is good?--The princess!

Cloten. Good morrow, fairest: sister, your sweet hand.

Imogen. Good morrow, sir. You lay out too much pains
For purchasing but trouble; the thanks I give
Is telling you that I am poor of thanks
And scarce can spare them.

Cloten. Still, I swear I love you.

Imogen. If you but said so, 'twere as deep with me:
If you swear still, your recompense is still
That I regard it not.

Cloten. This is no answer.

Imogen. But that you shall not say I yield being silent,
I would not speak. I pray you, spare me: 'faith,
I shall unfold equal discourtesy
To your best kindness: one of your great knowing
Should learn, being taught, forbearance.

Cloten. To leave you in your madness, 'twere my sin:
I will not.

Imogen. Fools are not mad folks.

Cloten. Do you call me fool?

Imogen. As I am mad, I do:
If you'll be patient, I'll no more be mad;
That cures us both. I am much sorry, sir,
You put me to forget a lady's manners,
By being so verbal: and learn now, for all,
That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce,
By the very truth of it, I care not for you,
And am so near the lack of charity--
To accuse myself--I hate you; which I had rather
You felt than make't my boast.

Cloten. You sin against
Obedience, which you owe your father. For
The contract you pretend with that base wretch,
One bred of alms and foster'd with cold dishes,
With scraps o' the court, it is no contract, none:
And though it be allow'd in meaner parties--
Yet who than he more mean?--to knit their souls,
On whom there is no more dependency
But brats and beggary, in self-figured knot;
Yet you are curb'd from that enlargement by
The consequence o' the crown, and must not soil
The precious note of it with a base slave.
A hilding for a livery, a squire's cloth,
A pantler, not so eminent.

Imogen. Profane fellow
Wert thou the son of Jupiter and no more
But what thou art besides, thou wert too base
To be his groom: thou wert dignified enough,
Even to the point of envy, if 'twere made
Comparative for your virtues, to be styled
The under-hangman of his kingdom, and hated
For being preferred so well.

Cloten. The south-fog rot him!

Imogen. He never can meet more mischance than come
To be but named of thee. His meanest garment,
That ever hath but clipp'd his body, is dearer
In my respect than all the hairs above thee,
Were they all made such men. How now, Pisanio!

Cloten. 'His garment!' Now the devil--

Imogen. To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently--

Cloten. 'His garment!'

Imogen. I hope so: go and search.

Cloten. You have abused me:
'His meanest garment!'

Imogen. Ay, I said so, sir:
If you will make't an action, call witness to't.

Cloten. I will inform your father.

Imogen. Your mother too:
She's my good lady, and will conceive, I hope,
But the worst of me. So, I leave you, sir,
To the worst of discontent.

Cloten. I'll be revenged:
'His meanest garment!' Well.

Queen. And, to kill the marvel,
Shall be so ever.

Cloten. There be many Caesars,
Ere such another Julius. Britain is
A world by itself; and we will nothing pay
For wearing our own noses.

Queen. That opportunity
Which then they had to take from 's, to resume
We have again. Remember, sir, my liege,
The kings your ancestors, together with
The natural bravery of your isle, which stands
As Neptune's park, ribbed and paled in
With rocks unscalable and roaring waters,
With sands that will not bear your enemies' boats,
But suck them up to the topmast. A kind of conquest
Caesar made here; but made not here his brag
Of 'Came' and 'saw' and 'overcame: ' with shame--
That first that ever touch'd him--he was carried
From off our coast, twice beaten; and his shipping--
Poor ignorant baubles!-- upon our terrible seas,
Like egg-shells moved upon their surges, crack'd
As easily 'gainst our rocks: for joy whereof
The famed Cassibelan, who was once at point--
O giglot fortune!--to master Caesar's sword,Made Lud's town with rejoicing fires bright
And Britons strut with courage.

Cloten. Come, there's no more tribute to be paid: our
kingdom is stronger than it was at that time; and,
as I said, there is no moe such Caesars: other of
them may have crook'd noses, but to owe such
straight arms, none.

Cymbeline. Son, let your mother end.

Cloten. We have yet many among us can gripe as hard as
Cassibelan: I do not say I am one; but I have a
hand. Why tribute? why should we pay tribute? If
Caesar can hide the sun from us with a blanket, or
put the moon in his pocket, we will pay him tribute
for light; else, sir, no more tribute, pray you now.

Cymbeline. You must know,
Till the injurious Romans did extort
This tribute from us, we were free:
Caesar's ambition,
Which swell'd so much that it did almost stretch
The sides o' the world, against all colour here
Did put the yoke upon 's; which to shake off
Becomes a warlike people, whom we reckon
Ourselves to be.

Cloten. [with Lords] We do.

Caius Lucius. Let proof speak.

Cloten. His majesty bids you welcome. Make
pastime with us a day or two, or longer: if
you seek us afterwards in other terms, you
shall find us in our salt-water girdle: if you
beat us out of it, it is yours; if you fall in
the adventure, our crows shall fare the better
for you; and there's an end.

Caius Lucius. Your hand, my lord.

Cloten. Receive it friendly; but from this time forth
I wear it as your enemy.

Queen. He goes hence frowning: but it honours us
That we have given him cause.

Cloten. 'Tis all the better;
Your valiant Britons have their wishes in it.

Queen. Son, I say, follow the king.

Cloten. That man of hers, Pisanio, her old servant,
have not seen these two days.

Queen. Go, look after.
[Exit CLOTEN]
Pisanio, thou that stand'st so for Posthumus!
He hath a drug of mine; I pray his absence
Proceed by swallowing that, for he believes
It is a thing most precious. But for her,
Where is she gone? Haply, despair hath seized her,
Or, wing'd with fervor of her love, she's flown
To her desired Posthumus: gone she is
To death or to dishonour; and my end
Can make good use of either: she being down,
I have the placing of the British crown.
[Re-enter CLOTEN]
How now, my son!

Cloten. 'Tis certain she is fled.
Go in and cheer the king: he rages; none
Dare come about him.

Queen. [Aside] All the better: may
This night forestall him of the coming day!

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 judgment
That what's else rare is choked; and in that point
I will conclude to hate her, nay, indeed,
To be revenged upon her. For when fools Shall--
[Enter PISANIO]
Who is here? What, are you packing, sirrah?
Come hither: ah, you precious pander! 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 missed?
He is in Rome.

Cloten. Where is she, sir? Come nearer;
No further halting: satisfy me home
What is become of her.

Pisanio. O, my all-worthy lord!

Cloten. All-worthy villain!
Discover where thy mistress is at once,
At the next word: no more of 'worthy lord!'
Speak, or thy silence on the instant is
Thy condemnation and thy death.

Pisanio. Then, sir,
This paper is the history of my knowledge
Touching her flight.

Cloten. Let's see't. I will pursue her
Even to Augustus' throne.

Pisanio. [Aside] Or this, or perish.
She's far enough; and what he learns by this
May prove his travel, not her danger.

Cloten. Hum!

Pisanio. [Aside] I'll write to my lord she's dead. O Imogen,
Safe mayst thou wander, safe return again!

Cloten. Sirrah, is this letter true?

Pisanio. Sir, as I think.

Cloten. It is Posthumus' hand; I know't. Sirrah, if thou
wouldst not be a villain, but do me true service,
undergo those employments wherein I should have
cause to use thee with a serious industry, that is,
what villany soe'er I bid thee do, to perform it
directly and truly, I would think thee an honest
man: thou shouldst neither want my means for thy
relief nor my voice for thy preferment.

Pisanio. Well, my good lord.

Cloten. Wilt thou serve me? for since patiently and
constantly thou hast stuck to the bare fortune of
that beggar Posthumus, thou canst not, in the
course of gratitude, but be a diligent follower of
mine: wilt thou serve me?

Pisanio. Sir, I will.

Cloten. Give me thy hand; here's my purse. Hast any of thy
late master's garments in thy possession?

Pisanio. I have, my lord, at my lodging, the same suit he
wore when he took leave of my lady and mistress.

Cloten. The first service thou dost me, fetch that suit
hither: let it be thy lint service; go.

Pisanio. I shall, my lord.

Cloten. Meet thee at Milford-Haven!--I forgot to ask him one
thing; I'll remember't anon:--even there, thou
villain Posthumus, will I kill thee. I would these
garments were come. She said upon a time--the
bitterness of it I now belch from my heart--that she
held the very garment of Posthumus in more respect
than my noble and natural person together with the
adornment of my qualities. With that suit upon my
back, will I ravish her: first kill him, and in her
eyes; there shall she see my valour, which will then
be a torment to her contempt. He on the ground, my
speech of insultment ended on his dead body, and
when my lust hath dined,--which, as I say, to vex
her I will execute in the clothes that she so
praised,--to the court I'll knock her back, foot
her home again. She hath despised me rejoicingly,
and I'll be merry in my revenge.
[Re-enter PISANIO, with the clothes]
Be those the garments?

Pisanio. Ay, my noble lord.

Cloten. How long is't since she went to Milford-Haven?

Pisanio. She can scarce be there yet.

Cloten. Bring this apparel to my chamber; that is the second
thing that I have commanded thee: the third is,
that thou wilt be a voluntary mute to my design. Be
but duteous, and true preferment shall tender itself
to thee. My revenge is now at Milford: would I had
wings to follow it! Come, and be true.

First Tribune. We will discharge our duty.

Cloten. I am near to the place where they should meet, if
Pisanio have mapped it truly. How fit his garments
serve me! Why should his mistress, who was made by
him that made the tailor, not be fit too? the
rather--saving reverence of the word--for 'tis said
a woman's fitness comes by fits. Therein I must
play the workman. I dare speak it to myself--for it
is not vain-glory for a man and his glass to confer
in his own chamber--I mean, the lines of my body are
as well drawn as his; no less young, more strong,
not beneath him in fortunes, beyond him in the
advantage of the time, above him in birth, alike
conversant in general services, and more remarkable
in single oppositions: yet this imperceiverant
thing loves him in my despite. What mortality is!
Posthumus, thy head, which now is growing upon thy
shoulders, shall within this hour be off; thy
mistress enforced; thy garments cut to pieces before
thy face: and all this done, spurn her home to her
father; who may haply be a little angry for my so
rough usage; but my mother, having power of his
testiness, shall turn all into my commendations. My
horse is tied up safe: out, sword, and to a sore
purpose! Fortune, put them into my hand! This is
the very description of their meeting-place; and
the fellow dares not deceive me.

Belarius. It is great morning. Come, away!--
Who's there?

Cloten. I cannot find those runagates; that villain
Hath mock'd me. I am faint.

Guiderius. He is but one: you and my brother search
What companies are near: pray you, away;
Let me alone with him.

Cloten. Soft! What are you
That fly me thus? some villain mountaineers?
I have heard of such. What slave art thou?

Guiderius. A thing
More slavish did I ne'er than answering
A slave without a knock.

Cloten. Thou art a robber,
A law-breaker, a villain: yield thee, thief.

Guiderius. To who? to thee? What art thou? Have not I
An arm as big as thine? a heart as big?
Thy words, I grant, are bigger, for I wear not
My dagger in my mouth. Say what thou art,
Why I should yield to thee?

Cloten. Thou villain base,
Know'st me not by my clothes?

Guiderius. No, nor thy tailor, rascal,
Who is thy grandfather: he made those clothes,
Which, as it seems, make thee.

Cloten. Thou precious varlet,
My tailor made them not.

Guiderius. Hence, then, and thank
The man that gave them thee. Thou art some fool;
I am loath to beat thee.

Cloten. Thou injurious thief,
Hear but my name, and tremble.

Guiderius. What's thy name?

Cloten. Cloten, thou villain.

Guiderius. Cloten, thou double villain, be thy name,
I cannot tremble at it: were it Toad, or
Adder, Spider,
'Twould move me sooner.

Cloten. To thy further fear,
Nay, to thy mere confusion, thou shalt know
I am son to the queen.

Guiderius. I am sorry for 't; not seeming
So worthy as thy birth.

Cloten. Art not afeard?

Guiderius. Those that I reverence those I fear, the wise:
At fools I laugh, not fear them.

Cloten. Die the death:
When I have slain thee with my proper hand,
I'll follow those that even now fled hence,
And on the gates of Lud's-town set your heads:
Yield, rustic mountaineer.