Imo. Why did you throw your wedded Lady fro[m] you?
Thinke that you are vpon a Rocke, and now
Throw me againe
Post. Hang there like fruite, my soule,
Till the Tree dye
Cym. How now, my Flesh? my Childe?
What, mak'st thou me a dullard in this Act?
Wilt thou not speake to me?
Imo. Your blessing, Sir
Bel. Though you did loue this youth, I blame ye not,
You had a motiue for't
Cym. My teares that fall
Proue holy-water on thee; Imogen,
Thy Mothers dead