as you value your trust. LEONATUS.
So far I read aloud;
But even the very middle of my heart
Is warm’d by th’ rest and takes it thankfully.
You are as welcome, worthy sir, as I
Have words to bid you; and shall find it so
In all that I can do.
IACHIMO.
Thanks, fairest lady.
What, are men mad? Hath nature given them eyes
To see this vaulted arch and the rich crop
Of sea and land, which can distinguish ’twixt
The fiery orbs above and the twinn’d stones
Upon the number’d beach, and can we not
Partition make with spectacles so precious
’Twixt fair and foul?
IMOGEN.
What makes your admiration?
IACHIMO.
It cannot be i’ th’ eye, for apes and monkeys,
’Twixt two such shes, would chatter this way and
Contemn with mows the other; nor i’ th’ judgement,
For idiots in this case of favour would
Be wisely definite; nor i’ th’ appetite;
Sluttery, to such neat excellence oppos’d,
Should make desire vomit emptiness,
Not so allur’d to feed.
IMOGEN.
What is the matter, trow?
IACHIMO.
The cloyed will—
That satiate yet unsatisfied desire, that tub
Both fill’d and running—ravening first the lamb,
Longs after for the garbage.
IMOGEN.
What, dear sir,
Thus raps you? Are you well?
IACHIMO.
Thanks, madam; well. Beseech you, sir,
Desire my man’s abode where I did leave him.
He’s strange and peevish.
PISANIO.
I was going, sir,
To give him welcome.
[Exit.]
IMOGEN.
Continues well my lord? His health beseech you?
IACHIMO.
Well, madam.
IMOGEN.
Is he dispos’d to mirth? I hope he is.
IACHIMO.
Exceeding pleasant; none a stranger there
So merry and so gamesome. He is call’d
The Briton reveller.
IMOGEN.
When he was here
He did incline to sadness, and oft-times
Not knowing why.
IACHIMO.
I never saw him sad.
There is a Frenchman his companion, one
An eminent monsieur that, it seems, much loves
A Gallian girl at home. He furnaces
The thick sighs from him; whiles the jolly Briton
(Your lord, I mean) laughs from’s free lungs, cries “O,
Can my sides hold, to think that man, who knows
By history, report, or his own proof,
What woman is, yea, what she cannot choose
But must be, will’s free hours languish for
Assured bondage?”
IMOGEN.
Will my lord say so?
IACHIMO.
Ay, madam, with his eyes in flood with laughter.
It is a recreation to be by
And hear him mock the Frenchman. But heavens know
Some men are much to blame.
IMOGEN.
Not he, I hope.
IACHIMO.
Not he; but yet heaven’s bounty towards him might
Be us’d more thankfully. In himself, ’tis much;
In you, which I account his, beyond all talents.
Whilst I am bound to wonder, I am bound
To pity too.
IMOGEN.
What do you pity, sir?
IACHIMO.
Two creatures heartily.
IMOGEN.
Am I one, sir?
You look on me: what wreck discern you in me
Deserves your pity?
IACHIMO.
Lamentable! What,
To hide me from the radiant sun and solace
I’ th’ dungeon by a snuff?
IMOGEN.
I pray you, sir,
Deliver with more openness your answers
To my demands. Why do you pity me?
IACHIMO.
That others do,
I was about to say, enjoy your—But
It is an office of the gods to venge it,
Not mine to speak on’t.
IMOGEN.
You do seem to know
Something of me, or what concerns me; pray you,
Since doubting things go ill often hurts more
Than to be sure they do; for certainties
Either are past remedies, or, timely knowing,
The remedy then born—discover to me
What both you spur and stop.
IACHIMO.
Had I this cheek
To bathe my lips upon; this hand, whose touch,
Whose every touch, would force the feeler’s soul
To th’ oath of loyalty; this object, which
Takes prisoner the wild motion of mine eye,
Fixing it only here; should I, damn’d then,
Slaver with lips as common as the stairs
That mount the Capitol; join gripes with hands
Made hard with hourly falsehood (falsehood as
With labour): then by-peeping in an eye
Base and illustrious as the smoky light
That’s fed with stinking tallow: it were fit
That all the plagues of hell should at one time
Encounter such revolt.
IMOGEN.
My lord, I fear,
Has forgot Britain.
IACHIMO.