us hath tender'd The duty of the day: she looks us like A thing more made of malice than of duty: We have noted it. Call her before us; for We have been too slight in sufferance. Royal sir, Since the exile of Posthumus, most retired Hath her life been; the cure whereof, my lord, 'Tis time must do. Beseech your majesty, Forbear sharp speeches to her: she's a lady So tender of rebukes that words are strokes And strokes death to her. Where is she, sir? How Can her contempt be answer'd? Please you, sir, Her chambers are all lock'd; and there's no answer That will be given to the loudest noise we make. My lord, when last I went to visit her, She pray'd me to excuse her keeping close, Whereto constrain'd by her infirmity, She should that duty leave unpaid to you, Which daily she was bound to proffer: this She wish'd me to make known; but our great court Made me to blame in memory. Her doors lock'd? Not seen of late? Grant, heavens, that which I fear Prove false! Son, I say, follow the king. That man of hers, Pisanio, her old servant, have not seen these two days. Go, look after. 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. How now, my son! 'Tis certain she is fled. Go in and cheer the king: he rages; none Dare come about him. All the better: may This night forestall him of the coming day! 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-- Who is here? What, are you packing, sirrah? Come hither: ah, you precious pander! Villain, Where is