JavaScript seems to be disabled in your browser. For the best experience on our site, be sure to turn on Javascript in your browser. This British princess is just about as perfect as they come: she's wise, beautiful, resourceful, and—most importantly—she's honest.
She stands up for herself to her dad and notices the Queen is a "dissembling courtesy" read: faker right away 1. While she mourns the banishment of her husband and moans about having a "foolish suitor" Cloten , she doesn't wallow in self-pity 1. Just about everyone recognizes Imogen's beauty. Of course her husband thinks she's hot, but even cynical Iachimo calls her a rare "Arabian bird" 1. Cloten wants her, Iachimo steals her, and Posthumus wants to die without her. She's one catch all right.
But she's not just a pretty face. Beneath her beautiful exterior is an honest and intelligent woman. She's also faithful: she keeps her vows to her hubby even while he's off betting on her, and even after Iachimo tells her that Posthumus is getting a little too friendly with the local ladies.
Unlike her husband, Imogen trusts in her marriage vows and won't break them. Henry 4. Henry 6. Please consider making a small donation to help keep this site free. Follow us on Twitter Like us on Facebook. Keep me logged in. In Imogen we find the fullest, deepest love that Shakespeare has ever placed in a woman's breast, and that although Cymbeline follows close upon plays which were filled to the brim with contempt for womankind. He believed, then, in such love, so impassioned, so immovable, so humble — believed in it now?
He had, then, observed or encountered such a love — encountered it at this point of his life? Even a poet has scant enough opportunities of observing love. Love is a rare thing, much rarer than the world pretends, and when it exists, it is apt to be sparing of words. Did he simply fall back on his own experiences, his own inward sensations, his knowledge of his own heart, and, transposing his feelings from the major to the minor key, place them on a woman's lips?
Or did he love at this moment, and was he himself thus beloved at the end of the fifth decade of his life? The probability is, doubtless, that he wrote from some quite fresh experience, though it does not follow that the experience was actually his own. It is not often that women love men of his mental habit and stature with such intensity of passion. The rule will always be that a Moliere shall find himself cast aside for some Comte de Guiche, a Shakespeare for some Earl of Pembroke.
Thus we cannot with any certainty conclude that he himself was the object of the passion which had revived his faith in a woman's power of complete and unconditional absorption in love for one man, and for him alone. In the first place, had the experience been his own, he would scarcely left London so soon.
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