Post.
Is there no way for men to be, but women
Must be half-workers? we are bastards all;

And that most venerable man, which I
Did call my father, was I know not where,
When I was stampt. Some coyner 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 rosy, the sweet view on't
Might well have warm'd old Saturn—that I thought her
As chaste, as unsunn'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,
Cry'd, oh! and mounted; found no opposition
But what he look'd for should oppose, and she
Should from encounter guard. 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't 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 nam'd, nay, that hell knows,
Why, hers, in part, or all; but 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. [Exit.

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