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