Cymbeline

[II, ii, 12–51] Giacomo having bragged that he can seduce any woman he wants, Posthumus has made a bet on the chastity of his virtuous wife Imogen. With not only his rakish pride but his fortune at stake, however, a desperate Giacomo has had himself carried into her chamber in a trunk so that he will be able to give Posthumus details suggestive of the closest intimacy. Emerging at dead of night, he begins to check off the features of her room and person: he may leave her body alone, but he will rape her reputation:

The crickets sing, and man’s o’er-laboured sense

Repairs itself by rest. Our Tarquin thus

Did softly press the rushes ere he waken’d

The chastity he wounded. Cytherea,

How bravely thou becom’st thy bed! Fresh lily,

And whiter than the sheets! That I might touch!

But kiss; one kiss! Rubies unparagoned,

How dearly they do’t! ’Tis her breathing that

Perfumes the chamber thus. The flame o’ th ’taper

Bows toward her and would under-peep her lids

To see th’ enclosed lights, now canopied

Under these windows white and azure, lac’d

With blue of heaven’s own tinct. But my design

To note the chamber. I will write all down:

Such and such pictures; there the window; such

Th’ adornment of her bed; the arras, figures –

Why, such and such; and the contents o’ th’ story.

Ah, but some natural notes about her body

Above ten thousand meaner movables

Would testify, t’ enrich mine inventory.

O sleep, thou ape of death, lie dull upon her!

And be her sense but as a monument,

Thus in a chapel lying! Come off, come off;

(Taking off her bracelet)

As slippery as the Gordian knot was hard!

’Tis mine; and this will witness outwardly,

As strongly as the conscience does within,

To th’ madding of her lord. On her left breast

A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops

I’ th’ bottom of a cowslip. Here’s a voucher

Stronger than ever law could make; this secret

Will force him think I have picked the lock and ta’en

The treasure of her honour. No more. To what end?

Why should I write this down that’s riveted,

Screw’d to my memory? She hath been reading late

The tale of Tereus; here the leaf’s turned down

Where Philomel gave up. I have enough.

To th’ trunk again, and shut the spring of it.

Swift, swift, you dragons of the night, that dawning

May bare the raven’s eye! I lodge in fear;

Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here.

(Clock strikes)

One, two, three. Time, time!

[II, v, 1–35] His life in tatters, his faith destroyed, after hearing Giacomo’s tale of conquest, Posthumus is left in profoundly misogynistic mood:

Is there no way for men to be, but women

Must be half-workers? We are all bastards,

And that most venerable man which I

Did call my father was I know not where

When I was stamped. Some coiner with his tools

Made me a counterfeit; yet my mother seem’d