Imo. To Dorothy, my woman, hye thee presently.
Clot. His garment?

Imo. I am fprighted with a fool,

Frighted, and angred worfe

go bid my woman

Search for a jewel, that too cafually

Hath left mine arm - it was thy mafter's. 'Shrew me

If I would lose it for a revenue

Of any King in Europe. I do think

I faw't this morning; confident I am,
Laft night 'twas on my arm; I kiffed it.

I hope it be not gone to tell my Lord
That I kifs ought but him.

Pif. 'Twill not be loft.

Imo. I hope fo; go and fearch.

Clot. You have abus'd me

His meanest garment?

Imo. Ay, I faid fo, Sir;

[Exit Pifanio.

Call witnefs to't, if you will make't an action.`

Clot. I will inform your father.

Imo. Your mother too;

She's my good Lady; and will conceive, I hope,

But the worst of me.

So I leave you, Sir,

To th' worst of discontent.

Clot. I'll be reveng'd;

His meaneft garment? - well.

SCENE V.

ROME.

Enter Pofthumus, and Philario.

Ear it not, Sir; I would I were so sure

Post. FEar

[Exit.

[Exit.

To win the King, as I am bold her honour Will remain hers.

Phil. What means do you make to him? Poft. Not any, but abide the change of time, Quake in the prefent winter's ftate, and wifh

4 If you will make't an action, call witness to't.

That

That warmer days would come; in thefe fear'd hopes I barely gratifie your love; they failing,

I muft die much your debtor.

Phil. Your very goodness, and your company,
O'er-pays all I can do. By this, your King
Hath heard of great Auguftus; Caius Lucius
Will do's commiffion throughly. And I think
He'll grant the tribute, send the arrearages,
'Ere look upon our Romans, whofe remembrance
Is yet fresh in their grief.

Poft. I do believe,

(Statift though I am none, nor like to be,)
That this will prove a war; and you shall hear
The 'legions now in Gallia, fooner landed
In our not-fearing Britain, than have tidings
Of any penny tribute paid. Our countrymen
Are men more order'd than when Julius Cæfar
Smil'd at their lack of skill, but found their courage
Worthy his frowning at. Their discipline

Now mingled with their courages, will make known
To their approvers, they are people fuch
As mend upon the world.

Phil. See lachimo.

Enter Iachimo.

Poft. Sure the fwift harts have pofted you by land; And winds of all the corners kifs'd your fails,

To make your veffel nimble.

Phil. Welcome, Sir.

Poft. I hope the briefnefs of your answer made The speediness of your return.

Iach. Your Lady

Is of the fairest I e'er look'd upon.

Poft. And therewithal the beft, or let her beauty Look through a cafement to allure falfe hearts,

K 3

And

5 Or...old edit. Theob, emend. 6 legion... old edit. Theob. emend.

And be falfe with them.

Iach. Here are letters for you.

Poft. Their tenour good, I trust.

lach. Tis very like.

Poft. Was Caius Lucius in the Britain Court, When you were there?

Iach. He was expected then,

7'But was not yet approach'd.`
Poft. All is well yet.

Sparkles this ftone as it was wont, or is't not
Too dull for your good wearing?

Iach. If I've loft it,

I should have loft the worth of it in gold;
I'll make a journey twice as far, t' enjoy
A fecond night of fuch fweet fhortnefs, which
Was mine in Britain; for the ring is won.
Post. The stone's too hard to come by.
lach. Not a whit,

Your Lady being fo eafie..

Post. Make not, Sir,

Your lofs your fport; I hope you know that we
Muft not continue friends.

Iach. Good Sir; we must,

If you keep covenant; had I not brought
The knowledge of your mistress home, I grant
We were to question farther; but I now
Profess my felf the winner of her honour,
Together with your ring; and not the wronger
Of her, or you, having proceeded but
By both your wills.

Poft. If you can make't apparent

That you have tasted her in bed; my hand,
And ring is yours. If not, the foul opinion
You had of her pure honour, gains or lofes
Your fword or mine, or mafterlefs leaves both
To who fhall find them.

Jach. Sir, my circumstances

but not approach'd.

Being

Being fo near the truth, as I will make them,
Muft first induce you to believe; whofe ftrength
I will confirm with oath, which I doubt not
You'll give me leave to fpare, when you fhall find
You need it not.

Poft. Proceed.

Iach. First, her bed-chamber,

(Where I confess I flept not, but profess
Had that was well worth watching) it was hang'd
With tapestry of filver'd filk; the ftory
Proud Cleopatra, when she met her Roman,
And Cydnus fwell'd above the banks or for
The prefs of boats, or pride: a piece of work
So bravely done, fo rich, that it did ftrive
In workmanship, and value; which I wonder'd
Could be fo rarely and exactly wrought,
Since the true life on't was.

Poft. 'Why, this is true;`

And this you might have heard of here, by me,
Or by fome other.

Iach. More particulars

Muft juftifie my knowledge.
Poft. So they must,
Or do your honour injury.
Iach. The chimney

Is fouth the chamber, and the chimney-piece
Chaft Dian, bathing; never faw I figures
Solively to report themselves; the cutter
Was as another nature, dumb out-went her,
Motion and breath left out.

Poft. This is a thing

Which you might from relation likewise reap;
Being, as it is, much spoke of.

lach. The roof o' th' chamber

With golden cherubims is fretted. Th' andirons, (I had forgot them) were two winking Cupids Of filver, each on one foot ftanding, nicely

8 of filk and filver; 9

K 4

This is true; 1 likely

Depend

Depending on their brands.

Poft. What's this t' her honour ?

Let it be granted you have feen all this,
Praise be to your remembrance, the description
Of what is in her chamber nothing faves
The wager you have laid.

Iach. Then if you can

[Pulling out the Bracelet.

Be pale, I beg but leave to air this jewel: fee!
And now 'tis up again; it must be married
To that your diamond. I'll keep them.

Poft. Jove!

Once more let me behold it: Is it that
Which I left with her?

Iach. Sir, I thank her, that:

She ftripp'd it from her arm, I fee her yet,
Her pretty action did out-fell her gift,
And yet enrich'd it too; fhe gave it me,
And faid the priz'd it once.

Poft.

She pluck'd it off

To fend it me.

Iach. She writes fo to you? doth fhe?

Poft. O, no, no, no, 'tis true. Here take this too, It is a bafilisk unto mine eye,

Kills me to look on't let there be no honour,

Where there is beauty; truth, where femblance; love,
Where there's another man. The vows of women
Of no more bondage be to where they're made,
Than they are to their virtues, which is nothing;
O, above measure falfe! -

Phil. Have patience, Sir,

And take your ring again: 'tis not yet won;
It may be probable fhe loft it; or

Who knows one of her women, being corrupted,

'Might not have ftol'n' it from her?

Poft. Very true,

And fo I hope he came by't; back my ring,

2 This is her honour. . . old edit. Theob. emend.

Render