my respect, than all the hairs above thee.
Were they all made such men.

One thing more must be particularly remarked because it serves to
individualize the character from the beginning to the end of the poem.
We are constantly sensible that Imogen, besides being a tender and
devoted woman, is a princess and a beauty, at the same time that she is
ever superior to her position and her external charms. There is, for
instance, a certain airy majesty of deportment--a spirit of accustomed
command breaking out every now and then--the dignity, without the
assumption of rank and royal birth, which is apparent in the scene with
Cloten and elsewhere; and we have not only a general impression that
Imogen, like other heroines, is beautiful, but the peculiar style and
character of her beauty is placed before us: we have an image of the
most luxuriant loveliness, combined with exceeding delicacy, and even
fragility of person: of the most refined elegance, and the most
exquisite modesty, set forth in one or two passages of description; as
when Iachimo is contemplating her asleep:--

Cytherea,
How bravely thou becom'st thy bed! fresh lily.
And whiter than the sheets.

'Tis her breathing that
Perfumes the chamber thus. The flame o' the taper
Bows toward her; and would underpeep her lids
To see the enclos'd lights, now canopied
Under those windows, white and azure, lac'd
With blue of heaven's own tinct!

The preservation of her feminine character under her masculine attire;
her delicacy, her modesty, and her timidity, are managed with the same
perfect consistency and unconscious grace as in Viola. And we must not
forget that her "neat cookery," which is so prettily eulogized by
Guiderius:--

He cuts out roots in characters,
And sauc'd our broths, as Juno had been sick,
And he her dieter,

formed part of the education of a princess in those remote times.

Few reflections of a general nature are put into the mouth of Imogen;
and what she says is more remarkable for sense, truth, and tender
feeling, than for wit, or wisdom, or power of imagination. The following
little touch of poetry reminds us of Juliet:--

Ere I could
Give him that parting kiss, which I had set
Between two charming words, comes in my father;
And, like the tyrannous breathing of the north,
Shakes all our buds