IACHIMO

Ay, madam, with his eyes in flood with laughter:
It is a recreation to be by
And hear him mock the Frenchman. But, heavens know,
Some men are much to blame.

IMOGEN

Not he, I hope.

IACHIMO

Not he: but yet heaven's bounty towards him might
Be used more thankfully. In himself, 'tis much;
In you, which I account his beyond all talents,
Whilst I am bound to wonder, I am bound
To pity too.

IMOGEN

What do you pity, sir?

IACHIMO

Two creatures heartily.

IMOGEN

Am I one, sir?
You look on me: what wreck discern you in me
Deserves your pity?

IACHIMO

Lamentable! What,
To hide me from the radiant sun and solace
I' the dungeon by a snuff?

IMOGEN

I pray you, sir,
Deliver with more openness your answers
To my demands. Why do you pity me?

IACHIMO

That others do–
I was about to say–enjoy your–But
It is an office of the gods to venge it,
Not mine to speak on 't.

IMOGEN

You do seem to know
Something of me, or what concerns me: pray you,–
Since doubling things go ill often hurts more
Than to be sure they do; for certainties
Either are past remedies, or, timely knowing,
The remedy then born–discover to me
What both you spur and stop.

IACHIMO

Had I this cheek
To bathe my lips upon; this hand, whose touch,
Whose every touch, would force the feeler's soul
To the oath of loyalty; this object, which
Takes prisoner the wild motion of mine eye,
Fixing it only here; should I, damn'd then,
Slaver with lips as common as the stairs
That mount the Capitol; join gripes with hands
Made hard with hourly falsehood–falsehood, as
With labour; then by-peeping in an eye
Base and unlustrous as the smoky light
That's fed with stinking tallow; it were fit
That all the plagues of hell should at one time
Encounter such revolt.

IMOGEN

My lord, I fear,
Has forgot Britain.