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?’

INNOGEN

Will my lord say so?

GIACOMO

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.

INNOGEN

Not he, I hope.

GIACOMO

Not he; but yet heaven’s bounty towards him might

Be used more thankfully. In himself ’tis much;

In you, which I count his, beyond all talents.

Whilst I am bound to wonder, I am bound

To pity too.

INNOGEN

What do you pity, sir?

GIACOMO

Two creatures heartily.

INNOGEN

Am I one, sir?

You look on me; what wreck discern you in me

Deserves your pity?

GIACOMO

Lamentablel What,

To hide me from the radiant sun, and solace

I’th’ dungeon by a snuff?

INNOGEN

I pray you, sir,

Deliver with more openness your answers

To my demands. Why do you pity me?

GIACOMO 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.

INNOGEN

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.

GIACOMO

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,

Firing it only here: should I, damned then,

Slaver with lips as common as the stairs

That mount the Capitol; join grips with hands

Made hard with hourly falsehood—faisehood as

With labour; then by-peeping in an eye

Base and illustrous 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.

INNOGEN

My lord, I fear,

Has forgot Britain.

GIACOMO

And himself. Not I

Inclined to this intelligence pronounce

The beggary of his change, but ’tis your graces

That from my mutest conscience to my tongue

Charms this report out.

INNOGEN

Let me hear no more.

GIACOMO

O dearest soul, your cause doth strike my heart

With pity that doth make me sick. A lady

So fair, and fastened to an empery

Would make the great’st king double, to be partnered

With tomboys hired with that self exhibition

Which your own coffers yield; with diseased ventures

That play with all infirmities for gold

Which rottenness can lend to nature; such boiled stuff

As well might poison poison! Be revenged,

Or she that bore you was no queen, and you

Recoil from your great stock.

INNOGEN

Revenged?

How should I be revenged? If this be true—

As I have such a heart that both mine ears

Must not in haste abuse—if it be true,

How should I be revenged?

GIACOMO

Should he make me

Live like Diana’s priest betwixt cold sheets

Whiles he is vaulting variable ramps,

In your despite, upon your purse—revenge it.

I dedicate myself to your sweet pleasure,

More noble than that runagate to your bed,

And will continue fast to your affection,

Still close as sure.

INNOGEN

What ho, Pisanio!

GIACOMO

Let me my service tender on your lips.

INNOGEN

Away, I do condemn mine ears that have

So long attended thee. If thou wert honourable

Thou wouldst have told this tale for virtue, not

For such an end thou seek‘st, as base as strange.

Thou wrong’st a gentleman who is as far

From thy report as thou from honour, and

Solicit’st here a lady that disdains

Thee and the devil alike. What ho, Pisanio!

The King my father shall be made acquainted

Of thy assault. If he shall think it fit

A saucy stranger in his court to mart

As in a Romish stew, and to expound

His beastly mind to us, he hath a court

He little cares for, and a daughter who

He not respects at all. What ho, Pisanio!

GIACOMO

O happy Leonatus! I may say

The credit that thy lady hath of thee

Deserves thy trust, and thy most perfect goodness

Her assured credit. Blessed live you long,

A lady to the worthiest sir that ever

Country called his; and you his mistress, only

For the most worthiest fit. Give me your pardon.

I have spoke this to know if your affiance

Were deeply rooted, and shall make your lord

That which he is new o’er; and he is one

The truest mannered, such a holy witch