CYMBELINE. Уильям Шекспир

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       Post. Very true,

       And so I hope he came by’t: backe my Ring,

       Render to me some corporall signe about her

       More euident then this: for this was stolne

       Iach. By Iupiter, I had it from her Arme Post. Hearke you, he sweares: by Iupiter he sweares.

       ‘Tis true, nay keepe the Ring; ‘tis true: I am sure

       She would not loose it: her Attendants are

       All sworne, and honourable: they induc’d to steale it?

       And by a Stranger? No, he hath enioy’d her,

       The Cognisance of her incontinencie

       Is this: she hath bought the name of Whore, thus deerly

       There, take thy hyre, and all the Fiends of Hell

       Diuide themselues betweene you

       Phil. Sir, be patient:

       This is not strong enough to be beleeu’d

       Of one perswaded well of

       Post. Neuer talke on’t:

       She hath bin colted by him

       Iach. If you seeke

       For further satisfying, vnder her Breast

       (Worthy her pressing) lyes a Mole, right proud

       Of that most delicate Lodging. By my life

       I kist it, and it gaue me present hunger

       To feede againe, though full. You do remember

       This staine vpon her?

       Post. I, and it doth confirme

       Another staine, as bigge as Hell can hold,

       Were there no more but it

       Iach. Will you heare more?

       Post. Spare your Arethmaticke,

       Neuer count the Turnes: Once, and a Million

       Iach. Ile be sworne Post. No swearing:

       If you will sweare you haue not done’t, you lye,

       And I will kill thee, if thou do’st deny

       Thou’st made me Cuckold

       Iach. Ile deny nothing

       Post. O that I had her heere, to teare her Limb-meale:

       I will go there and doo’t, i’th’ Court, before

       Her Father. Ile do something.

       Enter.

       Phil. Quite besides

       The gouernment of Patience. You haue wonne:

       Let’s follow him, and peruert the present wrath

       He hath against himselfe

       Iach. With all my heart.

       Exeunt.

       Enter Posthumus.

       Post. Is there no way for Men to be, but Women

       Must be halfe-workers? We are all Bastards,

       And that most venerable man, which I

       Did call my Father, was, I know not where

       When I was stampt. Some Coyner with his Tooles

       Made me a counterfeit: yet my Mother seem’d

       The Dian of that time: so doth my Wife

       The Nonpareill of this. Oh Vengeance, Vengeance!

       Me of my lawfull pleasure she restrain’d,

       And pray’d me oft forbearance: did it with

       A pudencie so Rosie, the sweet view on’t

       Might well haue warm’d olde Saturne;

       That I thought her

       As Chaste, as vn-Sunn’d Snow. Oh, all the Diuels!

       This yellow Iachimo in an houre, was’t not?

       Or lesse; at first? Perchance he spoke not, but

       Like a full Acorn’d Boare, a Iarmen on,

       Cry’de oh, and mounted; found no opposition

       But what he look’d for, should oppose, and she

       Should from encounter guard. Could I finde out

       The Womans part in me, for there’s no motion

       That tends to vice in man, but I affirme

       It is the Womans part: be it Lying, note it,

       The womans: Flattering, hers; Deceiuing, hers:

       Lust, and ranke thoughts, hers, hers: Reuenges hers:

       Ambitions, Couetings, change of Prides, Disdaine,

       Nice-longing, Slanders, Mutability;

       All Faults that name, nay, that Hell knowes,

       Why hers, in part, or all: but rather all. For euen to Vice

       They are not constant, but are changing still;

       One Vice, but of a minute old, for one

       Not halfe so old as that. Ile write against them,

       Detest them, curse them: yet ‘tis greater Skill

       In a true Hate, to pray they haue their will:

       The very Diuels cannot plague them better.

       Enter.

ACT III.