Cym. Thou basest thing, auoyd hence, from my sight:
If after this command thou fraught the Court
With thy vnworthinesse, thou dyest. Away,
Thou'rt poyson to my blood
Post. The Gods protect you,
And blesse the good Remainders of the Court:
I am gone
Imo. There cannot be a pinch in death
More sharpe then this is
Cym. O disloyall thing,
That should'st repayre my youth, thou heap'st
A yeares age on mee
Imo. I beseech you Sir,
Harme not your selfe with your vexation,
I am senselesse of your Wrath; a Touch more rare
Subdues all pangs, all feares
Cym. Past Grace? Obedience?
Imo. Past hope, and in dispaire, that way past Grace
Cym. That might'st haue had
The sole Sonne of my Queene
Imo. O blessed, that I might not: I chose an Eagle,
And did auoyd a Puttocke
Cym. Thou took'st a Begger, would'st haue made my
Throne, a Seate for basenesse