When Imogen is dead.

POSTHUMUS.
How, how! another?
You gentle gods, give me but this I have,
And cere up my embracements from a next
With bonds of death! Remain, remain thou here

[Putting on the ring.]

While sense can keep it on. And, sweetest, fairest,
As I my poor self did exchange for you,
To your so infinite loss, so in our trifles
I still win of you; for my sake wear this.
It is a manacle of love; I'll place it
Upon this fairest prisoner.

[Putting a bracelet upon her arm.]

IMOGEN.
O the gods!
When shall we see again?

[Enter CYMBELINE and LORDS.]

POSTHUMUS.
Alack, the King!

CYMBELINE.
Thou basest thing, avoid! Hence, from my sight!