Cymbeline | Page 9

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
is 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 his 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 wreck 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,
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 lie 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,
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
Solicit'st 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