A Field, between the British and Roman Camps. Enter Posthumus, with a bloody Handkerchief.
YE A, bloody cloth, I’ll keep thee; for I wish'd
Thou should'st be colour'd thus. You married ones,
If each of you would take this course, how many
Must murder wives much better than themselves
For wrying but a little —O, Pisanio !
Every good servant does not all commands:
No bond, but to do just ones.—Gods ! if you
Should have ta'en vengeance on my faults, I never
Had liv'd to put on this: so had you saved
The noble Imogen to repent; and struck 1o Me, wretch, more worth your vengeance. But, alack,
You snatch some hence for little faults; that's love,
To have them fall no more: you some permit
To second ills with ills, each elder worse;
And make them dread it, to the doers' thrift.
But Imogen is your own: Do your best wills,
And make me blest to obey l—I am brought hither
Among the Italian gentry, and to fight
Against my lady's kingdom: 'Tis enough
That, Britain, I have kill'd thy mistress; peace! 20
Pll give no wound to thee, Therefore, good heavens,