William Shakespeare: Cymbeline, Act II, Scene IV
Enter Posthumus and Philario
Fear it not, sir: I would I were so sure To win the king as I am bold her honour Will remain hers.
Not any, but abide the change of time, Quake in the present winter's state and wish That warmer days would come: in these sear'd hopes, I barely gratify your love; they failing, I must die much your debtor.
Your very goodness and your company O'erpays all I can do. By this, your king Hath heard of great Augustus: Caius Lucius Will do's commission throughly: and I think He'll grant the tribute, send the arrearages, Or look upon our Romans, whose remembrance Is yet fresh in their grief.
I do believe, Statist though I am none, nor like to be, That this will prove a war; and you shall hear The legions now in Gallia sooner landed In our not-fearing Britain than have tidings Of any penny tribute paid. Our countrymen Are men more order'd than when Julius Caesar Smiled 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 such That mend upon the world.
The swiftest harts have posted you by land; And winds of all the comers kiss'd your sails, To make your vessel nimble.
And therewithal the best; or let her beauty Look through a casement to allure false hearts And be false with them.
All is well yet. Sparkles this stone as it was wont? or is't not Too dull for your good wearing?
If I had lost it, I should have lost the worth of it in gold. I'll make a journey twice as far, to enjoy A second night of such sweet shortness which Was mine in Britain, for the ring is won.
Make not, sir, Your loss your sport: I hope you know that we Must not continue friends.
Good sir, we must, If you keep covenant. Had I not brought The knowledge of your mistress home, I grant We were to question further: but I now Profess myself the winner of her honour, Together with your ring; and not the wronger Of her or you, having proceeded but By both your wills.
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 loses Your sword or mine, or masterless leaves both To who shall find them.
Sir, my circumstances, Being so near the truth as I will make them, Must first induce you to believe: whose strength I will confirm with oath; which, I doubt not, You'll give me leave to spare, when you shall find You need it not.
First, her bedchamber,— Where, I confess, I slept not, but profess Had that was well worth watching—it was hang'd With tapesty of silk and silver; the story Proud Cleopatra, when she met her Roman, And Cydnus swell'd above the banks, or for The press of boats or pride: a piece of work So bravely done, so rich, that it did strive In workmanship and value; which I wonder'd Could be so rarely and exactly wrought, Since the true life on't was—
The chimney Is south the chamber, and the chimney-piece Chaste Dian bathing: never saw I figures So likely to report themselves: the cutter Was as another nature, dumb; outwent her, Motion and breath left out.
This is a thing Which you might from relation likewise reap, Being, as it is, much spoke of.
The roof o' the chamber With golden cherubins is fretted: her andirons— I had forgot them—were two winking Cupids Of silver, each on one foot standing, nicely Depending on their brands.
This is her honour! Let it be granted you have seen all this—and praise Be given to your remembrance—the description Of what is in her chamber nothing saves The wager you have laid.
Then, if you can,
Showing the bracelet
Be pale: I beg but leave to air this jewel; see! And now 'tis up again: it must be married To that your diamond; I'll keep them.
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 prized it once.
O, no, no, no! 'tis true. Here, take this too;
Gives the ring
It is a basilisk unto mine eye, 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!
Have patience, sir, And take your ring again; 'tis not yet won: It may be probable she lost it; or Who knows if one of her women, being corrupted, Hath stol'n it from her?
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.
Hark you, he swears; by Jupiter he swears. 'Tis true:—nay, keep the ring—'tis true: I am sure She would not lose it: her attendants are All sworn and honourable:—they induced to steal it! And by a stranger!—No, he hath enjoyed her: The cognizance of her incontinency Is this: she hath bought the name of whore thus dearly. There, take thy hire; and all the fiends of hell Divide themselves between you!
If you seek For further 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?
Ay, and it doth confirm Another stain, as big as hell can hold, Were there no more but it.
No swearing. If you will swear you have not done't, you lie; And I will kill thee, if thou dost deny Thou'st made me cuckold.
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—
Quite besides The government of patience! You have won: Let's follow him, and pervert the present wrath He hath against himself.