LITMIR.BIZ

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as you value your trust. LEONATUS.

      So far I read aloud;

       But even the very middle of my heart

       Is warm’d by th’ rest and takes 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 twinn’d stones

       Upon the number’d 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’ th’ eye, for apes and monkeys,

       ’Twixt two such shes, would chatter this way and

       Contemn with mows the other; nor i’ th’ judgement,

       For idiots in this case of favour would

       Be wisely definite; nor i’ th’ appetite;

       Sluttery, to such neat excellence oppos’d,

       Should make desire vomit emptiness,

       Not so allur’d to feed.

      IMOGEN.

       What is the matter, trow?

      IACHIMO.

       The cloyed will—

       That satiate yet unsatisfied desire, that tub

       Both fill’d 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. 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 dispos’d to mirth? I hope he is.

      IACHIMO.

       Exceeding pleasant; none a stranger there

       So merry and so gamesome. He is call’d

       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 us’d 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 wreck discern you in me

       Deserves your pity?

      IACHIMO.

       Lamentable! What,

       To hide me from the radiant sun and solace

       I’ th’ 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 th’ oath of loyalty; this object, which

       Takes prisoner the wild motion of mine eye,

       Fixing it only here; should I, damn’d 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.

      

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