PISANIO.
Alas, good lady!
IMOGEN.
I false! Thy conscience witness! Iachimo,
Thou didst accuse him of incontinency;
Thou then look’dst like a villain; now, methinks,
Thy favour’s good enough. Some jay of Italy,
Whose mother was her painting, hath betray’d him.
Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion,
And for I am richer than to hang by th’ walls
I must be ripp’d. To pieces with me! O,
Men’s vows are women’s traitors! All good seeming,
By thy revolt, O husband, shall be thought
Put on for villainy; not born where’t grows,
But worn a bait for ladies.
PISANIO.
Good madam, hear me.
IMOGEN.
True honest men being heard, like false Æneas,
Were, in his time, thought false; and Sinon’s weeping
Did scandal many a holy tear, took pity
From most true wretchedness. So thou, Posthumus,
Wilt lay the leaven on all proper men:
Goodly and gallant shall be false and perjur’d
From thy great fail. Come, fellow, be thou honest;
Do thou thy master’s bidding; when thou seest him,
A little witness my obedience. Look!
I draw the sword myself; take it, and hit
The innocent mansion of my love, my heart.
Fear not; ’tis empty of all things but grief;
Thy master is not there, who was indeed
The riches of it. Do his bidding; strike.
Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause,
But now thou seem’st a coward.
PISANIO.
Hence, vile instrument!
Thou shalt not damn my hand.
IMOGEN.
Why, I must die;
And if I do not by thy hand, thou art
No servant of thy master’s. Against self-slaughter
There is a prohibition so divine
That cravens my weak hand. Come, here’s my heart:
Something’s afore’t. Soft, soft! we’ll no defence,
Obedient as the scabbard. What is here?
The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus
All turn’d to heresy? Away, away,
Corrupters of my faith, you shall no more
Be stomachers to my heart. Thus may poor fools
Believe false teachers; though those that are betray’d
Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor
Stands in worse case of woe. And thou, Posthumus,
That didst set up my disobedience ’gainst the King
My father, and make me put into contempt the suits
Of princely fellows, shalt hereafter find
It is no act of common passage but
A strain of rareness; and I grieve myself
To think, when thou shalt be disedg’d by her
That now thou tirest on, how thy memory
Will then be pang’d by me. Prithee dispatch.
The lamb entreats the butcher. Where’s thy knife?
Thou art too slow to do thy master’s bidding,
When I desire it too.
PISANIO.
O gracious lady,
Since I receiv’d command to do this busines
I have not slept one wink.
IMOGEN.
Do’t, and to bed then.
PISANIO.
I’ll wake mine eyeballs first.
IMOGEN.
Wherefore then
Didst undertake it? Why hast thou abus’d
So many miles with a pretence? This place?
Mine action and thine own? our horses’ labour?
The time inviting thee? The perturb’d court,
For my being absent? whereunto I never
Purpose return. Why hast thou gone so far
To be unbent when thou hast ta’en thy stand,
Th’ elected deer before thee?