LITMIR.BIZ

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Inclin’d 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 fasten’d to an empery,

       Would make the great’st king double, to be partner’d

       With tomboys hir’d with that self exhibition

       Which your own coffers yield! with diseas’d ventures

       That play with all infirmities for gold

       Which rottenness can lend nature! Such boil’d stuff

       As well might poison poison! Be reveng’d;

       Or she that bore you was no queen, and you

       Recoil from your great stock.

      IMOGEN.

       Reveng’d?

       How should I be reveng’d? 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 reveng’d?

      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 assur’d credit. Blessed live you long,

       A lady to the worthiest sir that ever

       Country call’d 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 manner’d, 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 adventur’d

       To try your taking of a false report, which hath

       Honour’d 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 pow’r i’ th’ court for yours.

      IACHIMO.

       My humble thanks. I had almost forgot

       T’ 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 tomorrow.

      IMOGEN.

       O, no, no.

      IACHIMO.

       Yes, I beseech; or I shall short my word

       By length’ning my return. From Gallia

       I cross’d the seas on purpose and on promise

       To see your Grace.

      IMOGEN.

       I thank you for your pains.

       But not away tomorrow!

      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 th’ tender of our present.

      IMOGEN.

      

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