SCENE VI. The same. Another room in the palace. Cymbeline  Shakespeare homepage  |  Cymbeline  | Act 1, Scene 6 

 Previous scene  |  Next scene  SCENE VI. The same. Another room in the palace. 

 Enter IMOGEN  IMOGEN  A father cruel, and a step-dame false; 

 A foolish suitor to a wedded lady, 

 That hath her husband banish'd;--O, that husband! 

 My supreme crown of grief! and those repeated 

 Vexations of it! Had I been thief-stol'n, 

 As my two brothers, happy! but most miserable 

 Is the desire that's glorious: blest be those, 

 How mean soe'er, that have their honest wills, 

 Which seasons comfort. Who may this be? Fie! 



 Enter PISANIO and IACHIMO  PISANIO  Madam, a noble gentleman of Rome, 

 Comes from my lord with letters. 

 IACHIMO  Change you, madam? 

 The worthy Leonatus is in safety 

 And greets your highness dearly. 



 Presents a letter  IMOGEN  Thanks, good sir: 

 You're kindly welcome. 

 IACHIMO  [Aside]  All of her that is out of door most rich! 

 If she be furnish'd with a mind so rare, 

 She is alone the Arabian bird, and I 

 Have lost the wager. Boldness be my friend! 

 Arm me, audacity, from head to foot! 

 Or, like the Parthian, I shall flying fight; 

 Rather directly fly. 

 IMOGEN  [Reads]  'He is one of the noblest note, to whose 

 kindnesses I am most infinitely tied. Reflect upon 

 him accordingly, as you value your trust-- 

 LEONATUS.' 

 So far I read aloud: 

 But even the very middle of my heart 

 Is warm'd by the rest, and takes it thankfully. 

 You are as welcome, worthy sir, as I 

 Have words to bid you, and shall find it so 

 In all that I can do. 

 IACHIMO  Thanks, fairest lady. 

 What, are men mad? Hath nature given them eyes 

 To see this vaulted arch, and the rich crop 

 Of sea and land, which can distinguish 'twixt 

 The fiery orbs above and the twinn'd stones 

 Upon the number'd beach? and can we not 

 Partition make with spectacles so precious 

 'Twixt fair and foul? 

 IMOGEN  What makes your admiration? 

 IACHIMO  It cannot be i' the eye, for apes and monkeys 

 'Twixt two such shes would chatter this way and 

 Contemn with mows the other; nor i' the judgment, 

 For idiots in this case of favour would 

 Be wisely definite; nor i' the appetite; 

 Sluttery to such neat excellence opposed 

 Should make desire vomit emptiness, 

 Not so allured to feed. 

 IMOGEN  What is the matter, trow? 

 IACHIMO  The cloyed will, 

 That satiate yet unsatisfied desire, that tub 

 Both fill'd and running, ravening first the lamb 

 Longs after for the garbage. 

 IMOGEN  What, dear sir, 

 Thus raps you? Are you well? 

 IACHIMO  Thanks, madam; well. 



 To PISANIO  Beseech you, sir, desire 

 My man's abode where I did leave him: he 

 Is 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 disposed 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 his free hours languish for 

 Assured bondage?' 

 IMOGEN  Will my lord say so? 

 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. 

 IACHIMO  And himself. Not I, 

 Inclined to this intelligence, pronounce 

 The beggary of his change; but 'tis your graces 

 That from pay mutest conscience to my tongue 

 Charms this report out. 

 IMOGEN  Let me hear no more. 

 IACHIMO  O dearest soul! your cause doth strike my heart 

 With pity, that doth make me sick. A lady 

 So fair, and fasten'd to an empery, 

 Would make the great'st king double,--to be partner'd 

 With tomboys hired with that self-exhibition 

 Which your own coffers yield! with diseased ventures 

 That play with all infirmities for gold 

 Which rottenness can lend nature! such boil'd stuff 

 As well might poison poison! Be revenged; 

 Or she that bore you was no queen, and you 

 Recoil from your great stock. 

 IMOGEN  Revenged! 

 How should I be revenged? If this be true,-- 

 As I have such a heart that both mine ears 

 Must not in haste abuse--if it be true, 

 How should I be revenged? 

 IACHIMO  Should he make me 

 Live, like Diana's priest, betwixt cold sheets, 

 Whiles he is vaulting variable ramps, 

 In your despite, upon your purse? Revenge it. 

 I dedicate myself to your sweet pleasure, 

 More noble than that runagate to your bed, 

 And will continue fast to your affection, 

 Still close as sure. 

 IMOGEN  What, ho, Pisanio! 

 IACHIMO  Let me my service tender on your lips. 

 IMOGEN  Away! I do condemn mine ears that have 

 So long attended thee. If thou wert honourable, 

 Thou wouldst have told this tale for virtue, not 

 For such an end thou seek'st,--as base as strange. 

 Thou wrong'st a gentleman, who is as far 

 From thy report as thou from honour, and 

 Solicit'st here a lady that disdains 

 Thee and the devil alike. What ho, Pisanio! 

 The king my father shall be made acquainted 

 Of thy assault: if he shall think it fit, 

 A saucy stranger in his court to mart 

 As in a Romish stew and to expound 

 His beastly mind to us, he hath a court 

 He little cares for and a daughter who 

 He not respects at all. What, ho, Pisanio! 

 IACHIMO  O happy Leonatus! I may say 

 The credit that thy lady hath of thee 

 Deserves thy trust, and thy most perfect goodness 

 Her assured credit. Blessed live you long! 

 A lady to the worthiest sir that ever 

 Country call'd his! and you his mistress, only 

 For the most worthiest fit! Give me your pardon. 

 I have spoke this, to know if your affiance 

 Were deeply rooted; and shall make your lord, 

 That which he is, new o'er: and he is one 

 The truest manner'd; such a holy witch 

 That he enchants societies into him; 

 Half all men's hearts are his. 

 IMOGEN  You make amends. 

 IACHIMO  He sits 'mongst men like a descended god: 

 He hath a kind of honour sets him off, 

 More than a mortal seeming. Be not angry, 

 Most mighty princess, that I have adventured 

 To try your taking a false report; which hath 

 Honour'd with confirmation your great judgment 

 In the election of a sir so rare, 

 Which you know cannot err: the love I bear him 

 Made me to fan you thus, but the gods made you, 

 Unlike all others, chaffless. Pray, your pardon. 

 IMOGEN  All's well, sir: take my power i' the court 

 for yours. 

 IACHIMO  My humble thanks. I had almost forgot 

 To entreat your grace but in a small request, 

 And yet of moment to, for it concerns 

 Your lord; myself and other noble friends, 

 Are partners in the business. 

 IMOGEN  Pray, what is't? 

 IACHIMO  Some dozen Romans of us and your lord-- 

 The best feather of our wing--have mingled sums 

 To buy a present for the emperor 

 Which I, the factor for the rest, have done 

 In France: 'tis plate of rare device, and jewels 

 Of rich and exquisite form; their values great; 

 And I am something curious, being strange, 

 To have them in safe stowage: may it please you 

 To take them in protection? 

 IMOGEN  Willingly; 

 And pawn mine honour for their safety: since 

 My lord hath interest in them, I will keep them 

 In my bedchamber. 

 IACHIMO  They are in a trunk, 

 Attended by my men: I will make bold 

 To send them to you, only for this night; 

 I must aboard to-morrow. 

 IMOGEN  O, no, no. 

 IACHIMO  Yes, I beseech; or I shall short my word 

 By lengthening my return. From Gallia 

 I cross'd the seas on purpose and on promise 

 To see your grace. 

 IMOGEN  I thank you for your pains: 

 But not away to-morrow! 

 IACHIMO  O, I must, madam: 

 Therefore I shall beseech you, if you please 

 To greet your lord with writing, do't to-night: 

 I have outstood my time; which is material 

 To the tender of our present. 

 IMOGEN  I will write. 

 Send your trunk to me; it shall safe be kept, 

 And truly yielded you. You're very welcome. 



 Exeunt  Shakespeare homepage  |  Cymbeline  | Act 1, Scene 6 

 Previous scene  |  Next scene 