Post.
Is there no way for men to be without
These vipers, women? We are bastards all;
-- 269 --
And that most venerable man, which I
Did call my father, was I know not where,
When I was stampt. “Some coiner with his tools,
“Made me a counterfeit,” yet my mother seem'd
The Dian of that time; so doth my wife,
The non-pareil of this—Oh vengeance, vengeance!
Me of my lawful pleasure she restrain'd,
And pray'd me oft forbearance; did it with
A pudency so rosie, the sweet view on't
Might well have warm'd old Saturn—
That I thought her
As chaste as unsun'd snow. Oh, all the devils!
This yellow Iachimo in an hour—was't not?—
Or less: at first? Perchance he spoke not, but
Like a full acorn'd boar, a German one,—
O, torture to my mind! Could I find out
The woman's part in me! For there's no motion,
That tends to vice in man, but I affirm
It is the woman's part; be it lying, note it
The woman's; flattering, hers; deceiving, hers;
Lust, and rank thoughts, hers, hers; revenges, hers;
Ambitions, covetings, change of prides, disdain,
Nice-longings, slanders, mutability:
All faults that may be named, nay, that Hell knows,
Why hers, in part, or all; or rather all. For even to vice
They are not constant; but are changing still,
One vice, but of a minute old, for one
Not half so old as that. I'll write against them,
Detest them, curse them—yet 'tis greater skill,
In a true hate, to pray they have their will:
The very devils cannot plague them better.* note
