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POSTHUMUS. 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. |
IACHIMO. I'll deny nothing. |
POSTHUMUS. O that I had her here to tear her limb-meal! |
I will go there and do't, i' th' court, before |
Her father. I'll do something- Exit |
PHILARIO. Quite besides |
The government of patience! You have won. |
Let's follow him and pervert the present wrath |
He hath against himself. |
IACHIMO. With all my heart. Exeunt |
SCENE V. |
Rome. Another room in PHILARIO'S house |
Enter POSTHUMUS |
POSTHUMUS. Is there no way for men to be, but women |
Must be half-workers? We are all bastards, |
And that most venerable man which I |
Did call my father was I know not where |
When I was stamp'd. Some coiner with his tools |
Made me a counterfeit; yet my mother seem'd |
The Dian of that time. So doth my wife |
The nonpareil of this. O, vengeance, vengeance! |
Me of my lawful pleasure she restrain'd, |
And pray'd me oft forbearance; did it with |
A pudency so rosy, the sweet view on't |
Might well have warm'd old Saturn; that I thought her |
As chaste as unsunn'd snow. O, all the devils! |
This yellow Iachimo in an hour- was't not? |
Or less!- at first? Perchance he spoke not, but, |
Like a full-acorn'd boar, a German one, |
Cried 'O!' and mounted; found no opposition |
But what he look'd for should oppose and she |
Should from encounter guard. Could I find out |
The woman's part in me! For there's no motion |
That tends to vice in man but I affirm |
It is the woman's part. Be it lying, note it, |
The woman's; flattering, hers; deceiving, hers; |
Lust and rank thoughts, hers, hers; revenges, hers; |
Ambitions, covetings, change of prides, disdain, |
Nice longing, slanders, mutability, |
All faults that man may name, nay, that hell knows, |
Why, hers, in part or all; but rather all; |
For even to vice |
They are not constant, but are changing still |
One vice but of a minute old for one |
Not half so old as that. I'll write against them, |
Detest them, curse them. Yet 'tis greater skill |
In a true hate to pray they have their will: |
The very devils cannot plague them better. Exit |
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ACT III. SCENE I. |
Britain. A hall in CYMBELINE'S palace |
Enter in state, CYMBELINE, QUEEN, CLOTEN, and LORDS at one door, |
and at another CAIUS LUCIUS and attendants |
CYMBELINE. Now say, what would Augustus Caesar with us? |
LUCIUS. When Julius Caesar- whose remembrance yet |
Lives in men's eyes, and will to ears and tongues |
Be theme and hearing ever- was in this Britain, |
And conquer'd it, Cassibelan, thine uncle, |
Famous in Caesar's praises no whit less |
Than in his feats deserving it, for him |
And his succession granted Rome a tribute, |
Yearly three thousand pounds, which by thee lately |
Is left untender'd. |
QUEEN. And, to kill the marvel, |
Shall be so ever. |
CLOTEN. There be many Caesars |
Ere such another Julius. Britain is |
A world by itself, and we will nothing pay |
For wearing our own noses. |
QUEEN. That opportunity, |
Which then they had to take from 's, to resume |
We have again. Remember, sir, my liege, |
The kings your ancestors, together with |
The natural bravery of your isle, which stands |
As Neptune's park, ribb'd and pal'd in |
With rocks unscalable and roaring waters, |
With sands that will not bear your enemies' boats |
But suck them up to th' top-mast. A kind of conquest |
Caesar made here; but made not here his brag |
Of 'came, and saw, and overcame.' With shame- |
The first that ever touch'd him- he was carried |
From off our coast, twice beaten; and his shipping- |
Poor ignorant baubles!- on our terrible seas, |
Like egg-shells mov'd upon their surges, crack'd |
As easily 'gainst our rocks; for joy whereof |
The fam'd Cassibelan, who was once at point- |
O, giglot fortune!- to master Caesar's sword, |
Made Lud's Town with rejoicing fires bright |
And Britons strut with courage. |
CLOTEN. Come, there's no more tribute to be paid. Our kingdom is |
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