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Britain. The Roman Camp. | |
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Enter POSTHUMUS, with a bloody handkerchief. | |
| Post. Yea, bloody cloth, I’ll keep thee, for I wish’d | |
| Thou shouldst be colour’d thus. You married ones, | |
| If each of you should take this course, how many | 5 |
| Must murder wives much better than themselves | |
| For wrying but a little! O Pisanio! | |
| Every good servant does not all commands; | |
| No bond but to do just ones. Gods! if you | |
| Should have ta’en vengeance on my faults, I never | 10 |
| Had liv’d to put on this; so had you sav’d | |
| The noble Imogen to repent, and struck | |
| Me, wretch more worth your vengeance. But, alack! | |
| You snatch some hence for little faults; that’s love, | |
| To have them fall no more; you some permit | 15 |
| To second ills with ills, each elder worse, | |
| And make them dread it, to the doers’ thrift. | |
| But Imogen is your own; do your best wills, | |
| And make me bless’d to obey. I am brought hither | |
| Among the Italian gentry, and to fight | 20 |
| Against my lady’s kingdom; ’tis enough | |
| That, Britain, I have kill’d thy mistress-piece! | |
| I’ll give no wound to thee. Therefore good heavens, | |
| Hear patiently my purpose: I’ll disrobe me | |
| Of these Italian weeds, and suit myself | 25 |
| As does a Briton peasant; so I’ll fight | |
| Against the part I come with, so I’ll die | |
| For thee, O Imogen! even for whom my life | |
| Is, every breath, a death: and thus, unknown, | |
| Pitied nor hated, to the face of peril | 30 |
| Myself I’ll dedicate. Let me make men know | |
| More valour in me than my habits show. | |
| Gods! put the strength o’ the Leonati in me. | |
| To shame the guise o’ the world, I will begin | |
| The fashion, less without and more within. [Exit. | 35 |
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