The Dian of that time. So doth my wife

The nonpareil of this. O, vengeance, vengeance!

Me of my lawful pleasure she restrained,

And prayed me oft forbearance; did it with

A pudency so rosy, the sweet view on’t

Might well have warmed old Saturn; that I thought her

As chaste as unsunned snow. O, all the devils!

This yellow Iachimo in an hour – was’t not?

Or less! – at first? Perchance he spoke not, but,

Like a full-acorned boar, a German one,

Cried ‘O!’ and mounted; found no opposition

But what he look’d for should oppose and she

Should from encounter guard. 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 man may name, nay, that hell knows,

Why, hers, in part or all; but 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.

[III, vi, 1–27] Imogen has set off in joy to meet her husband, only to discover that he has been plotting her death – driven to a frenzy of jealousy by news of her alleged adultery. Now, in man’s attire, she perseveres in her journey towards Milford Haven, hoping to find him there and convince him of her fidelity:

I see a man’s life is a tedious one.

I have tir’d myself, and for two nights together

Have made the ground my bed. I should be sick

But that my resolution helps me. Milford,

When from the mountain-top Pisanio showed thee,

Thou wast within a ken. O Jove! I think

Foundations fly the wretched; such, I mean,

Where they should be relieved. Two beggars told me

I could not miss my way. Will poor folks lie,

That have afflictions on them, knowing ’tis

A punishment or trial? Yes; no wonder,

When rich ones scarce tell true. To lapse in fullness

Is sorer than to lie for need; and falsehood

Is worse in kings than beggars. My dear lord!

Thou art one o’ th’ false ones. Now I think on thee

My hunger’s gone; but even before, I was

At point to sink for food. But what is this?

Here is a path to ’t; ’tis some savage hold.

I were best not call; I dare not call. Yet famine,

Ere clean it o’erthrow nature, makes it valiant.

Plenty and peace breeds cowards; hardness ever

Of hardiness is mother. Ho! Who’s here?

If anything that’s civil, speak; if savage,

Take or lend. Ho! No answer? Then I’ll enter.