Enter Cloten alone.
CLOTEN.
I am near to th’ place where they should meet, if Pisanio have
mapp’d it truly. How fit his garments serve me! Why should his mistress,
who was made by him that made the tailor, not be fit too? The rather, saving
reverence of the word, for ’tis said a woman’s fitness comes by
fits. Therein I must play the workman. I dare speak it to myself, for it is not
vain-glory for a man and his glass to confer in his own chamber; I mean, the
lines of my body are as well drawn as his; no less young, more strong, not
beneath him in fortunes, beyond him in the advantage of the time, above him in
birth, alike conversant in general services, and more remarkable in single
oppositions. Yet this imperceiverant thing loves him in my despite. What
mortality is! Posthumus, thy head, which now is growing upon thy shoulders,
shall within this hour be off; thy mistress enforced; thy garments cut to
pieces before her face; and all this done, spurn her home to her father, who
may, haply, be a little angry for my so rough usage; but my mother, having
power of his testiness, shall turn all into my commendations. My horse is tied
up safe. Out, sword, and to a sore purpose! Fortune, put them into my hand.
This is the very description of their meeting-place; and the fellow dares not
deceive me.
[Exit.]
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