(To Innogen)

On, speak to him.

INNOGEN

My boon is that this gentleman may render

Of whom he had this ring.

POSTHUMUS (aside) What’s that to him?

CYMBELINE (to Giacomo)

That diamond upon your finger, say,

How came it yours?

GIACOMO

Thou’lt torture me to leave unspoken that

Which to be spoke would torture thee.

CYMBELINE

How, me?

GIACOMO

I am glad to be constrained to utter that

Torments me to conceal. By villainy

I got this ring; ‘twas Leonatus’ jewel,

Whom thou didst banish; and, which more may

grieve thee,

As it doth me, a nobler sir ne’er lived

’Twixt sky and ground. Wilt thou hear more, my lord?

CYMBELINE

All that belongs to this.

GIACOMO That paragon thy daughter,

For whom my heart drops blood, and my false spirits

Quail to remember-give me leave, I faint.

CYMBELINE

My daughter? What of her? Renew thy strength.

I had rather thou shouldst live while nature will

Than die ere I hear more. Strive, man, and speak.

GIACOMO

Upon a time-unhappy was the clock

That struck the hour-it was in Rome-accursed

The mansion where-‘twas at a feast-O, would

Our viands had been poisoned, or at least

Those which I heaved to head!—the good Posthumus—

What should I say?—he was too good to be

Where ill men were, and was the best of all

Amongst the rar’st of good ones-sitting sadly,

Hearing us praise our loves of Italy

For beauty that made barren the swelled boast

Of him that best could speak; for feature laming

The shrine of Venus or straight-pitched Minerva,

Postures beyond brief nature; for condition,

A shop of all the qualities that man

Loves woman for; besides that hook of wiving,

Fairness which strikes the eye—

CYMBELINE

I stand on fire.

Come to the matter.

GIACOMO

All too soon I shall,

Unless thou wouldst grieve quickly. This Posthumus,

Most like a noble lord in love and one

That had a royal lover, took his hint,

And not dispraising whom we praised—therein

He was as calm as virtue-he began

His mistress’ picture, which by his tongue being made,

And then a mind put in’t, either our brags

Were cracked of kitchen-trulls, or his description

Proved us unspeaking sots.

CYMBELINE

Nay, nay, to th’ purpose.

GIACOMO

Your daughter’s chastity-there it begins.

He spake of her as Dian had hot dreams

And she alone were cold, whereat I, wretch,

Made scruple of his praise, and wagered with him

Pieces of gold ‘gainst this which then he wore

Upon his honoured finger, to attain

In suit the place of ’s bed and win this ring

By hers and mine adultery. He, true knight,

No lesser of her honour confident

Than I did truly find her, stakes this ring—

And would so had it been a carbuncle

Of Phoebus’ wheel, and might so safely had it

Been all the worth of ’s car. Away to Britain

Post I in this design. Well may you, sir,

Remember me at court, where I was taught

Of your chaste daughter the wide difference

’Twixt amorous and villainous. Being thus quenched

Of hope, not longing, mine Italian brain

Gan in your duller Britain operate

Most vilely; for my vantage, excellent.

And, to be brief, my practice so prevailed

That I returned with simular proof enough

To make the noble Leonatus mad

By wounding his belief in her renown

With tokens thus and thus; averring notes

Of chamber-hanging, pictures, this her bracelet—

O cunning, how I got it!—nay, some marks

Of secret on her person, that he could not

But think her bond of chastity quite cracked,

I having ta’en the forfeit. Whereupon—

Methinks I see him now—

POSTHUMUS (coming forward) Ay, so thou dost,

Italian fiend! Ay me, most credulous fool,

Egregious murderer, thief, anything

That’s due to all the villains past, in being,

To come! O, give me cord, or knife, or poison,

Some upright justicer! Thou, King, send out

For torturers ingenious. It is I

That all th‘abhorrèd things o’th’ earth amend

By being worse than they. I am Posthumus,

That killed thy daughter—villain-like, I lie:

That caused a lesser villain than myself,

A sacrilegious thief, to do’t. The temple

Of virtue was she; yea, and she herself.

Spit and throw stones, cast mire upon me, set

The dogs o‘th’ street to bay me. Every villain

Be called Posthumus Leonatus, and

Be ‘villain’ less than ’twas! O Innogen!

My queen, my life, my wife, O Innogen,

Innogen, Innogen!

INNOGEN (approaching him) Peace, my lord. Hear, hear.

POSTHUMUS

Shall ’s have a play of this? Thou scornful page,

There lie thy part.

He strikes her down

PISANIO (coming forward) O gentlemen, help!