IACHIMO.
Thanks, madam; well. Beseech you, sir,
Desire my man’s abode where I did leave him.
He’s strange and peevish.
PISANIO.
I was going, sir,
To give him welcome.
[Exit.]
IMOGEN.
Continues well my lord? His health beseech you?
IACHIMO.
Well, madam.
IMOGEN.
Is he dispos’d to mirth? I hope he is.
IACHIMO.
Exceeding pleasant; none a stranger there
So merry and so gamesome. He is call’d
The Briton reveller.
IMOGEN.
When he was here
He did incline to sadness, and oft-times
Not knowing why.
IACHIMO.
I never saw him sad.
There is a Frenchman his companion, one
An eminent monsieur that, it seems, much loves
A Gallian girl at home. He furnaces
The 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 knows
By history, report, or his own proof,
What woman is, yea, what she cannot choose
But must be, will’s free hours languish for
Assured bondage?”
IMOGEN.
Will my lord say so?