Imogen.
A father cruel, and a stepdame false,
A foolish suitor to a wedded lady,
That hath her husband banish'd—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 degree that's glorious. Blessed be those,

How mean soe'er, that have their honest wills,
Which seasons comfort. Who may this be? Enter Pisanio and Iachimo.

Pis.
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.

Imo.
Thanks, good sir,
You're kindly welcome. [Reads aside.

Iach.
All of her that is out of door, most rich!
If she be furnish'd with a mind so rare,
She is alone th' Arabian bird; and I
Have lost the wager. Boldness, be my friend;
Arm me, audacity, from head to foot. [Aside.

Imogen reads.

He is one of the noblest note, to whose kindnesses I am most infinitely tyed. Reflect upon him, accordingly, as you value your trust.

Leonatus.

Iach.
Thanks, fairest lady.
What! are men mad? Hath nature given them eyes
To see this vaulted arch, and the rich scope
Of sea and land, which can distinguish 'twixt
The fiery orbs above, and the twinn'd stones
Upon the humbled beach? and can we not
Partition make, 'twixt fair and foul?

Imo.
What makes your admiration?

Iach.
It cannot be i'th' eye; for apes and monkeys,

'Twixt two such she's, would chatter this way, and
Contemn with mowes the other.

Imo.
What is the matter, trow?

Iach.
The cloyed will,
That satiate yet unsatisfy'd desire,
Ravening first the lamb,
Longs after for the garbage—

Imo.
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 sheepish.

Pis.
I was going, sir,
To give him welcome. [Exit Pis.

Imo.
Continues well my lord
His health, beseech you?

Iach.
Well, madam.

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

Iach.
Exceeding pleasant; none a stranger there,
So merry, and so gamesome. He is call'd
The Britain reveller.

Imo.
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, while the jolly Britain,
(Your lord, I mean) laughs from's free lungs, cries oh!—
Can 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 out,
For assur'd bondage?

Imo.
Will my lord say so?

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

It is a recreation to be by,
And hear him mock the Frenchman.
But Heaven knows, some men are much to blame.

Imo.
Not he, I hope.

Iach.
Not he. But yet, Heav'n's bounty towards him might
Be us'd more thankfully. In himself 'tis much;
In you, whom I account his, beyond all talents,
Whilst I am bound to wonder, I am bound
To pity, too.

Imo.
What do you pity, sir?

Iach.
Two creatures, heartily.

Imo.
Am I one, sir?
You look on me. What wrack discern you in me,
Deserves your pity?

Iach.
Lamentable! What
To hide me from the radiant sun, and solace
I'th' dungeon by a snuff?

Imo.
'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—but,
It is an office of the Gods to venge it,
Not mine to speak on't.

Imo.
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;) discover to me
What doth you spur and stop.

Iach.
Had I this cheek,
To bathe my lips upon; this hand, whose touch,
Whose very 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 falshood, as with labour;
It were fit

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

Imo.
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
Charm this report out.

Imo.
Let me hear no more.

Iach.
O, dearest soul! your cause doth strike my heart
With pity. A lady,
So fair, and fastened to an empiry,
Would make the great'st king double! to be partner'd
With tomboys, hir'd 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.

Imo.
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 shall I be reveng'd?

Iach.
Shou'd he make me
Live like Diana's priestess, 'twixt cold sheets;
Whiles he is vaulting variable ramps
In your despight? Revenge it. [Kneels.
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.

Imo.
What ho, Pisanio!—* ^note

Iach.
Let me my service tender on your lips.

Imo.
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 sawcy 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, 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* ^note
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.

Imo.
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 adventur'd
To try your taking of a false report;
The love I bear him,

Made me to fan you thus, but the gods made you,
Unlike all others, chaffless. Pray, your pardon.

Imo.
All's well, sir; take my power i'th' court for yours.

Iach.
My humble thanks; I had almost forgot
T' intreat 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.

Imo.
Pray, what is't?

Iach.
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.

Imo.
Willingly;
And pawn mine honour for their safety; since
My lord hath interest in them, I will keep them
In my chamber.

Iach.
They are in a coffer,
Attended by my men. I will make bold
To send them to you, only for this night;
I must abroad, to-morrow.

Imo.
O no, no.

Iach.
Yes, I beseech you: or I shall short my word,
By lengthening my return. From Gallia,
I crost the seas on purpose, and on promise
To see your grace.

Imo.
I thank you, for your pains;
But not away, to-morrow.

Iach.
O, I must, madam;
Therefore, I shall beseech you, if you please,
To greet your lord with writing, do't to-night:
I have out-staid my time, which is material,
To th' tender of our present.

Imo.
I will write:
Send your coffer to me, it shall be safe kept,
And truly yielded you. You're very welcome. [Exeunt.* ^note

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