Thou told’st me, when we came from horse, the place

Was near at hand. Ne’er long’d my mother so

To see me first as I have now. Pisanio! Man!

Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind

That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that sigh

From th’ inward of thee? One but painted thus

Would be interpreted a thing perplex’d

Beyond self-explication. Put thyself

Into a haviour of less fear, ere wildness

Vanquish my staider senses. What’s the matter?

Why tender’st thou that paper to me with

A look untender? If’t be summer news,

Smile to’t before; if winterly, thou need’st

But keep that count’nance still. My husband’s hand?

That drug-damn’d Italy hath out-craftied him,

And he’s at some hard point. Speak, man; thy tongue

May take off some extremity, which to read

Would be even mortal to me.

Please you read,

And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing

The most disdain’d of fortune.

[_Reads._] _Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath play’d the strumpet in my bed,

the testimonies whereof lie bleeding in me. I speak not out of weak

surmises, but from proof as strong as my grief and as certain as I

expect my revenge. That part thou, Pisanio, must act for me, if thy

faith be not tainted with the breach of hers. Let thine own hands take

away her life; I shall give thee opportunity at Milford Haven; she hath

my letter for the purpose; where, if thou fear to strike, and to make

me certain it is done, thou art the pandar to her dishonour, and

equally to me disloyal._

What shall I need to draw my sword? The paper

Hath cut her throat already. No, ’tis slander,

Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue

Outvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath

Rides on the posting winds and doth belie

All corners of the world. Kings, queens, and states,

Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave,

This viperous slander enters. What cheer, madam?

False to his bed? What is it to be false?

To lie in watch there, and to think on him?

To weep twixt clock and clock? If sleep charge nature,

To break it with a fearful dream of him,

And cry myself awake? That’s false to’s bed,

Is it?

Alas, good lady!

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.

Good madam, hear me.

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.

Hence, vile instrument!

Thou shalt not damn my hand.

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.

O gracious lady,

Since I receiv’d command to do this busines

I have not slept one wink.

Do’t, and to bed then.

I’ll wake mine eyeballs first.

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?

But to win time

To lose so bad employment, in the which

I have consider’d of a course. Good lady,

Hear me with patience.

Talk thy tongue weary, speak.

I have heard I am a strumpet, and mine ear,

Therein false struck, can take no greater wound,

Nor tent to bottom that. But speak.

Then, madam,

I thought you would not back again.

Most like,

Bringing me here to kill me.

Not so, neither;

But if I were as wise as honest, then

My purpose would prove well. It cannot be

But that my master is abus’d. Some villain,

Ay, and singular in his art, hath done you both

This cursed injury.

Some Roman courtezan!

No, on my life!

I’ll give but notice you are dead, and send him

Some bloody sign of it, for ’tis commanded

I should do so. You shall be miss’d at court,

And that will well confirm it.

Why, good fellow,

What shall I do the while? Where bide? How live?

Or in my life what comfort, when I am

Dead to my husband?

If you’ll back to th’ court—

No court, no father, nor no more ado

With that harsh, noble, simple nothing,

That Cloten, whose love-suit hath been to me

As fearful as a siege.

If not at court,

Then not in Britain must you bide.

Where then?

Hath Britain all the sun that shines? Day, night,

Are they not but in Britain? I’ th’ world’s volume

Our Britain seems as of it, but not in’t;

In a great pool a swan’s nest. Prithee think

There’s livers out of Britain.

I am most glad

You think of other place. Th’ ambassador,

Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford Haven

Tomorrow. Now, if you could wear a mind

Dark as your fortune is, and but disguise

That which t’ appear itself must not yet be

But by self-danger, you should tread a course

Pretty and full of view; yea, happily, near

The residence of Posthumus; so nigh, at least,

That though his actions were not visible, yet

Report should render him hourly to your ear

As truly as he moves.

O! for such means,

Though peril to my modesty, not death on’t,

I would adventure.

Well then, here’s the point:

You must forget to be a woman; change

Command into obedience; fear and niceness

(The handmaids of all women, or, more truly,

Woman it pretty self) into a waggish courage;

Ready in gibes, quick-answer’d, saucy, and

As quarrelous as the weasel. Nay, you must

Forget that rarest treasure of your cheek,

Exposing it (but, O, the harder heart!

Alack, no remedy) to the greedy touch

Of common-kissing Titan, and forget

Your laboursome and dainty trims wherein

You made great Juno angry.

Nay, be brief;

I see into thy end, and am almost

A man already.

First, make yourself but like one.

Fore-thinking this, I have already fit

(’Tis in my cloak-bag) doublet, hat, hose, all

That answer to them. Would you, in their serving,

And with what imitation you can borrow

From youth of such a season, ’fore noble Lucius

Present yourself, desire his service, tell him

Wherein you’re happy; which will make him know

If that his head have ear in music; doubtless

With joy he will embrace you; for he’s honourable,

And, doubling that, most holy. Your means abroad:

You have me, rich; and I will never fail

Beginning nor supplyment.

Thou art all the comfort

The gods will diet me with. Prithee away!

There’s more to be consider’d; but we’ll even

All that good time will give us. This attempt

I am soldier to, and will abide it with

A prince’s courage. Away, I prithee.

Well, madam, we must take a short farewell,

Lest, being miss’d, I be suspected of

Your carriage from the court. My noble mistress,

Here is a box; I had it from the Queen.

What’s in’t is precious. If you are sick at sea

Or stomach-qualm’d at land, a dram of this

Will drive away distemper. To some shade,

And fit you to your manhood. May the gods

Direct you to the best!

Amen. I thank thee.