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