 | Cymbeline |  |
37
SCENE II.
A Chamber.Enter Posthumus.
Post.
Is there no way for Men to be, but Women
Must be half-workers? We are Bastards all,
And that most venerable Man, which I
Did call my Father, was, I know not where,
When I was stampt. Some Coiner with his Tools
Made me a Counterfeit; yet my Mother seem'd
The Dian of that time; so doth my Wife
The Non-pareil of this—Oh Vengeance, Vengeance!
Me of my lawful Pleasure she restrain'd,
And pray'd me oft Forbearance; did it with
A Pudency so Rosie, the sweet View on't
Might well have warm'd old Saturn—
That I thought her
As chaste as unsun'd Snow. Oh, all the Devils!
This yellow Iachimo in an Hour—was't not?—
Or less; at first? Perchance he spoke not, but
Like a full acorn'd Boar, a German one,—
O! Torture to my Mind. Could I find out
The Woman's part in me, for there's no Motion
That tends to Vice in Man, but I affirm
It is the Woman's part; be it lying, note it,
The Woman's; Flattering, hers; Deceiving, hers;
Lust, and rank Thoughts, hers, hers; Revenges hers;
Ambitions, Covetings, change of Prides, Disdain,
Nice-longing, Slanders, Mutability:
All Faults that may be named, nay, that Hell knows
Why hers, in part, or all; or rather all. For even to Vice
They are not constant, but are changing still;
One Vice, but of a Minute old, for one
Not half so old as that. I'll write against them,
Detest them, curse them—yet 'tis greater Skill
In a true Hate, to pray they have their Will;
The very Devils cannot plague them better.
[Exit.
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