Often, when two works share a number of traits, it is tempting to assume that one was a direct source for the other. However, it is also possible that each adopted those motifs from a third text, or that the shared attributes are simply familiar tropes of the time and that no more direct connection between them exists. Even when known, the relative dates of composition and publication do not prove a direction or degree of influence. Whatever the relationship, the intertextual connections help readers understand the ways that ideas, themes, and language circulate in a particular society.

1. Excerpt fromTom-a-Lincoln, by Richard Johnson (1631)

[Although the excerpt below is based upon the 6^th edition (1631), the work's first part (containing the textual analogue) was registered to Richard Johnson in 1599—that is, well before Cymbeline—and Shakespeare may have been familiar with this work, or he may simply have been familiar with these conventional tropes, often employed in similar tales.

The similarities between the two texts are numerous and sometimes quite specific in detail, but significant differences and inversions counterbalance them. Essential elements which correspond between the two tales include a murderous female queen or empress who meets a clever doctor at dawn, looking for poison to kill a virtuous young woman who is the prospective bride of her son, only to have the doctor substitute a sleeping potion; a forbidden marriage between a ruler's child and one of lower parentage; a confrontation in the forest between a man and an innocent woman who is to be killed; and a parent going mad upon discovering the absence of a child.

However, inversions and variations occur as well. For instance, the empress in Tom-a-Lincoln does not want her son to marry Dulcippa (the analogue of Imogen), whereas that is precisely what the Queen in Cymbeline schemes to bring about; the sexes of the ruler's heir and the spouse of inferior birth are reversed; the doctor in Tom-a-Lincoln deliberately gives Dulcippa the sleeping potion; and the king rather than the queen or empress in Tom-a-Lincoln becomes frantic when his child is found to be missing. Taken in toto, and in conjunction with the differences between the dramatic and the literary romance genres, these recombinations work to create significantly different effects.]

"Sacred Dulcippa," quoth he, "in beauty brighter than glittering Cynthia{goddess of the moon} when with her beams she beautifies the vales of heaven. Thou art that Cynthia that with thy brightness dost light my cloudy thoughts, which have many days been overcast with stormy showers of love. Shine with thy beams of mercy on my mind, and let thy light conduct me from the dark and obscure labyrinth of love. If tears could speak, then should my tongue keep silence; therefore, let my sighs be messengers of true love. And though in words I am not able to deliver the true meaning of my desires, yet let my cause beg pity at your hands. Otherwise, your denial drowns my soul in a bottomless sea of sorrow. One of these two, most beauteous lady, do I desire: either to give life with a cheerful smile, or death with a fatal frown."

Valentine having no sooner ended his love's oration but{than} she, with a scarlet countenance, returned him this joyful answer: "Most noble prince, thy words within my heart hath{have} knit a Gordian knot which no earthly wight{being} may untie, for it is knit with faithful love and tears distilling from a constant mind. My heart, which never yet was subject to anyone, do I freely yield up into thy bosom, where it for evermore shall rest till the fatal sisters{the three mythical Fates} cut our lives asunder." And, in speaking these words, they kissed each other as the first earnest of their loves.

With that, the empress came through the gallery, who, espying their secret conference, presently nursed in her secret hate which she intended to practice against the guiltless lady, thinking it a scandal to her son's birth to match in marriage with one of so base a parentage. Therefore, purposing to cross their loves with dismal{sinister} stratagems and dreary{bloody} tragedies, she departed to her chamber, where she cloaked her treacheries up in silence and pondered in her heart how she might end their loves and finish Dulcippa's life. In this tragical imagination remained she all that night, hammering{turning over; constructing} in her head a thousand several practices{schemes}.

But no sooner was the dewy earth comforted with the hot beams of Apollo's fire but this thirsting empress arose from her careful{troubled} bed, penning herself closely within her chamber like one that made no conscience{had no scruples} for to kill. She in all haste sent for a doctor of physic--not to give physic to restore health but poison for untimely death--who being no sooner come into her presence but presently she locked her chamber door and with an angry countenance, staring him in the face, she breathed this horror into his harmless{innocent} ears: "Doctor, thou knowest how oft in secret matters I have used thy help, wherein as yet I never saw thy faith falsified, but now amongst the rest, I am to require thy aid in an earnest business so secret which if thou dost but tell it to the whispering winds, it is sufficient to spread it through the whole world, whereby my practices may be discovered and I be made a noted reproach{negative example} to all hearers."

"Madam," quoth the doctor, whose heart harbored no thought of bloody deeds, "what needs all these circumstances where duty doth command my true obedience? Desist not, therefore, gentle empress, to make me privy to your thoughts," for little did he think her mind could harbor so vile a thought.

But, having conjured{made him swear} most strongly his secrecy, she spake to him as followeth: "Doctor, the love—nay, rather, raging lust--which I have spied of late betwixt my unnatural son and proud{ambitious} Dulcippa may in short time, as thou knowest, bring a sudden alteration of our state, considering that he, being born a prince and descended from a royal race, should match in marriage with a base and ignoble maiden, daughter but to a mean{lowly} gentleman. Therefore, if I should suffer{allow} this secret love to go forward and seek not to prevent it, the emperor might condemn me of falsehood and judge me an agent in this unlawful love, which to avoid, I have a practice{scheme} in my head, and in thy hand it lies to procure thy prince's happiness and country's good. Dulcippa's father, as thou knowest, dwells about three miles from my palace, unto whose house I will this day send Dulcippa about such business as I think best, where thou shalt be appointed, and none but thou, to conduct her thither, where in a thick and bushy grove which standeth directly in the midway, thou shalt give her the cup of death, and so rid my heart from suspicious thoughts."

This bloody practice being pronounced by the empress caused such a terror to enter into the doctor's mind that he trembled forth this sorrowful complaint: "O you immortal powers of heaven, you guider of my hapless fortunes, why have you thus ordained me to be the bloody murderer of a chaste and virtuous lady and the true pattern of sobriety, whose untimeless{untimely} overthrow, if I should but once conspire, Diana's nymphs would turn their wonted natures and stain their hands with my accursed blood? Therefore, most glorious empress, cease your determination, for my heart will not suffer my hand to commit so foul a villainy."

"And wilt not thou do it then?" replied the empress with a mind fraught with rage and blood. "I do protest," quoth she, "by heaven's bright majesty, except{unless} thou dost consent to accomplish my intent, thy head shall warrant{guarantee} this my secrecy. Stand not on terms; my resolute attempt is clean impatient of objections."

The doctor, hearing her resolution and that nothing but Dulcippa's death might satisfy her wrath, he consented to her request and purposed{intended} cunningly to dissemble with the bloody queen, who believed that he would perform what she so much desired. So departing out of her chamber, she went to the guiltless lady, sending her on this fatal message, who, like to hapless Bellerophon{mythical Greek hero}, was ready to carry an embassage{message} of her own death. But in the meantime, the doctor harbored in his breast a world of bitter woes to think how vilely this virtuous lady was betrayed, and, considering in his mind how that he was forced by constraint to perform this tragedy, therefore he purposed not to give her a cup of poison but a sleeping drink to cast her into a trance, which she should as a cup of death receive, as well to try her virtuous constancy as to rid himself from so heinous a crime.

But now return we to Dulcippa, who, being sped of her message, went with the doctor, walking on the way, where all the talk which they had was of the liberal praise of Prince Valentine, who remained in court, little mistrusting what had happened to his beloved lady, and she likewise ignorant of the hurt that was pretended{intended} against her life. But, being both alone together in the wood, where nothing was heard but chirping birds which with their voices seemed to mourn at the lady's misfortune, but now the doctor, breaking off their former talk, took occasion to speak as followeth: "Man, of all other creatures, most virtuous lady, is most miserable, for nature hath ordained to every bird a pleasant tune to bemoan their mishaps: the nightingale doth complain her rape and lost virginity within the desert groves; the swan doth likewise sing a doleful heavy tune a while before she dies, as though heaven had inspired her with some foreknowledge of things to come. You, madam, now must sing your swan-like song, for the pretty birds, I see, do droop their hanging heads and mourn to think that you must die. Marvel not, madam; the angry queen will have it so. Accursed am I in being constrained to be the bloody instrument{tool} of so tyrannous a fact; accursed am I that have ordained{prepared} that cup which must by poison stanch the thirst of the bloody empress; and most accursed am I that cannot withstand the angry fates which have appointed me to offer outrage{violence} unto virtue."

And in speaking these words, he delivered the cup into the lady's hands, who, like a lamb that was led to the slaughter, used silence for her excuse. Many times lift{lifted} she up her eyes toward the sacred throne of heaven as though the gods had sent down vengeance upon her guiltless soul, and at last breathed forth these sorrowful lamentations: "Never," quoth she, "shall virtue stoop to vice. Never shall death affright my soul, nor never poison quench that lasting love which my true heart doth bear to princely Valentine, whose spirit, I hope, shall meet me in the joyful fields of Elysium, to call those ghosts that died for faithful love to bear me witness of my faith and loyalty."

And so taking the cup, she said, "Come, come, thou most blessed cup, wherein is contained that happy drink which gives rest to troubled minds. And thou most blessed wood, bear witness that I mix this baneful drink with tears distilling from my bleeding heart. These lips of mine that had wont to kiss Prince Valentine shall now most willingly kiss this ground that must receive my corpse. The author of my death I'll bless, for she honors me in that I die for my sweet Valentine's sake. And now, Doctor, to thee, being the instrument of this my death, I do bequeath all earthly happiness, and herewithal{with that}, I drink to Valentine's good fortune." So drinking off the sleeping potion, she was presently cast into a trance which she, poor lady, supposed death. The doctor, greatly admiring at her virtuous mind, erected her body against an aged oak, where he left her sleeping, and with all speed returned to the hateful queen and told her that he had performed her majesty's command, who gave him many thanks and promised to requite his secrecy with a large recompense.

But now speak we again of Prince Valentine, who had intelligence{news of} how the only comfort of his heart had ended her life by poison's violence, for which cause he leaves the court and converted his rich attire to ruthful{sorrowful} robes, his costly colored garments to a homely russet coat, and so traveling to the solitary woods, he vowed to spend the rest of his days in a shepherd's life. His royal scepter was turned into a simple sheep-hook, and all his pleasure was to keep his sheep from the teeth of the ravenous wolves.

Three times had glittering Phoebe{goddess of the moon} renewed her horned wings and decked the elements with her smiling countenance; three months were past; three moons had likewise run their wonted{usual} compass{course} before the Grecian emperor missed his princely son, whose want{absence} was no sooner bruited{sounded} through the court but he echoed forth this horror to himself: "What cursed planet thus indirectly rules my hapless course? Or what uncouth{strange}, dreary{sad} fate hath bereaved me of my princely son? Jove, send down thy burning thunderbolts and strike them dead that be procurers of his want{absence}. But if, sweet Venus, he be dead for love, hover his ghost before mine eyes that he may discover{reveal} the cause of his inflictions. But contrariwise, if his life be finished by the fury of some murderous mind, then let my exclamations pierce to the justful{righteous} majesty of heaven that never sun may shine upon his hated head which is the cause of my Valentine's decay{death}, or that{or allow that} the angry Furies{avenging deities} may lend me their burning whips, incessantly to scourge their purple souls till my son's wrongs be sufficiently revenged." Thus, or in such a like frantic{frenzied; mad} humor ran he up and down his palace till reason pacified his outrageous thoughts and by persuasion of his lords he was brought into his quiet bed.

2. Excerpt from Chapter 7, "Of Their Affections," Asylum Veneris; or, A Sanctuary for Ladies, by D[aniel] T[uvil] (1616)

[Daniel Tuvil's Asylum Veneris; or, A Sanctuary for Ladies demonstrates misogynist ranting similar to Posthumus's invective against women in act 2, scene 5, focusing in particular on woman's fickleness and ability to deceive. It further comments on the false etymology of "mulier" (wife) as mollis aer ("soft air") that occurs in act 5, scene 4 of Cymbeline, but in a less complimentary fashion, linking women's softness to infidelity. This anti-female attitude appears with great regularity across multiple genres in early modern literature, with even the most extreme allegations against women often being treated as gospel truth--though the egregious wrongness of Posthumus's conclusions about women may pose a challenge to this cultural norm.]

They be like looking-glasses, say their adversaries, which represent no object longer than it stands before them, and not then but with some flattery or deceit. Their words are like the sirens', never uttered but to work some wrack; their tears like the crocodiles', never shed but to purchase some occasion to be cruel. They have, as the Frenchman sayeth, visage d'ange, the shape and semblance of an angel, but, alas, tête de diable et oeil de basilic: the brains of a devil and the eye of a basilisk.

The Tuscan giveth us in a little volume their lively character: Di' di "si," e fa' di "no"--their thoughts are never seconded by their words, nor followed by their deeds. They come many times forth hand in hand, as if they did intend to tread one measure, but as in galliard, they fall off on a sudden and forsake each other. They never eye one another but asquint, and are then most distant from each other's view when they seem to face each other most. In all their actions, like the crab, they look one way but go another. And therefore say they, Chi dice "donna," dice "danno": he that nameth a lass, in effect nameth a loss, and in our native language "woman" carrieth no other sound with it than "man's woe."

The Latins, to show the softness, but withal the swiftness of their affections, say she was called mulier quasi mollis aer, and for confirmation of this fantastical etymology, that of Petrarch is alleged:

Femmina è cosa mobil' per natura,
Ond'io so ben, ch'un amoroso stato
In cuor di donna piccol' tempo dura.Light, wavering things by nature women are;
Hence, in their hearts, my knowledge is full sure:
An amorous state can but a while endure.

3. Epigrams 132 and 134, from Two Books of Epigrams and Epitaphs, by Thomas Bancroft (1639)

The shared use of even minor nuances of language and poetic figures can document not only patterns of literary influence but also common patterns of thought, practices, and tropes within a culture. Here, the depiction in Epigram 132 of a rejected object hanging on the wall draws upon the same cultural practice as when Imogen compares herself to a dress that is hung on a wall because it is no longer in fashion (3.4.44); and Epigram 134 pithily juxtaposes conscience-searching with prison, as Posthumus does when imprisoned in act 5, scene 3.

132. David's Harp out of Tune after its Master's Decease

How am I slighted now, whose strings
Lately entrained the ears of kings
And seemed by virtue of their charm
Th'infernal dragon to disarm!
Now being of no note at all,
My mirth hangs with me on the wall,
Though still as good as e'er did twang:
So may lost favorites go hang.

134. A Guilty Conscience

A guilty conscience is a jail wherein
The soul is chained with sorrow, charged with sin.

4. "The Tale of the Fishwife of Strand-on-the-Green," from Westward for Smelts(1620), by "Kind Kit of Kingston"

[Long linked with Cymbeline, "The Tale of the Fishwife of Strand-on-the-Green," one of the tales told in Westward for Smelts, presents intriguing parallels to the wager plot. In this version, the villain hides under the wife's bed at night rather than concealing himself in a trunk, and he steals a necklace with a crucifix, removed for the night, and presents it to the husband as his sole token of the wife's infidelity. Further parallels include the husband's servant being commanded to kill the supposedly unfaithful wife, only to relent in face of the wife's loyal submission; the wife concealing her identity by dressing as a page, and serving a highborn man; and the final climax, resolution, and revelations occurring in the king's presence. These broad strokes are enough to indicate a fairly close correspondence, but the final line of the tale may suggest a closer connection between the two texts with an apparent verbal borrowing to 3.4.43. Early editors claimed that Westward for Smelts existed as early as 1603, but the 1620 text that serves as the source text for the edited version below is the earliest extant edition.]

The next that sat to her was a fishwife of Strand-on-the-Green, who said her tale was pleasant but scarce honest; she taxed women with too much immodesty, to salve which she would tell the adventures of a poor gentlewoman that was used unkindly by her husband.

They all liked this well and entreated her to proceed, which she willingly consented unto.

Her Tale

In the troublesome{full of trouble} reign of King Henry the Sixth, there dwelled in Waltham, not far from London, a gentleman which had to wife a creature most beautiful so that in her time there were few found that matched her, none at all that excelled her, so excellent were the gifts that nature had bestowed on her. In body was she not only so rare and unparalleled but also in her gifts of mind so that in this creature it seemed that Grace and Nature strove who should excel{outrival} each other in their gifts toward her. The gentleman her husband thought himself so happy{fortunate} in his choice that he believed in choosing her he had took hold of that blessing which heaven proffereth every man once in his life. Long did not this opinion hold for current, for in his height of love, he began so to hate her that he sought her death; the cause I will tell you.

Having business one day to London, he took his leave very kindly of his wife, and accompanied with one man, he rode to London. Being toward night, he took up{rented lodgings at} his inn and, to be brief, he went to supper amongst other gentlemen. Amongst other talk at table, one took occasion to speak of women and what excellent creatures they were, so long as they continued loyal to man, to whom answered one, saying, "This is truth, sir; so is the devil good so long as he doth no harm, which is meaner: his goodness and women's loyalty will come both in one year, but it is so far off that none in this age shall live to see it."

This gentleman, loving his wife dearly (and knowing her to be free from this uncivil gentleman's general taxation of women), in her behalf said, "Sir, you are too bitter against the sex of women and do ill, for someone's sake that hath proved false to you, to tax the generality of womankind with lightness, and but I would not be counted uncivil amongst these gentlemen, I would give you the reply that approved untruth deserveth. You know my meaning, sir; construe my words as you please. Excuse me, gentlemen, if I be uncivil; I answer in the behalf of one who is as free from disloyalty as is the sun from darkness or the fire from cold."

"Pray, sir," said the other, "since we are opposite in opinions, let us rather talk like lawyers, that we may be quickly friends again, than like soldiers, which end their words with blows. Perhaps this woman that you answer for is chaste, but yet against her will, for many women are honest 'cause they have not the means and opportunity to be dishonest; so is a thief true in prison 'cause he hath nothing to steal. Had I but opportunity and knew this same saint you so adore, I would pawn my life and whole estate in a short while to bring you some manifest token of her disloyalty. Sir, you are young in the knowledge of women's sleights; your want of experience makes you too credulous: therefore, be not abused{mistaken}."

This speech of his made the gentleman more out of patience than before so that with much ado he held himself from offering violence, but his anger being a little over, he said, "Sir, I do verily believe that this vain speech of yours proceedeth rather from a loose and ill-mannered mind than of any experience you have had of women's looseness, and since you think yourself so cunning in that devilish art of corrupting women's chastity, I will lay down here a hundred pounds, against which you shall lay fifty pounds, and before these gentlemen I promise you, if that within a month's space you bring me any token of this gentlewoman's disloyalty for whose sake I have spoken in the behalf of all women, I do freely give you leave to enjoy the same, conditionally you not performing it, I may enjoy your money. If that it be a match, speak, and I will acquaint you where she dwelleth, and besides, I vow, as I am a gentleman, not to give her notice of any such intent that is toward her."

"Sir," quoth the man, "your proffer is fair, and I accept the same." So the money was delivered into the host of the house his hands, and the sitters-by were witnesses; so, drinking together like friends, they went every man to his chamber.

The next day this man, having knowledge of the place, rid{rode} thither, leaving the gentleman at the inn, who, being assured of his wife's chastity, made no other account but to win the wager, but it fell out otherwise, for the other vowed either by force, policy, or free will to get some jewel or other toy from her, which was enough to persuade the gentleman that he was a cuckold and win the wager he had laid. This villain, for he deserved no better style{title} lay at Waltham a whole day before he came to the sight of her; at last he espied her in the fields, to whom he went and kissed her--a thing no modest woman can deny.

After his salutation, he said, "Gentlewoman, I pray pardon me if I have been too bold. I was entreated by your husband, which is at London, I riding this way, to come and see you; by me he hath sent his commends{greetings} to you, with a kind entreat{entreaty} that you would not be discontented for his long absence, it being serious business that keeps him from your sight."

The gentlewoman very modestly bade him welcome, thanking him for his kindness, withal{in addition} telling him that her husband might command her patience so long as he pleased. Then entreated she him to walk homeward, where she gave him such entertainment as was fit for a gentleman and her husband's friend.

In the time of his abiding at her house, he oft would have singled her in private talk, but she perceiving the same, knowing it to be a thing not fitting a modest woman, would never come in his sight but at meals, and then were there so many at board that it was no time for to talk of lone matters; therefore, he saw he must accomplish his desire some other way, which he did in this manner: he, having lain two nights at her house and perceiving her to be free from lustful desires, the third night he feigned himself to be something{somewhat} ill and so went to bed timelier{earlier} than he was wont. When he was alone in his chamber, he began to think with himself that it was now time to do that which he determined, for if he tarried any longer, they might have cause to think that he came for some ill intent and waited opportunity to execute the same. Therefore, he resolved to do something that night that might win him the wager or utterly bring him in despair of the same.

With this resolution he went to her chamber, which was but a pair{flight} of stairs from his, and finding the door open, he went in, placing himself under the bed. Long had he not lain there but in came the gentlewoman with her maiden who, having been at prayers with her household, was going to bed. She, preparing herself to bedward, laid her head-tire{head-dress} and those jewels she wore on a little table thereby. At length, he perceived her to put off a little crucifix of gold, which daily she wore next to her heart. This jewel he thought fittest for his desire and therefore observed where she did lay the same. At length, the gentlewoman, having untired{undressed} herself, went to bed; her maid, then bolting of the door, took the candle and went to bed in a withdrawing room only separated with arras{tapestry wall-hanging}.

This villain lay still under the bed, listening if he could hear that the gentlewoman slept; at length, he might hear her draw her breath long. Then thought he all sure, and like a cunning villain rose without noise, going straight to the table where, finding of the crucifix, he lightly went to the door, which he cunningly unbolted. All this performed he with so little noise that neither the mistress nor the maid heard him.

Having gotten into his chamber, he wished for day that he might carry this jewel to her husband as sign of his wife's disloyalty, but seeing his wishes but in vain, he laid him down to sleep. Happy had she been had his bed proved his grave!

In the morning, so soon as the folks were stirring, he rose and went to the horse-keeper, praying him to help him to his horse, telling him that he had took his leave of his mistress the last night. Mounting his horse, away rid he to London, leaving the gentlewoman in bed, who, when she rose, attiring herself hastily 'cause one{someone} tarried to speak with her, missed not her crucifix. So passed she the time away, as she was wont other days to do, no whit troubled in mind, though much sorrow was toward{threatening} her; only she seemed a little discontented that her guest went away so unmannerly, she using him so kindly.

So leaving her, I will speak of him, who the next morning was betimes{early} at London, and coming to the inn, he asked for the gentleman, who then was in bed, but he quickly rose and came down to him, who seeing him returned so suddenly, he thought he came to have leave to release himself of his wager, but this chanced otherwise, for having saluted him, he said in this manner, "Sir, did not I tell you that you were too young in experience of woman's subtleties and that no woman was longer good than she had cause or time to do it? This you believed not and thought it a thing so unlikely that you have given me a hundred pounds for the knowledge of it. In brief, know your wife is a woman, and therefore a wanton, a changeling{fickle person}; to confirm that I speak, see here" -- showing him the crucifix-- "Know you this? If this be not sufficient proof, I will fetch you more."

At the sight of this, his blood left his face, running to comfort his faint heart, which was ready to break at the sight of this crucifix, which he knew she always wore next her heart, and therefore he must, as he thought, go something near{affect him deeply} which stole so private a jewel. But remembering himself, he cheers his spirits, seeing that was sufficient proof, and he{the other} had won the wager, which he commanded should be given to him.

Thus was the poor gentleman abused, who went into his chamber and, being weary of this world, seeing where he had put only his trust, he was deceived, he was minded to fall upon his sword and so end all his miseries at once, but his better genius{similar to a guardian angel} persuaded him contrary, and not so (by laying violent hand on himself) to leap into the devil's mouth. Thus being in many minds but resolving no one thing, at last he concluded to punish her with death which had deceived his trust, and himself utterly to forsake his house and lands and follow the fortunes of King Henry. To this intent, he called his man, to whom he said, "George, thou knowest I have ever held thee dear, making more account of thee than thy other fellows, and thou has often told me that thou didst owe thy life to me, which at any time thou wouldst be ready to render up to do me good."

"True, sir," answered his man. "I said no more then than I will now at any time, whensoever you please, perform."

"I believe thee, George," replied he, "but there is no such need. I only would have thee do a thing for me in which is no great danger, yet the profit which thou shalt have thereby shall amount to my wealth. For the love that thou bearest to me, and for thy own good, wilt thou do this?"

"Sir," answered George, "more for your love than any reward, I will do it--and yet money makes many men valiant. Pray tell me what it is."

"George," said his master, "this it is: thou must go home, praying thy mistress to meet me half the way to London, but having her by the way, in some private place, kill her. I mean as I speak: kill her, I say; this is my command, which thou hast promised to perform, which, if thou performest not, I vow to kill thee the next time thou comest in my sight. Now, for thy reward, it shall be this: take my ring, and when thou hast done my command, by virtue of it, do thou assume my place till my return, at which time thou shalt know what my reward is. Till then, govern my whole estate, and for thy mistress's absence and my own, make what excuse thou please: so be gone."

"Well, sir," said George, "since it is your will, though unwilling I am to do it, yet I will perform it."

So went he his way toward Waltham, and his master presently rid to the court where he abode with King Henry, who a little before was enlarged by the Earl of Warwick and placed in the throne again.

George, being come to Waltham, did his duty to his mistress, who wondered to see him and not her husband, for whom she demanded of George. He answered her that he was at Enfield and did request her to meet him there, to which she willingly agreed and presently rode with him toward Enfield. At length, they being come into a byway, George began to speak to her in this manner: "Mistress, I pray you tell me what that wife deserves who, through some lewd behavior of hers, hath made her husband to neglect his estate and means of life, seeking by all means to die, that he might be free from the shame which her wickedness hath purchased him."

"Why, George," quoth she, "hast thou met with some such creature? Be it whomsoever, might I be her judge, I think her worthy of death. How thinkest thou?"

"Faith, mistress," said he, "I think so too, and am so fully persuaded that her offense deserveth that punishment that I purpose to be executioner to such a one myself. Mistress, you are this woman. You have so offended my master—you know best how yourself—that he hath left his house, vowing never to see the same till you be dead, and I am the man appointed by him to kill you. Therefore, those words which you mean to utter, speak them presently, for I cannot stay{wait}."

Poor gentlewoman, at the report of these unkind words (ill deserved at her hands), she looked as one dead, and uttering abundance of tears, she at last spake these words: "And can it be that my kindness and loving obedience hath merited no other reward at his hands than death? It cannot be. I know thou only tryest me, how patiently I would endure such an uncivil command. I'll tell thee here, thus with body prostrate on the earth and hands lift up to heaven, I would pray for his preservation--those should be my worst words, for death's fearful visage shows pleasant to that soul that is innocent."

"Why then, prepare yourself," said George, "for by heaven I do not jest."

With that, she prayed him stay, saying, "And is it so? Then what{why} should I desire to live, having lost his favor (and without offense) whom I so dearly loved, and in whose sight my happiness did consist? Come, let me die. Yet, George, let me have so much favor at thy hands as to commend me in these few words to him. Tell him, my death I willingly embrace, for I have owed him my life--yet no other wise but by a wife's obedience--ever since I called him husband, but that I am guilty of the least fault toward him, I bitterly deny, and do, at this hour of my death, desire that heaven would pour down vengeance upon me if ever I offended him in thought. Entreat him that he would not speak ought that were ill on me when I am dead, for in good troth I have deserved none. Pray heaven bless him. I am prepared now; strike, prithee, home, and kill me and my griefs at once."

George, seeing this, could not withhold himself from shedding tears, and with pity he let fall his sword, saying, "Mistress, that I have used you so roughly, pray pardon me, for I was commanded so by my master, who hath vowed if I let you live, to kill me. But I, being persuaded that you are innocent, I will rather undergo the danger of his wrath than to stain my hands with the blood of your clear and spotless breast. Yet let me entreat you so much that you would not come in his sight lest in his rage he turn your butcher, but live in some disguise till time have opened{revealed} the cause of his mistrust and showed you guiltless, which I hope will not be long."

To this she willingly granted, being loath to die causeless, and thanked him for his kindness; so parted they both, having tears in their eyes. George went home, where he showed his master's ring for the government of the house till his master and mistress's return, which he said lived a while at London 'cause the time was so troublesome, and that was a place where they were more secure than in the country. This his fellows believed and were obedient to his will, amongst whom he used himself so kindly that he had all their loves.

This poor gentlewoman, mistress of the house, in short time got man's apparel for her disguise; so wandered she up and down the country, for she could get no service because the time was so dangerous that no man knew whom he might trust. Only she maintained herself with the price of those jewels which she had, all which she sold. At the last, being quite out of money, and having nothing left which she could well spare to make money of, she resolved rather to starve than so much to debase herself to become a beggar; with this resolution she went to a solitary place beside York, where she lived the space of two days on herbs and such things as she could there find.

In this time it chanced that King Edward{Edward IV}, being come out of France and lying{lodging} thereabout with the small forces he had, came that way with some two or three noblemen with an intent to discover if any ambushes were laid to take him at an advantage. He, seeing there this gentlewoman, whom he supposed to be a boy, asked her what she was and what she made there in that private place, to whom she very wisely and modestly withal answered that she was a poor boy whose bringing up had been better than her outward parts then showed, but at that time she was both friendless and comfortless{without assistance} by reason of the late war.

He, being moved to see one so well featured (as she was) to want, entertained her for one of his pages, to whom she showed herself so dutiful and loving that in short time she had his love above all her fellows. Still{always} followed she the fortunes of King Edward, hoping at last, as not long after it did fall out, to be reconciled to her husband.

After the battle at Barnet where King Edward got the best, she, going up and down amongst the slain men to know whether her husband, which was on King Henry's side, were dead or escaped, happened to see the other who had been her guest lying there for dead. She, remembering him and thinking him to be one whom her husband loved, went to him and finding him not dead, she caused one to help her with him to a house thereby where, opening of his breast to dress his wounds, she espied her crucifix, at sight of which her heart was joyful, hoping by this to find him that was the original of her disgrace, for she, remembering herself, found that she had lost that crucifix ever since that morning he departed from her house so suddenly; but saying nothing of it at that time, she caused him to be carefully looked unto and brought up to London after her, whither she went with the king, carrying the crucifix with her.

On a time when he was a little recovered, she went to him, giving him the crucifix which she had taken from about his neck, to whom he said, "Good gentle youth, keep the same, for now in my misery of sickness, when the sight of that picture should be most comfortable{morally reassuring}, it is to me most uncomfortable{causing moral discomfort} and breedeth such horror in my conscience when I think how wrongfully I got the same that so long as I see it, I shall never be in rest."

Now knew she that he was the man that caused the separation twixt her husband and herself, yet said she nothing, using him as respectively{respectfully} as she had before, only she caused the man in whose house he lay to remember the words he had spoken concerning the crucifix.

Not long after, she being alone, attending on the king, beseeched his grace to do her justice on a villain that had been the cause of all the misery she had suffered. He, loving her above all his other pages most dearly, said, "Edmund," for so had she named herself, "thou shalt have what right thou wilt on thy enemy; cause him to be sent for, and I will be thy judge myself."

She, being glad of this, with the king's authority sent for her husband, whom she heard was one of the prisoners that was taken at the Battle of Barnet, she appointing the other, now recovered, to be at the court the same time. They being both come (but not one seeing of the other), the king sent for the wounded man into the presence, before whom the page asked him how he came by the crucifix.

He, fearing that his villainy would come forth, denied the words he had said before his host, affirming he bought it. With that she called in the host of the house where he lay, bidding him boldly speak what he had heard this man say concerning the crucifix. The host then told the king that in the presence of this page, he heard him entreat that the crucifix might be taken from his sight, for it did wound his conscience to think how wrongfully he had gotten the same. Those words did the page aver, yet he utterly denied the same, affirming that he bought it, and if that he did speak such words in his sickness, they proceeded from the lightness of his brain and were untruths.

She seeing this villain's impudency sent for her husband in, to whom she showed the crucifix, saying, "Sir, do you know, do you know this?"

"Yes," answered he, "but would God I ne'er had known the owner of it! It was my wife's, a woman virtuous till this devil"--speaking to the other—"did corrupt her purity, who brought me this crucifix as a token of her inconstancy."

With that, the king said, "Sirrah, now are you found to be a knave; did you not even now affirm you bought it?"

To whom he answered with fearful countenance, "And it like your grace, I said so, to preserve this gentleman's honor and his wife's, which by my telling of the truth would have been much endamaged, for indeed she being a secret friend of mine gave me this as a testimony of her love."

The gentlewoman, not being able longer to cover herself in that disguise said, "And it like your majesty, give me leave to speak, and you shall see me make this villain confess how he hath abused that good gentleman." The king having given her leave, she said, "First, sir, you confessed before your host and myself that you had wrongfully got this jewel; then, before his majesty, you affirmed you bought it, so denying your former words. Now you have denied that which you so boldly affirmed before and have said it was this gentleman's wife's gift. With his majesty's leave, I say thou art a villain, and this is likewise false."

With that, she discovered herself to be a woman, saying, "Hadst thou, villain, ever any strumpet's favor at my hands? Did I, for any sinful pleasure I received from thee, bestow this on thee? Speak, and if thou have any goodness left in thee, speak the truth."

With that, he, being daunted at her sudden sight, fell on his knees before the king, beseeching his grace to be merciful unto him, for he had wronged that gentlewoman; therewith told he the king of the match{contest} between the gentleman and himself, and how he stole the crucifix from her and by that means persuaded her husband that she was a whore.

The king wondered how he durst, knowing God to be just, commit so great villainy, but much more admired he to see his page to turn a gentlewoman; but, ceasing to admire, he said, "Sir"--speaking to her husband—"you did the part of an unwise man to lay so foolish a wager, for which offense the remembrance of your folly is punishment enough; but, seeing it concerns me not, your wife shall be your judge."

With that, Mistress Dorrill, thanking his majesty, went to her husband, saying, "Sir, all my anger to you I lay down with this kiss."

He, wondering all this while to see this strange and unlooked-for change, wept for joy, desiring her to tell him how she was preserved, wherein she satisfied him at full. The king was likewise glad that he had preserved this gentlewoman from willful{voluntary} famine and gave judgment on the other in this manner: that he should restore the money treble which he had wrongfully got from him and so was to have a year's imprisonment.

So this gentleman and his wife went with the king's leave lovingly home, where they were kindly welcomed by George, to whom for recompense he gave the money which he received. So lived they ever after in great content. How like you of this woman?

Some praised her (as she deserved) extraordinarily.

"But," said the Brentford fishwife, "I like her as a garment out of fashion: she showed well in that innocent time when women had not the wit to know their own liberty, but if she lived now, she would show as vile as a pair of Yorkshire sleeves in a goldsmith's shop."

5. Excerpt from Ornatus and Artesia, by Emanuel Ford (1607)

[Although the illicit nighttime visit of Ornatus to the sleeping Artesia in her chamber in Ornatus and Artesia, by Emanuel Ford, is represented as welcome and their relationship is consummated, this scene evokes Iachimo's invented version of his own encounter with Imogen. When Posthumus pictures Imogen's supposed dalliance with Iachimo, Posthumus's efforts to reconcile his knowledge of Imogen's previous modest behavior with the apparent lack of restraint she shows with Iachimo may result in his imagining a scenario like this. Dated 1607, it is impossible to tell whether Cymbeline or Ornatus and Artesia preceded the other.]

His mind being exceedingly affrighted with these cares, he entered into Artesia's chamber to see whether he had disquieted her or no with the noise. Her he found in bed and fast asleep, with the light still burning by her bedside, her breast uncovered down to the waist, and nothing to shroud her from his perfect view but the single sheet that lay carelessly cast over her tender body, her arms cast to either side of the bed, and her head leaning on the one side with so sweet an aspect as would have ravished a thousand beholders. Ornatus's heart was revived to behold this sweet sight, that the remembrance thereof had banished all remembrance of his troubles past and affected his heart with incomparable delight, that he stood like one amazed to behold her sweet beauty and to take a surfeiting view of those her perfections so amiably laid forth.

Artesia, suddenly awaking, blushed to see him so nigh, yet therewith more comforted than dismayed, she caught the clothes and covered herself whilst he, folding his hand in hers, desired pardon for his boldness; but she, viewing him well, beheld his pale and ghastly countenance, which drave her into fear, and raising herself upright in her bed, caught him in her arms, asking what he ailed to look so pale.

"My dear Artesia," quoth he, "since I parted from you, I have endured great danger and passed through a hell of calamities, which now I fear not." With that, he let his head fall into her sweet bosom, and there made the period of his speech, feeling her tender heart pant with the motions of her troubled spirits, in which palace he rested it a good while, whilst she with her soft hand curled his hair, and with sweet kisses mollified his lips, using many other familiarities and sweet favors proceeding from the depth of kind love, wherewith Ornatus was so ravished that he not only took heavenly comfort therein but also desired a further content and possession of her love, which he never before asked nor thought she would grant.

But being heartened by the assurance of her love, he used more bold behavior, which she permitted, but at last, growing more bold than she thought convenient for her modesty to permit, with a kind and lovely behavior she both blamed and hindered him. But the motions of affection so far prevailed with them both that he desired, and she inwardly yielded, though outwardly she refused; but his behavior, her own love, the present occasion, so fit opportunity, their hearts' unity, and other sweet enticements so far prevailed that she yielded up her unspotted body and pure chastity to his possession, and the impression of his attempt dissolved her virgin zone, giving full interests of her heart, love, and body to him that pursued the possession of those riches with earnestness: sometimes blushing, sometimes shrieking, and yet yielding, denying and yet granting, willing and unwilling; yet at last she gave that she could not recall and let him possess her spotless virginity, which, being past, her heart panted with the motion, and she felt her senses sad--a little repenting, yet not altogether sorry; sighing for sadness, and yet not sad at all--whilst he bathed himself in that haven of bliss, passing the rest of that night in such unspeakable pleasure as cannot be deciphered.

Early the next morning he arose, taking his farewell with a sweet adieu, leaving Artesia sad for sorrow and lamenting his absence, but yet with earnest and hearty prayers invocating his happy success; bathing her heart in lukewarm tears; thinking she had been too prodigal of her favors to him and yet esteeming him worthy of a thousand times greater gift, if she had it in her possession; with repentance rejoicing, though deeming herself metamorphose[d] and other than she was wont to be; being glad she had no more company to converse withal, lest her guilt should make her blush and so bewray her fault.

6. Excerpt from Arviragus and Philicia, by Lodowick Carlell (1639)

[The emphasis in this passage on a daughter reluctant to enter into a marriage contract without her father's consent, in conjunction with the exchange of a bracelet for a ring as love-tokens, would connect this play to Cymbeline even were it not for the fact that each play has characters named Arviragus and Guiderius, which may illustrate the way that Shakespeare's plays began influencing other playwrights even in minor elements.

Furthermore, although attitudes regarding marriage were in flux between the first decade of the 1600s when Cymbeline was written and the second half of the 1630s when Arviragus and Philicia was evidently composed, performed, and published, this excerpt also illustrates, at greater length, a debate regarding the limitations of filial obedience in matters of marriage.]

Act 2

Enter Arviragus and Philicia

ARVIRAGUS
Madam, you still prevent{anticipate; arrive before} me and your own appointed times, yet 'tis but like your other gracious favors, in every act causing addition to that love which I believed complete; but here, and in celestial bodies, my love and admiration rise higher as I increase in knowledge of your excellence and love to me.

PHILICIA
My love to you? Fortune, my dearest servant, hath yet been wanting in an occasion wherein I might express what I would do for you.

ARVIRAGUS
Take heed! You do complain too soon: th'occasion is too near, and fierce necessity compels me with an abruptness bordering on incivility to beg an answer to that suit I scarce had moved when we were interrupted by your father's coming; to think you did not understand me were but to call in question th'intelligence our truly loving souls have held so long.

PHILICIA
'Tis true, I did. 'Twas a contract that you meant, I'll name it plainly for you; I dare as boldly speak my thoughts to you as I dare think them. Let ceremonious lovers that with strange hyperbolical expressions seek to endear each other be more in heart than in their tongues; mine neither shall come short nor yet exceed what my soul feels. I love thee, noble Arviragus, equal with myself but yet less than mine honor, which by a private contract needs must suffer.

ARVIRAGUS
Dear mistress, be not offended that with a soul as free I speak my thoughts. Did I believe this your refusal grew not from an opinion that ere long your father's liking might be won to crown your wishes, I should not know which way to find a cure for the deep wound that you have given me, nor shall I for mine own sake wish to live after this hour when I shall let you know the cause that makes me press this grant{favor} if ye shall then refuse it.

PHILICIA
Although I fear to bid you, name it.

ARVIRAGUS
What you perhaps may have suspected in part, be pleased to know for certain: there's no time nor place where I can count myself secure. Danger, and of all kinds, circles me round; both force and policy are set on work. Your brother's malice hath prevailed, poisoned your father's soul with foul ingratitude, within whose smiles I read certain destruction, which by the gods I am commanded to prevent by flight, lest I should force them be unjust or tempt them by a miracle to save my life. This minute that I kneel and beg your license to depart, 'tis not unlike I may be pierced through with a bullet, for there are spies upon me, nor shall their execution need if you deny th' blessing of your plighted faith: that curse will strike me dead.

PHILICIA
Rise, rise, Arviragus.

ARVIRAGUS
Not till you grant my suit.

PHILICIA
How can I without breach of duty?

ARVIRAGUS
How can I live then, removed from you in person and wanting the great assurance of your love?

[PHILICIA]
Can you suspect my faith?

ARVIRAGUS
If I did so suspect your faith, I should not thus beg th'engagement of it, but I may doubt your love equals not mine since you deny me to make me blest by an assurance.

PHILICIA
The love you injure thus is made apparent most in this refusal: let such whose loves are tottering and unstable, who have not virtue and perfection for their grounds, seek aids and ceremonial bands to hold them firm; mine is a love as fixed as are thy virtues, which does admit no possibility of change.

ARVIRAGUS
But if your father shall dispose your person to another, what then becomes of all this glorious boast of love and constancy? Think not to say you ever will be mine in soul: the gods that joined that and the body as well allow self-murder as these to have a separation after marriage.

PHILICIA
I could not pardon this so low a thought but that th'injury does more reflect upon yourself than me since you profess you love her that you yet believe so worthless. But to th' purpose: my soul tells me your stay is dangerous. The gods and nature both command we should not marry 'gainst our parents' will, yet that does not approve{prove} that we of force{necessarily} must marry whom they please. Though both show disobedience, yet the last hath many excuses, one that the parents dare not but accept of: devotion to the service of the gods. But if this prove my fate, I would not for a world lose the glory of my sufferings were I contracted yours: to die, rather than marry any other? An honest milkmaid would with joy perform as much for a rude shepherd; but to stand free from any other band than that of love, which is so often and so easily broke by vicious souls, and yet continue constant were an act worthy the daughter of a king and mistress to the noble Arviragus.

ARVIRAGUS
Upon my knee I thank ye more for this refusal than had you granted. Ye have rectified my soul, letting me see the beauties of your own; nor had assurance suited with my doubtful fortune. Since not your husband, yet as your servant, grant some favor--not that by it I may remember you, but as a charm to shield me from all dangers.

PHILICIA
Then we must part. Here, take this bracelet; give me that ring. I'll seal my letters with it. This, and our usual character shall only be of faith betwixt us. But in what country do ye mean to live until these storms blow over?

ARVIRAGUS
There's nothing can allay these storms but my heart blood.

PHILICIA
I dare not think upon my misery; it will o'erwhelm me with a sorrow not to be borne. Ye do not tell me where you mean to remain or how I shall send to ye.

ARVIRAGUS
May I not be pardoned now? Ye shall have notice quickly where I am.

PHILICIA
What country?

ARVIRAGUS
That's it I would conceal.

PHILICIA
How, conceal from me?

ARVIRAGUS

Takes out a letter

'Twas well I did prepare for this, my dearest mistress; it now draws towards morning, and young Guiderius with a friend or two waits with my horse without the ports. 'Tis not consideration of my danger so much as theirs, leaves me the use of memory to tell me what I have to do, for I forever could remain here. Be pleased when I am gone to read this paper; that will inform you all that I intend.

PHILICIA
May I not know it now?

ARVIRAGUS
Build{rely} on your servant; faith, 'tis not fit ye should. O dearest mistress, can I live and leave you thus, since from our infancy we have grown up together?

PHILICIA
Shall we ever meet again?

ARVIRAGUS
I hope we shall.

PHILICIA
It was but faintly spoke; there was no faith in't. Oh, my sad heart!

ARVIRAGUS
Am I a man, a soldier, yet play the woman thus? Not to be touched at such a parting were to be more insensible than a rock or tigers that yet pity their own distress. Drop faster, ye beloved tears, like those shed for our crimes. This shame to manhood is my height of glory.

PHILICIA
Oh, cruel farewell! We shall never meet again.

7. Excerpt from The Coxcomb, by John Fletcher and Francis Beaumont (1608-1610)

[In this passage from John Fletcher and Francis Beaumont's The Coxcomb, dating from the same period as Cymbeline, the authors employ several of the same motifs that occur when Imogen encounters her brothers in the woods and serves them as a kind of housekeeper. Both women may wish for a simple rural life and associate it with greater contentment than can be found in the court or in the city, but as is often the case, the tone and genre dictate different outcomes: appropriate to the romantic pastoral mood of Cymbeline, Imogen—despite presumably never in her life having had to cook or clean as a princess at court—is naturally gifted at housework, while Viola's lack of experience with domestic labor in this more realistic and urban-centered comedy produces a far more humorous outcome.]

From Act 3

VIOLA
Woman, they say, was only made of man.
Methinks 'tis strange they should be so unlike.
It may be all the best was cut away
To make the woman, and the nought{worthless or morally bad} was left
Behind with him. I'll sit me down and weep.
All things have cast me from 'em but the earth;
The evening comes, and every little flower
Droops now, as well as I.

Enter two milkmaids with pails, [apart]

NAN
Good Madge, let's rest a little. By my troth, I am weary! This new pail is a plaguey heavy one. Would Tom were hanged for choosing it! 'Tis{Tom is} the untowardest{most dim-witted} fool in a country.

MADGE
With all my heart, and I thank you too, Nan.

VIOLA [apart]
What true contented happiness dwells here
More than in cities? Would to God my father
Had lived like one of these and bred me up
To milk and do as they do; methinks
'Tis a life that I would choose if I were now
To tell my time again, above a prince's{a term for a ruler of either sex}. – [to Nan and Madge] Maids, for charity,
Give a poor wench{maid} one draft of milk
That weariness and hunger have nigh famished.

NAN
If I had but one cow's milk in all the world, you should have some on't{of it}. There, drink more. The cheese shall pay for it. -- Alas, poor heart! She's dry{parched}.

MADGE
Do you dwell hereabouts?

VIOLA
No, would I did.

NAN
Madge, if she do not look like my cousin Sue o'th' more{greater} lane as one thing can look like another—

MADGE
Nay, Sue has a hazel eye. I know Sue well and, by your leave, not so trim{attractive} a body, neither. This is a feat-bodied{elegant-bodied} thing, I tell you.

NAN
She laces close{cinches her waist in tightly with laces}, by the mass, I warrant you, and so does Sue, too.

VIOLA
I thank you for your gentleness, fair maids.

NAN
Drink again, pray thee.

VIOLA
I am satisfied, and heaven reward thee for't, yet thus far I will compel you to accept these trifles, toys{trinkets} only that express my thanks, for greater worth I'm sure they have not in them. Indeed, you shall; I found 'em as I came.

NAN [to Madge]
Madge, look you here, Madge.

MADGE [to Nan]
Nay, I have as fine a one as you. Mine's all gold and painted, and precious stone in't; I warrant it cost a crown, wench.

NAN [to Madge]
But mine is the most sumptuous one that e'er I saw.

VIOLA
One favor you must do me more, for you are well acquainted here.

NAN
Indeed, we'll do you any kindness, sister.

VIOLA
Only to send me to some honest place where I may find a service.

NAN [to Madge]
Uds me{God bless me}, our Dorothy went away but last week, and I know my mistress wants a maid, and why may she not be placed there? This is a likely wench, I tell you truly, and a good wench, I warrant her.

MADGE[to Nan]
And 'tis a hard case if we that have served four years apiece cannot bring in one servant. We will prefer her. – [to Viola] Hark you, sister. Pray, what's your name?

VIOLA
Melvia.

NAN
A feat{elegant} name, i'faith. And can you milk a cow? And make a merribowk{posset}? That's nothing.

VIOLA
I shall learn quickly.

NAN
And dress a house with flowers? And serve a pig? This you must do, for we deal{work} in the dairy. And make a bed or two?

VIOLA
I hope I shall.

NAN
But be sure to keep the men out. They will mar all that you make else; I know that by myself, for I have been so toused{ruffled in horseplay} among 'em in my days. Come, you shall e'en home{go home together} with us and be our fellow{coworker}. Our house is so honest, and we serve a very good woman, and a gentlewoman, and we live as merrily and dance a good days after evensong. Our wake{festival} shall be on Sunday. Do you know what a wake is? We have mighty cheer then, and such a coil{noisy chaos}, 'twould bless ye. You must not be so bashful; you'll spoil all.

MADGE
Let's home, for God's sake. My mistress thinks by this time we are lost. Come, we'll have a care of you, I warrant you; but you must tell my mistress where you were born, and everything that belongs{pertains} to you, and the strangest things you can devise, for she loves those extremely. 'Tis no matter whether they be true or no; she's not so scrupulous. You must be our sister and love us best and tell us everything, and when cold weather comes, we'll lie together. Will you do this?

VIOLA
Yes.

NAN
Then home again, a{in} God's name. Can you go apace{quickly}?

VIOLA
I warrant you.

Exeunt

***

Act 4

Enter Mother, Viola, and 2 Milkmaids [Madge and Nan]

MOTHER
Is this the wench{maid}? You have brought me some catch, I warrant.
How injuringly she looks upon the matter!

MADGE
Yes, forsooth{truly}. This is the maiden.

MOTHER
Come hither. Would you serve?

VIOLA
If it shalt please you to accept my service, I hope I shall do something that shall like{please} you, though it be but truth and often praying for you.

MOTHER
You are very curious{cautious or fastidious} of your hand, methinks,
You preserve it so with gloves. Let me see it.
Ay, marry, here's a hand of marchpane{marzipan; i.e., overly fussy} wenches:
This pretty palm never knew sorrow yet.
How soft it is, I warrant you, and supple{tender}!
O' my word, this is fitter for a pocket to filch withal
Than to work. I fear me, little one,
You are no better than you should be; go to{disapproving interjection}.

VIOLA
My conscience yet is but one witness to me,
And that, heaven knows, is of mine innocence.
'Tis true, I must confess, with shame enough,
The time that I have led yet never taught me
What 'twas to break a sleep or to be weary.

MOTHER
You can say well; if you be mine, wench, you must do well too, for words are but slow workers; yet so much hope I have of you that I'll take you so{so long as} you'll be diligent and do your duty.

***

Enter Mother beating Viola; Alexander with a broken glass

MOTHER
I'll make thee have more care!

VIOLA
Good mistress, pardon me!

MOTHER
Thou't ne'er be good, I warrant thee. Can your fine fingers hold no faster{more securely}?

VIOLA
Indeed, it was against my will.

MOTHER
Alexander, let's see the glass. As I am true cursened{christened} woman, it is one of the crystal glasses my cousin sent me, and the baggage{strumpet} hath broke it where it cannot be mended. Alexander, can Humphrey mend this, think you?

ALEXANDER
No, truly, this will ne'er be mended.

VIOLA
Truly, I meant but to wash it for the gentlewoman that is sick above, and, shaking out the water, knocked it against the pail's side.

MOTHER
Did you so? Be sure I'll stop{dock your wages for} it. 'Twill make a good gap in your quarter's wages, can tell you.

VIOLA
I pray forgive me, and let me have no wages this first quarter.

MOTHER
Go, whimling{"A miserable or insignificant creature." OED}, and fetch two or three grating loaves out of the kitchen to make gingerbread of. Exit Viola
[to Alexander] 'Tis{Viola is} such an untoward{dimwitted} thing.

ALEXANDER
She's somewhat simple indeed. She knew not what a kimnel{tub used in the kitchen for food preparation} was. She wants good nurture mightily.

MOTHER
My son tells me, Alexander, that this young widow means to sojourn here. She offers largely{generously} for her board. I may offer her good cheer. Prithee, make a step i'th' morning down to the parsonage for some pigeons. – [to Viola, within] What, are you mad there? What noise is that? Are you at bowls{playing a game of bowls} within? Why do you whine?

Enter Viola, weeping

VIOLA
I have done another fault. I beseech you, sweet mistress, forgive me.

MOTHER
What's the matter?

VIOLA
As I was reaching for the bread that lay upon the shelf, I have thrown down the minced meat that should have made the pies tomorrow.

MOTHER
Get thee out of my house, thou filthy, destroying harlot, thou! I'll not keep thee an hour longer.

VIOLA
Good mistress, beat me rather for my fault as much as it deserves. I do not know whither to go.

MOTHER
No, I warrant thee, out of my doors.

VIOLA
Indeed, I'll mend{improve}. – [to Alexander] I pray, speak you for me.

ALEXANDER
If thou hadst hurled down anything but the pie meat, I would have spoke for thee, but I cannot find in my heart now.

MOTHER
Art thou here yet? I think I must have an officer to thrust thee out of my doors, must I?

VIOLA
Why, you may stop this in my wages{dock my wages for this}, too.
For God's sake, do. I'll fine myself this year,
And let me stay.

MOTHER
Thou't spoil ten times as much. I'll cudgel thee out of my doors.

VIOLA
I am assured you are more merciful
Than thus to beat me and discharge me too.

MOTHER
Dost thou dispute with me? Alexander, carry the prating hilding{good-for-nothing} forth.

VIOLA
Good mistress, hear me. I have here a jewel
My mother left me, and 'tis something worth;
Receive it, and when all my faults together
Come to the worth of that, then turn me forth.
'Till then, I pray you keep me.

MOTHER
What jiggumbob have we here? Pray god you have not pilfered this somewhere. Th'art such a puling{whining} thing. Wipe your eyes and rise, go your ways. -- Alexander, bid the cook mince some more meat. – [to Viola] Come and get you to bed quickly that you may up betime{early} i'th' morning a-milking, or you and I shall fall out worse yet.

8. Excerpt from Chapter 3, The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia, by Sir Philip Sidney (1590)

[The early modern admiration for lifelike paintings, statues, tapestry, and other artwork often finds expression in literary descriptions praising art for its natural appearance, as in act 2, scene 4, where Iachimo describes Imogen's chamber to Posthumus, and the excerpt below from Sir Philip Sidney's romance, The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia.]

In the midst of all the place was a fair pond whose shaking crystal was a perfect mirror to all the other beauties, so that it bare show of two gardens, one indeed, the other in shadows, and in one of the thickets was a fine fountain made thus: a naked Venus of white marble, wherein the graver had used such cunning that the natural blue veins of the marble were framed in fit places to set forth the beautiful veins of her body. At her breast she had her babe Aeneas, who seemed, having begun to suck, to leave that, to look upon her fair eyes, which smiled at the babe's folly, the meanwhile, the breast running.

Hard by was a house of pleasure built for a summer retiring place, whither Kalander leading him, he found a square room full of delightful pictures made by the most excellent workman of Greece. There was Diana when Actaeon saw her bathing, in whose cheeks the painter had set such a color as was mixed between shame and disdain, and one of her foolish nymphs, who weeping and withal lowering, one might see the workman meant to set forth tears of anger.

In another table was Atalanta, the posture of whose limbs was so lively expressed that if the eyes were the only judges, as they be the only seers, one would have sworn the very picture had run, besides many mo[re], as of Helena, Omphale, Iole, but in none of them all beauty seemed to speak so much as in a large table which contained a comely old man with a lady of middle age but of excellent beauty, and more excellent would have been deemed but that there stood between them a young maid whose wonderfulness took away all beauty from her but that which it might seem she gave her back again by her very shadow. And such difference being known that it did indeed counterfeit a person living was there between her and all the other, though goddesses, that it seemed the skill of the painter bestowed on the other new beauty but that the beauty of her bestowed new skill of the painter.