CYMBELINE. Уильям Шекспир

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       Iach. If I haue lost it,

       I should haue lost the worth of it in Gold,

       Ile make a iourney twice as farre, t’ enioy

       A second night of such sweet shortnesse, which

       Was mine in Britaine, for the Ring is wonne

       Post. The Stones too hard to come by

       Iach. Not a whit,

       Your Lady being so easy

       Post. Make note Sir

       Your losse, your Sport: I hope you know that we

       Must not continue Friends

       Iach. Good Sir, we must

       If you keepe Couenant: had I not brought

       The knowledge of your Mistris home, I grant

       We were to question farther; but I now

       Professe my selfe the winner of her Honor,

       Together with your Ring; and not the wronger

       Of her, or you hauing proceeded but

       By both your willes

       Post. If you can mak’t apparant

       That you haue tasted her in Bed; my hand,

       And Ring is yours. If not, the foule opinion

       You had of her pure Honour; gaines, or looses,

       Your Sword, or mine, or Masterlesse leaue both

       To who shall finde them

       Iach. Sir, my Circumstances

       Being so nere the Truth, as I will make them,

       Must first induce you to beleeue; whose strength

       I will confirme with oath, which I doubt not

       You’l giue me leaue to spare, when you shall finde

       You neede it not

       Post. Proceed Iach. First, her Bedchamber

       (Where I confesse I slept not, but professe

       Had that was well worth watching) it was hang’d

       With Tapistry of Silke, and Siluer, the Story

       Proud Cleopatra, when she met her Roman,

       And Sidnus swell’d aboue the Bankes, or for

       The presse of Boates, or Pride. A peece of Worke

       So brauely done, so rich, that it did striue

       In Workemanship, and Value, which I wonder’d

       Could be so rarely, and exactly wrought

       Since the true life on’t was-

       Post. This is true:

       And this you might haue heard of heere, by me,

       Or by some other

       Iach. More particulars

       Must iustifie my knowledge

       Post. So they must,

       Or doe your Honour iniury

       Iach. The Chimney

       Is South the Chamber, and the Chimney-peece

       Chaste Dian, bathing: neuer saw I figures

       So likely to report themselues; the Cutter

       Was as another Nature dumbe, outwent her,

       Motion, and Breath left out

       Post. This is a thing

       Which you might from Relation likewise reape,

       Being, as it is, much spoke of

       Iach. The Roofe o’th’ Chamber,

       With golden Cherubins is fretted. Her Andirons

       (I had forgot them) were two winking Cupids

       Of Siluer, each on one foote standing, nicely

       Depending on their Brands

       Post. This is her Honor:

       Let it be granted you haue seene all this (and praise

       Be giuen to your remembrance) the description

       Of what is in her Chamber, nothing saues

       The wager you haue laid

       Iach. Then if you can

       Be pale, I begge but leaue to ayre this Iewell: See,

       And now ‘tis vp againe: it must be married

       To that your Diamond, Ile keepe them

       Post. Ioue-

       Once more let me behold it: Is it that

       Which I left with her?

       Iach. Sir (I thanke her) that

       She stript it from her Arme: I see her yet:

       Her pretty Action, did out-sell her guift,

       And yet enrich’d it too: she gaue it me,

       And said, she priz’d it once

       Post. May be, she pluck’d it off

       To send it me

       Iach. She writes so to you? doth shee?

       Post. O no, no, no, ‘tis true. Heere, take this too,

       It is a Basiliske vnto mine eye,

       Killes me to looke on’t: Let there be no Honor,

       Where there is Beauty: Truth, where semblance: Loue,

       Where there’s another man. The Vowes of Women,

       Of no more bondage be, to where they are made,

       Then they are to their Vertues, which is nothing:

       O, aboue measure false

       Phil. Haue patience Sir,

       And take your Ring againe, ‘tis not yet wonne:

       It may be probable she lost it: or

       Who knowes if one her women, being corrupted

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