Once more let me behold it.
Which I left with her?

Iach.

Is it that

Sir, (I thank her) that:
She stripp'd it from her arm; I see her yet;
Her pretty action did outsell her gift,
And yet enrich'd it too. She gave it me,

And said, she priz'd it once.

Kills me to look on 't. Let there be no honour,
Where there is beauty; truth, where semblance; love,
Where there's another man: the vows of women
Of no more bondage be, to where they are made,
Than they are to their virtues, which is nothing.
O, above measure false!

Phi.

Have patience, Sir,

And take your ring again; 't is not yet won:

It may be probable she lost it; or,

Who knows, if one, her women, being corrupted,
Hath stolen it from her?

Post.

Very true;

And so, I hope, he came by 't. - Back my ring.
Render to me some corporal sign about her,

More evident than this, for this was stolen.

Iach.

By Jupiter, I had it from her arm.

Post. Hark you, he swears; by Jupiter he swears. 'Tis true; nay, keep the ring

- 't is true. I am sure,

She would not lose it: her attendants are

All sworn, and honourable:

they induc'd to steal it!

And by a stranger! —No, he hath enjoy'd her :
The cognizance of her incontinency

Is this:

VI.

she hath bought the name of whore thus dearly.

465

There, take thy hire; and all the fiends of hell
Divide themselves between you!

Phi.

This is not strong enough to be believ'd

Of one persuaded well of

Post.

She hath been colted by him.

Iach.

Sir, be patient.

Never talk on 't;

If you seek
For farther satisfying, under her breast
(Worthy the pressing) lies a mole, right proud
Of that most delicate lodging: by my life,

I kiss'd it, and it gave me present hunger
To feed again, though full. You do remember
This stain upon her?

Post.

Ay, and it doth confirm
Another stain, as big as hell can hold.
Were there no more but it.

Iach.

Will you hear more?

Post. Spare your arithmetic: never count the turns;

I will deny nothing.

Post. O, that I had her here, to tear her limb-meal! I will go there, and do 't; i' the court; before

Her father. I'll do something

Phi.

The government of patience!

Quite besides

Let's follow him, and pervert the present wrath

He hath against himself.

Iach.

[Exit.

With all my heart.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.

The Same. Another Room in the Same.

Enter POSTHUMUS.

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

And that most venerable man, which I
Did call my father, was I know not where
When I was stamped; some coiner with his tools
Made me a counterfeit: yet my mother seemed
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 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: - O, all the devils!
This yellow Iachimo, in an hour,

Or less,

was 't not?

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 it 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 't is greater skill,

In a true hate, to pray they have their will:
The very devils cannot plague them better.

ACT III. SCENE I.

Britain. A Room of State in CYMBELINE's Palace.

[Exit

Enter CYMBELINE, QUEEN, CLOTEN, and Lords, at one Door; and at another, CAIUS LUCIUS and Attendants.

Luc.

Cym. Now say, what would Augustus Cæsar with us?
When Julius Cæsar (whose remembrance yet
Lives in men's eyes, and will to ears, and tongues,
Be theme, and hearing ever) was in this Britain,
And conquer'd it, Cassibelan, thine uncle,
(Famous in Cæsar's praises, no whit less
Than in his feats deserving it) for him,
And his succession, granted Rome a tribute,
Yearly three thousand pounds; which by thee lately
Is left untender'd.

Queen.

Shall be so ever.

Clo.

And, to kill the marvel,

There be many Cæsars,

Ere such another Julius. Britain is

A world by itself; and we will nothing pay,

For wearing our own noses.

Queen.

That opportunity,

Which then they had to take from us, to resume
We have again. Remember, Sir, my liege,
The kings your ancestors, together with

The natural bravery of your isle; which stands
As Neptune's park, ribbed and paled in

With rocks unscaleable, and roaring waters;

With sands, that will not bear your enemies' boats,

But suck them up to the top-mast. A kind of conquest

Cæsar made here; but made not here his brag

Of "came," and "saw,"

and "

overcame: " with shame

(The first that ever touch'd him) he was carried

From off our coast, twice beaten; and his shipping,
(Poor ignorant baubles!) on our terrible seas,
Like egg-shells mov'd upon their surges, crack'd
As easily 'gainst our rocks. For joy whereof
The fam'd Cassibelan, who was once at point
(0, giglot fortune!) to master Cæsar's sword,
Made Lud's town with rejoicing fires bright,
And Britons strut with courage.

Clo. Come, there's no more tribute to be paid. Our kingdom is stronger than it was at that time; and, as I said, there is no more such Cæsars: other of them may have crooked noses; but, to owe such straight arms, none.

Cym. Son, let your mother end.

Clo. We have yet many among us can gripe as hard as Cassibelan: I do not say, I am one; but I have a hand. Why tribute? why should we pay tribute? If Cæsar can hide the sun from us with a blanket, or put the moon in his pocket, we will pay him tribute for light; else, Sir, no more tribute, pray you now.

Cym. You must know,

Till the injurious Romans did extort

This tribute from us, we were free: Cæsar's ambition,
(Which swell'd so much, that it did almost stretch
The sides o' the world) against all colour, here
Did put the yoke upon us; which to shake off,
Becomes a warlike people, whom we reckon
Ourselves to be. We do say, then, to Cæsar,
Our ancestor was that Mulmutius, which

Ordain'd our laws; whose use the sword of Cæsar
Hath too much mangled; whose repair, and franchise,

Shall, by the power we hold, be our good deed,

Though Rome be therefore angry. Mulmutius made our laws, Who was the first of Britain which did put

His brows within a golden crown, and call'd

Himself a king.

I am sorry, Cymbeline,

Luc. That I am to pronounce Augustus Cæsar (Cæsar, that hath more kings his servants,

than