Cymbeline — Act 1, Scene 6 · Shakespeare for Bharat

IMOGEN

A father cruel, and a step-dame false;A foolish suitor to a wedded lady,That hath her husband banish'd;--O, that husband!My supreme crown of grief! and those repeatedVexations of it! Had I been thief-stol'n,As my two brothers, happy! but most miserableIs the desire that's glorious: blest be those,How mean soe'er, that have their honest wills,Which seasons comfort. Who may this be? Fie!

PISANIO

Madam, a noble gentleman of Rome,Comes from my lord with letters.

IACHIMO

Change you, madam?The worthy Leonatus is in safetyAnd greets your highness dearly.

IMOGEN

Thanks, good sir:You're kindly welcome.

IACHIMO

[Aside] All of her that is out of door most rich!If she be furnish'd with a mind so rare,She is alone the Arabian bird, and IHave lost the wager. Boldness be my friend!Arm me, audacity, from head to foot!Or, like the Parthian, I shall flying fight;Rather directly fly.

IMOGEN

[Reads] 'He is one of the noblest note, to whosekindnesses I am most infinitely tied. Reflect uponhim accordingly, as you value your trust--LEONATUS.'So far I read aloud:But even the very middle of my heartIs warm'd by the rest, and takes it thankfully.You are as welcome, worthy sir, as IHave words to bid you, and shall find it soIn all that I can do.

IACHIMO

Thanks, fairest lady.What, are men mad? Hath nature given them eyesTo see this vaulted arch, and the rich cropOf sea and land, which can distinguish 'twixtThe fiery orbs above and the twinn'd stonesUpon the number'd beach? and can we notPartition make with spectacles so precious'Twixt fair and foul?

IMOGEN

What makes your admiration?

IACHIMO

It cannot be i' the eye, for apes and monkeys'Twixt two such shes would chatter this way andContemn with mows the other; nor i' the judgment,For idiots in this case of favour wouldBe wisely definite; nor i' the appetite;Sluttery to such neat excellence opposedShould make desire vomit emptiness,Not so allured to feed.

IMOGEN

What is the matter, trow?

IACHIMO

The cloyed will,That satiate yet unsatisfied desire, that tubBoth fill'd and running, ravening first the lambLongs after for the garbage.

IMOGEN

What, dear sir,Thus raps you? Are you well?

IACHIMO

Thanks, madam; well.

IACHIMO

Beseech you, sir, desireMy man's abode where I did leave him: heIs strange and peevish.

PISANIO

I was going, sir,To give him welcome.

IMOGEN

Continues well my lord? His health, beseech you?

IACHIMO

Well, madam.

IMOGEN

Is he disposed to mirth? I hope he is.

IACHIMO

Exceeding pleasant; none a stranger thereSo merry and so gamesome: he is call'dThe Briton reveller.

IMOGEN

When he was here,He did incline to sadness, and oft-timesNot knowing why.

IACHIMO

I never saw him sad.There is a Frenchman his companion, oneAn eminent monsieur, that, it seems, much lovesA Gallian girl at home; he furnacesThe thick sighs from him, whiles the jolly Briton--Your lord, I mean--laughs from's free lungs, cries 'O,Can my sides hold, to think that man, who knowsBy history, report, or his own proof,What woman is, yea, what she cannot chooseBut must be, will his free hours languish forAssured bondage?'

IMOGEN

Will my lord say so?

IACHIMO

Ay, madam, with his eyes in flood with laughter:It is a recreation to be byAnd hear him mock the Frenchman. But, heavens know,Some men are much to blame.

IMOGEN

Not he, I hope.

IACHIMO

Not he: but yet heaven's bounty towards him mightBe used more thankfully. In himself, 'tis much;In you, which I account his beyond all talents,Whilst I am bound to wonder, I am boundTo pity too.

IMOGEN

What do you pity, sir?

IACHIMO

Two creatures heartily.

IMOGEN

Am I one, sir?You look on me: what wreck discern you in meDeserves your pity?

IACHIMO

Lamentable! What,To hide me from the radiant sun and solaceI' the dungeon by a snuff?

IMOGEN

I pray you, sir,Deliver with more openness your answersTo my demands. Why do you pity me?

IACHIMO

That others do--I was about to say--enjoy your--ButIt is an office of the gods to venge it,Not mine to speak on 't.

IMOGEN

You do seem to knowSomething of me, or what concerns me: pray you,--Since doubling things go ill often hurts moreThan to be sure they do; for certaintiesEither are past remedies, or, timely knowing,The remedy then born--discover to meWhat both you spur and stop.

IACHIMO

Had I this cheekTo bathe my lips upon; this hand, whose touch,Whose every touch, would force the feeler's soulTo the oath of loyalty; this object, whichTakes prisoner the wild motion of mine eye,Fixing it only here; should I, damn'd then,Slaver with lips as common as the stairsThat mount the Capitol; join gripes with handsMade hard with hourly falsehood--falsehood, asWith labour; then by-peeping in an eyeBase and unlustrous as the smoky lightThat's fed with stinking tallow; it were fitThat all the plagues of hell should at one timeEncounter such revolt.

IMOGEN

My lord, I fear,Has forgot Britain.

IACHIMO

And himself. Not I,Inclined to this intelligence, pronounceThe beggary of his change; but 'tis your gracesThat from pay mutest conscience to my tongueCharms this report out.

IMOGEN

Let me hear no more.

IACHIMO

O dearest soul! your cause doth strike my heartWith pity, that doth make me sick. A ladySo fair, and fasten'd to an empery,Would make the great'st king double,--to be partner'dWith tomboys hired with that self-exhibitionWhich your own coffers yield! with diseased venturesThat play with all infirmities for goldWhich rottenness can lend nature! such boil'd stuffAs well might poison poison! Be revenged;Or she that bore you was no queen, and youRecoil from your great stock.

IMOGEN

Revenged!How should I be revenged? If this be true,--As I have such a heart that both mine earsMust not in haste abuse--if it be true,How should I be revenged?

IACHIMO

Should he make meLive, 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.

IMOGEN

What, ho, Pisanio!

IACHIMO

Let me my service tender on your lips.

IMOGEN

Away! I do condemn mine ears that haveSo long attended thee. If thou wert honourable,Thou wouldst have told this tale for virtue, notFor such an end thou seek'st,--as base as strange.Thou wrong'st a gentleman, who is as farFrom thy report as thou from honour, andSolicit'st here a lady that disdainsThee and the devil alike. What ho, Pisanio!The king my father shall be made acquaintedOf thy assault: if he shall think it fit,A saucy stranger in his court to martAs in a Romish stew and to expoundHis beastly mind to us, he hath a courtHe little cares for and a daughter whoHe not respects at all. What, ho, Pisanio!

IACHIMO

O happy Leonatus! I may sayThe credit that thy lady hath of theeDeserves thy trust, and thy most perfect goodnessHer assured credit. Blessed live you long!A lady to the worthiest sir that everCountry call'd his! and you his mistress, onlyFor the most worthiest fit! Give me your pardon.I have spoke this, to know if your affianceWere deeply rooted; and shall make your lord,That which he is, new o'er: and he is oneThe truest manner'd; such a holy witchThat he enchants societies into him;Half all men's hearts are his.

IMOGEN

You make amends.

IACHIMO

He sits 'mongst men like a descended god:He hath a kind of honour sets him off,More than a mortal seeming. Be not angry,Most mighty princess, that I have adventuredTo try your taking a false report; which hathHonour'd with confirmation your great judgmentIn the election of a sir so rare,Which you know cannot err: the love I bear himMade me to fan you thus, but the gods made you,Unlike all others, chaffless. Pray, your pardon.

IMOGEN

All's well, sir: take my power i' the courtfor yours.

IACHIMO

My humble thanks. I had almost forgotTo entreat your grace but in a small request,And yet of moment to, for it concernsYour lord; myself and other noble friends,Are partners in the business.

IMOGEN

Pray, what is't?

IACHIMO

Some dozen Romans of us and your lord--The best feather of our wing--have mingled sumsTo buy a present for the emperorWhich I, the factor for the rest, have doneIn France: 'tis plate of rare device, and jewelsOf rich and exquisite form; their values great;And I am something curious, being strange,To have them in safe stowage: may it please youTo take them in protection?

IMOGEN

Willingly;And pawn mine honour for their safety: sinceMy lord hath interest in them, I will keep themIn my bedchamber.

IACHIMO

They are in a trunk,Attended by my men: I will make boldTo send them to you, only for this night;I must aboard to-morrow.

IMOGEN

O, no, no.

IACHIMO

Yes, I beseech; or I shall short my wordBy lengthening my return. From GalliaI cross'd the seas on purpose and on promiseTo see your grace.

IMOGEN

I thank you for your pains:But not away to-morrow!

IACHIMO

O, I must, madam:Therefore I shall beseech you, if you pleaseTo greet your lord with writing, do't to-night:I have outstood my time; which is materialTo the tender of our present.

IMOGEN

I will write.Send your trunk to me; it shall safe be kept,And truly yielded you. You're very welcome.