As I trotted my stout steed upon the knowe
Espied Cymbeline. and cried, "How now!"
"Fair of form and pale of brow,
Wouds't thou not my plight bestow?"

Cymbeline! How is't with thee?
Oh, Cymbeline! How is't with thee?
Thy favors give to everyone but me!

(Noseflute in savage four-four modal scale fades....)