Post.
Is there no way for men to be, but women
Must be half-workers? We are all bastards ^note;
And that most venerable man which I
Did call my father, was I know not where
When I was stamp'd; some coiner with his tools
Made me a counterfeit: yet my mother seem'd
The Dian of that time: so doth my wife
The nonpareil of this. O, vengeance, vengeance!
Me of my lawful pleasure she restrain'd,
And pray'd me ^note oft forbearance; did ^note it with

A pudency so rosy, the sweet view on't
Might well have warm'd old Saturn; that I thought her ^note
As chaste as unsunn'd snow. O, all the devils!
This yellow Iachimo, in an hour,—was't not?—
Or less,—at first? ^note—perchance he spoke not, but
Like a full-acorn'd boar, a German one ^note,
Cried ‘O!’ and mounted; found no opposition
But ^note what he look'd for should ^note oppose and she
Should from ^note encounter guard. Could I find out
The woman's part in me! ^note For there's no motion
That tends to vice in man but I affirm
It is the woman's part: be it ^note lying, note it,
The woman's; flattering, hers; deceiving, hers;
Lust and rank thoughts, hers, hers; revenges, hers; ^note
Ambitions, covetings, change of prides, disdain,
Nice longing ^note, slanders, mutability,
All faults that may be named ^note, nay, that hell knows,
Why, hers, in part or all, but rather all;
For even to vice ^{note note note}
They are not constant, but are changing still
One ^note 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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