Past hope, and in despair; that way, past grace.

CYMBELINE.
That mightst have had the sole son of my queen!

IMOGEN.
O blest, that I might not! I chose an eagle,
And did avoid a puttock.

CYMBELINE.
Thou took'st a beggar; wouldst have made my throne
A seat for baseness.

IMOGEN.
No; I rather added
A lustre to it.

CYMBELINE.
O thou vile one!

IMOGEN.
Sir, It is your fault that I have lov'd Posthumus.
You bred him as my playfellow, and he is
A man worth any woman; overbuys me
Almost the sum he pays.

CYMBELINE.
What, art thou mad?

IMOGEN.