IACHIMO.
You may wear her in title yours; but you know strange fowl light upon neighbouring ponds. Your ring may be stol’n too. So your brace of unprizable estimations, the one is but frail and the other casual; a cunning thief, or a that-way-accomplish’d courtier, would hazard the winning both of first and last.
POSTHUMUS.
Your Italy contains none so accomplish’d a courtier to convince the honour of my mistress, if in the holding or loss of that you term her frail. I do nothing doubt you have store of thieves; notwithstanding, I fear not my ring.
PHILARIO.
Let us leave here, gentlemen.
POSTHUMUS.
Sir, with all my heart. This worthy signior, I thank him, makes no stranger of me; we are familiar at first.
IACHIMO.
With five times so much conversation I should get ground of your fair mistress; make her go back even to the yielding, had I admittance and opportunity to friend.
POSTHUMUS.
No, no.
IACHIMO.
I dare thereupon pawn the moiety of my estate to your ring, which, in my opinion, o’ervalues it something. But I make my wager rather against your confidence than her reputation; and, to bar your offence herein too, I durst attempt it against any lady in the world.
POSTHUMUS.
You are a great deal abus’d in too bold a persuasion, and I doubt not you sustain what y’are worthy of by your attempt.
IACHIMO.
What’s that?
POSTHUMUS.
A repulse; though your attempt, as you call it, deserve more; a punishment too.