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How mean soe'er, that have their honest wills,
Which seasons comfort.—Who may this be? Fie!

Enter Pisanio and IACHI MO.

Pisanio. Madam, a noble gentleman of Rome,
Comes from my lord with letters.
Iach. Change you, madam?
The worthy Leonatus is in safety,
And greets your highness dearly.

[Kneels, and presents a Letter.

Imog. Thanks, good sir;

You are kindly welcome.

Iach. All of her, that is out of door, most rich! If she be furnish'd 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!

Imog. [Reads.]

He is one of the noblest note,


to whose kindnesses I am most infinitely tied. Reflect upon him accordingly, as you value your trust.

So far I read aloud:

But even the very middle of my heart

Is warm'd by the 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.

Iach. 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

'Twixt fair and foul?

Imog. What makes your admiration?

Iach. It cannot be i' the

eye; for apes and monkeys,

'Twixt two such shes, would chatter this way, and

Contemn with mows the other.

Imog. What is the matter, trow?

Iach. The cloyed will,

That satiate, yet unsatisfy'd, desire,
Ravening first

The lamb, longs after for the garbage.
Imog. What, dear sir,

Thus raps you? Are you well?

Iach. 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.


Imog. Continues well my lord? His health, 'beseech


Iach. Well, madam.

Imog. Is he dispos'd to mirth? I hope, he is. Iach. Exceeding pleasant; none a stranger there So merry and so gamesome: he is call'd The Briton reveller.

Imog. When he was here,

He did incline to sadness; and oft times

Not knowing why.

Iach. I never saw him sad.

There is a Frenchman, his companion,
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!


my sides hold, to think, that man,—who knows By history, report, or his own proof,

What woman is, yea, what she cannot chuse
But must be,—will his free hours languish for
Assured bondage?"

Imog. Will my lord say so?

Iach. Ay, madam; with his eyes in flood with


It is a recreation to be by,

And hear him mock the Frenchman: But, Heavens know,

Some men are much to blame.

Imog. Not he, I hope.

Iach. 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.

Imog. What do you pity, sir?

lack. Two creatures, heartily.
Imog. Am I one, sir?

You look on me,—What wreck discern you

Deserves your pity?

Iach. Lamentable! What!

To hide me from the radiant sun, and solace
I'the dungeon by a snuff?

Imog. I pray you, sir,

Deliver with more openness your answers
To my demands. Why do you pity me?
Iach. That others do,

I was about to say, enjoy your


It is an office of the gods to venge it,

Not mine to speak on't.

Imog. You do seem to know

in me

Something of me, or what concerns me; 'Pray your(Since doubting things go ill, often hurts more Than to be sure they do,)—

Discover to me

What both you spur and stop.

Iach. 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, as with labour?
It were fit,

That all the plagues of hell should at one time
Encounter such revolt.

Imog. My lord, I fear,
Has forgot Britain.

Iach. 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.

Imog. Let me hear no more.

Iach. A lady

So fair, and fasten'd to an empery,

Would make the greatest king double! to be partner'd

With tomboys, hired with that self-exhibition,
Which your own coffers yield!

Be reveng'd;

Or she, that bore you, was no queen, and you
Recoil from your great stock.

Imog. Reveng'd!

How should I be reveng'd? If this be true,—
As I have such a heart, that both mine cars
Must not in haste abuse,—if it be true,
How should I be reveng'd?

Iach. Should he make me

Live like Diana's priest, betwixt cold sheets;
Whiles he is vaulting variable ramps,
In your despite? 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,


Imog. What ho, Pisanio!

Iach. Let me my service tender on your lips.
Imog. 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'sl 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,

He hath a court

He little cares for, and a daughter whom
He not respects at all.--What ho, Pisanio!
Iach. 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 unto him;
Half all men's hearts are his.

Imog. You make amends.

Iach. 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;

The love I bear him

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


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