Imogen

A father cruel, and a stepdame false;

A foolish suitor to a wedded lady,

That hath her husband banished; — O, that husband!

My supreme crown of grief! and those repeated

Vexations of it! Had I been thief-stol'n,

As my two brothers, happy! but most miserable

Is the desire that's glorious: blest be those,

How mean soe'er, that have their honest wills,

Which seasons comfort. Who may this be? Fie! Enter PISANIO and IACHIMO.

Pisanio

Madam, a noble gentleman of Rome,

Comes from my lord with letters.

Iachimo

Change you, madam?

The worthy Leonatus is in safety

And greets your highness dearly. Presents a letter.

Imogen

Thanks, good sir:

You're kindly welcome.

Iachimo

Aside

All of her that is out of door most rich!

If she be furnished with a mind so rare,

She is alone the Arabian bird, and I

Have lost the wager. Boldness be my friend!

Arm me, audacity, from head to foot!

Or, like the Parthian, I shall flying fight;

Rather, directly fly.

Imogen

Reads

So far I read aloud:

But even the very middle of my heart

Is warmed by the rest, and take it thankfully.

You are as welcome, worthy sir, as I

Have words to bid you, and shall find it so

In all that I can do.

Iachimo

Thanks, fairest lady.

What, are men mad? Hath nature given them eyes

To see this vaulted arch, and the rich crop

Of sea and land, which can distinguish 'twixt

The fiery orbs above and the twinned stones

Upon the numbered beach? and can we not

Partition make with spectacles so precious

'Twixt fair and foul?

Imogen

What makes your admiration?

Iachimo

It cannot be i' the eye, for apes and monkeys

'Twixt two such shes would chatter this way and

Contemn with mows the other; nor i' the judgement,

For idiots in this case of favour would

Be wisely definite; nor i' the appetite;

Sluttery to such neat excellence opposed

Should make desire vomit emptiness,

Not so allured to feed.

Imogen

What is the matter, trow?

Iachimo

The cloyed will,

That satiate yet unsatisfied desire, that tub

Both filled and running, ravening first the lamb,

Longs after for the garbage.

Imogen

What, dear sir,

Thus raps you? Are you well?

Iachimo

Thanks, madam; well. To Pisanio

Beseech you, sir, desire

My man's abode where I did leave him:

He's strange and peevish.

Pisanio

I was going, sir,

To give him welcome. Exit.

Imogen

Continues well my lord? His health, beseech you?

Iachimo

Well, madam.

Imogen

Is he disposed to mirth? I hope he, is.

Iachimo

Exceeding pleasant; none a stranger there

So merry and so gamesome: he is called

The Briton reveller.

Imogen

When he was here,

He did incline to sadness, and oft-times

Not knowing why.

Iachimo

I never saw him sad.

There is a Frenchman his companion, one

An eminent monsieur, that, it seems, much loves

A Gallian girl at home; he furnaces

The thick sighs from him, whiles the jolly Briton —

Your lord, I mean — laughs from's free lungs, cries “O,

Can my sides hold, to think that man, who knows

By history, report, or his own proof,

What woman is, yea, what she cannot choose

But must be, will's free hours languish for

Assured bondage?”

Imogen

Will my lord say so?

Iachimo

Ay, madam, with his eyes in flood with laughter:

It is a recreation to be by

And hear him mock the Frenchman. But, heavens know,

Some men are much to blame.

Imogen

Not he, I hope,

Iachimo

Not he: but yet heaven's bounty towards him might

Be used more thankfully. In himself, 'tis much;

In you, which I account his beyond all talents,

Whilst I am bound to wonder, I am bound

To pity too.

Imogen

What do you pity, sir?

Iachimo

Two creatures heartily.

Imogen

Am I one, sir?

You look on me: what wrack discern you in me

Deserves your pity?

Iachimo

Lamentable! What,

To hide me from the radiant sun and solace

I' the dungeon by a snuff?

Imogen

I pray you, sir,

Deliver with more openness your answers

To my demands. Why do you pity me?

Iachimo

That others do —

I was about to say — enjoy your — But

It is an office of the gods to venge it,

Not mine to speak on't.

Imogen

You do seem to know

Something of me, or what concerns me: pray you, —

Since doubting things go ill often hurts more

Than to be sure they do; for certainties

Either are past remedies, or, timely knowing,

The remedy then born — discover to me

What both you spur and stop.

Iachimo

Had I this cheek

To bathe my lips upon; this hand, whose touch,

Whose every touch, would force the feeler's soul

To the oath of loyalty; this object, which

Takes prisoner the wild motion of mine eye,

Firing it only here; should I, damned then,

Slaver with lips as common as the stairs

That mount the Capitol; join gripes with hands

Made hard with hourly falsehood — falsehood, as

With labour; then by-peeping in an eye

Base and illustrious as the smoky light

That's fed with stinking tallow; it were fit

That all the plagues of hell should at one time

Encounter such revolt.

Imogen

My lord, I fear,

Has forgot Britain.

Iachimo

And himself. Not I,

Inclined to this intelligence, pronounce

The beggary of his change; but 'tis your graces

That from my mutest conscience to my tongue

Charms this report out.

Imogen

Let me hear no more.

Iachimo

O dearest soul! your cause doth strike my heart

With pity, that doth make me sick. A lady

So fair, and fastened to an empery,

Would make the great'st king double, — to be partnered

With tomboys hired with that self exhibition

Which your own coffers yield! with diseased ventures

That play with all infirmities for gold

Which rottenness can lend nature! such boiled stuff

As well might poison poison! Be revenged;

Or she that bore you was no queen, and you

Recoil from your great stock.

Imogen

Revenged!

How should I be revenged? If this be true, —

As I have such a heart that both mine ears

Must not in haste abuse — if it be true,

How should I be revenged?

Iachimo

Should he make me

Live, like Diana's priest, betwixt cold sheets,

Whiles he is vaulting variable ramps,

In your despite, upon your purse? Revenge it.

I dedicate myself to your sweet pleasure,

More noble than that runagate to your bed,

And will continue fast to your affection,

Still close as sure.

Imogen

What, ho, Pisanio!

Iachimo

Let me my service tender on your lips.

Imogen

Away! I do condemn mine ears that have

So long attended thee. If thou wert honourable,

Thou wouldst have told this tale for virtue, not

For such an end thou seek'st, — as base as strange

Thou wrong'st a gentleman, who is as far

From thy report as thou from honour, and

Solicits here a lady that disdains

Thee and the devil alike. What ho, Pisanio!

The king my father shall be made acquainted

Of thy assault: if he shall think it fit,

A saucy stranger in his court to mart

As in a Romish stew and to expound

His beastly mind to us, he hath a court

He little cares for and a daughter who

He not respects at all. What, ho, Pisanio!

Iachimo

O happy Leonatus! I may say:

The credit that thy lady hath of thee

Deserves thy trust, and thy most perfect goodness

Her assured credit. Blessed live you long!

A lady to the worthiest sir that ever

Country called his! and you his mistress, only

For the most worthiest fit! Give me your pardon.

I have spoke this, to know if your affiance

Were deeply rooted; and shall make your lord,

That which he is, new o'er: and he is one

The truest mannered; such a holy witch

That he enchants societies into him;

Half all men's hearts are his.

Imogen

You make amends.

Iachimo

He sits 'mongst men like a descended god:

He hath a kind of honour sets him off,

More than a mortal seeming. Be not angry,

Most mighty princess, that I have adventured

To try your taking of a false report; which hath

Honoured with confirmation your great judgement

In the election of a sir so rare,

Which you know cannot err: the love I bear him

Made me to fan you thus, but the gods made you,

Unlike all others, chaffless. Pray, your pardon.

Imogen

All's well, sir: take my power i' the court for yours.

Iachimo

My humble thanks. I had almost forgot

To entreat your grace but in a small request,

And yet of moment too, for it concerns

Your lord; myself and other noble friends

Are partners in the business.

Imogen

Pray, what is't?

Iachimo

Some dozen Romans of us and your lord —

The best feather of our wing — have mingled sums

To buy a present for the emperor;

Which I, the factor for the rest, have done

In France: 'tis plate of rare device, and jewels

Of rich and exquisite form; their values great;

And I am something curious, being strange,

To have them in safe stowage: may it please you

To take them in protection?

Imogen

Willingly;

And pawn mine honour for their safety: since

My lord hath interest in them, I will keep them

In my bedchamber.

Iachimo

They are in a trunk,

Attended by my men: I will make bold

To send them to you, only for this night;

I must aboard to-morrow.

Imogen

O, no, no.

Iachimo

Yes, I beseech; or I shall short my word

By lengthening my return. From Gallia

I crossed the seas on purpose and on promise

To see your grace.

Imogen

I thank you for your pains:

But not away to-morrow!

Iachimo

O, I must, madam:

Therefore I shall beseech you, if you please

To greet your lord with writing, do't tonight:

I have outstood my time; which is material

To the tender of our present.

Imogen

I will write.

Send your trunk to me; it shall safe be kept,

And truly yielded you. You're very welcome. Exeunt.