Post.
Yea, bloody cloth, I'll keep thee; for I wish
Thou should'st be colour'd thus. You married ones,
If each of you would take this course, how many
Must murder wives much better than yourselves,
For wrying but a little? Oh, Pisanio!
Every good servant does not all commands—

No bond, but to do just ones. Gods! if you
Should have ta'en vengeance on my faults, I never
Had liv'd to put on this; so had you sav'd
The noble Imogen to repent, and struck
Me, wretch, more worth your vengeance.
But Imogen is your own, do your best wills,
And make me blest to obey. I am brought hither,
Among the Italian gentry, and to fight
Against my lady's kingdom; 'tis enough
That, Britain, I have kill'd thy mistress; peace!
I'll give no wound to thee; therefore, good heav'ns,
Hear patiently my purpose; I have conceal'd
My Italian weeds, under this semblance
Of a British peasant; so I'll fight
Against the part I come with: so I'll die
For thee, O Imogen, for whom my life
Is every breath a death; and thus unknown,
Pitied, nor hated, to the face of peril,
My self I'll dedicate. [Trumpet sounds a Call.
Hark! hark! I'm call'd.
Gods, put the strength o'th' Leonati in me!
To shame the guise o' th' world, I will begin
The fashion. Less without, and more within. [Exit.

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