Imo.
Thou told'st me, when we came from horse, the place
Was near at hand. O, where is Posthumus'
Say, good Pisanio? What is in thy mind,
That makes thee stare thus? One but painted thus,
Would be interpreted a thing perplex'd,
Beyond self-explication. What's the matter?
Why tender'st thou that paper to me?
If it be summer news,
Smile to't before, if winterly, thou need'st
But keep that count'nance still. My husband's hand!

That drug-damn'd Italy, hath out-crafted him,
And he's at some hard point. Speak, man; thy tongue
May take off some extremity, which to read
Would be even mortal to me.

Pis.
Please you, read,
And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing
The most disdain'd of fortune. Imogen reads.

Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath play'd the strumpet in my bed: the testimonies whereof lye bleeding in me. I speak not out of weak surmises, but from proof, as strong as my grief, and as certain as I expect my revenge. That part thou, Pisanio, must act for me, if thy faith be not tainted with the breath of hers. Let thine own hand take away her life: I shall give thee opportunity, at Milford-Haven. She hath my letter for the purpose: where, if thou fear to strike, and to make me certain it is done, thou art the pander to her dishonour, and equally to me disloyal.

Pis.
What, shall I need to draw my sword, the paper
Hath cut her throat, already! No, 'tis slander,
Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue
Out-venoms all the worms of Nile; whose breath
Rides on the posting winds, and doth belye
All corners of the world.
What cheer, madam?

Imo.
False to his bed! What is to be false?
To lie in watch there, and to think on him?
To weep 'twixt clock and clock? If sleep charge nature,
To break it with a fearful dream of him,
And cry myself awake! that's false to's bed! Is't?

Pis.
Alas, good lady!

Imo.
I false! thy conscience witness, Iachimo,
Thou didst accuse him of incontinency,
Thou then look'st like a villain. Now, methinks,

Thy favour's good enough. Some jay of Italy,
Whose feathers were her painting, hath betray'd him:
Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion;
I must be ript; to pieces with me. Oh,
Men's vows are women's traitors. All good seeming,
By thy revolt, oh, husband, shall be thought
Put on for villainy.

Pis.
Good madam, hear me—

Imo.
Come, fellow, be thou honest,
Do thou thy master's bidding. When thou seest him,
A little witness my obedience. Look,
I draw the sword myself; take it, and hit
The innocent mansion of my love, my heart;
Fear not, 'tis empty of all things, but grief;
Thy master is not there, who was, indeed,
The riches of it. Do his bidding, strike,
Thou may'st be valiant in a better cause,
But, now thou seem'st a coward.* ^note

Pis.
Hence, vile instrument,
Thou shalt not damn my hand.

Imo.
Why, I must die.
And if I do not by thy hand, thou art
No servant of thy master's. Against self slaughter
There is a prohibition so divine,
That cravens my weak hand. Come, here's my heart—
Something's afore't—Soft, soft, we'll no defence.
What's here? [Opening her Breast.
The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus,
All turn'd to heresie? Away, away, [Pulling his Letter out of her Bosom.
Corrupters of my faith, you shall no more
Be stomachers to my heart. Pry'thee, dispatch,
The lamb intreats the butcher. Where's the knife?

Thou art too slow to do thy master's bidding,
When I desire it too.

Pis.
O gracious lady!
Since I have receiv'd command to do this business,
I have not slept one wink.

Imo.
Do't, and to bed then.

Pis.
I'll break mine eye-balls, first.

Imo.
Wherefore, then, didst undertake it?
Why hast thou gone so far,
To be unbent, when thou hast ta'en thy stand,
Th' elected deer before thee?

Pis.
But to win time,
To lose so bad employment, in the which
I have consider'd of a course. Good lady,
Hear me with patience.

Imo.
Talk thy tongue weary, speak;
I have heard I am a strumpet, and mine ear,
Therein false struck, can take no greater wound,
Nor tent, to bottom that. But speak.

Pis.
It cannot be,
But that my master is abused; some villain,
Ay, and singular in his art, hath done you both
This cursed injury.

Imo.
Some Roman courtezan?

Pis.
No, on my life.
I'll give him notice you are dead, and send him
Some bloody sign of it, for 'tis commanded
I should do so. You shall be miss'd at court,
And that will well confirm it.

Imo.
Why, good fellow;
What shall I do the while? Where bide? How live?
Or in my life what comfort, when I am
Dead to my husband?

Pis.
If you'll back to th' court.

Imo.
No court, no father.

Pis.
If not at court,
Then not in Britain must you bide. Where then?

Imo.
Hath Britain all the sun that shines?
There's living out of Britain.

Pis.
I am most glad
You think of other place. Th' ambassador,
Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford-Haven,
To-morrow. Now, if you could wear a mien,
Dark as your fortune is, you should tread a course,
Pretty, and full of view; yea, happily, near
The residence of Posthumus; so nigh, at least,
That though his action were not visible, yet
Report should render him hourly to your ear,
As truly as he moves.

Imo.
Oh for such means,
Though peril to my modesty, not death on't,
I would adventure.

Pis.
Well then, here's the point.
You must forget to be a woman, change
Command into obedience.
Fore-thinking this, I have already fit,
('Tis in your cloak-bag) doublet, hat, hose, all
That answer to them. Would you in their serving,
And with what imitation you can borrow
From youth of such a season, 'fore noble Lucius
Present yourself, desire his service, tell him
Wherein you're happy, which will make him so,
(If that his head have ear in music) doubtless,
With joy he will embrace you; for he's honourable,
And doubling that, most holy. For means abroad?
You have me rich, and I will never fail
Beginning, nor supply.

Imo.
Thou art all the comfort
The gods will diet me with. This attempt
I'm soldier to, and will abide it, with
A prince's courage. Away, I pr'ythee.

Pis.
Well, madam, we must take a short farewel,
Lest being miss'd, I be suspected of
Your carriage from the court. My noble mistress,
Here is a phial glass,* ^note

What's in't is precious. If you are sick at sea,
Or stomach qualm'd at land, a taste of this
Will drive away distemper. To some shade,
And fit you to your manhood. May the gods
Direct you to the best.

Imo.
Amen! I thank thee. [Exeunt severally. ^note End of the Third Act.

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