Wales. The forest near Belarius’ cave.
Cloten, following Imogen and, as he imagines, Posthumus, compares himself to the latter and looks forward to chopping off his head. (1 line)
Enter Cloten alone.
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 vainglory 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 enforc’d, thy garments cut to pieces before her face: and all this done, spurn her home to her father, who may (happily) 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.