Iachimo

Iachimo
Can we with manners ask what was the difference?
Frenchman
Safely, I think. ’Twas a contention in public,
which may without contradiction suffer the report.
It was much like an argument that fell out
last night, where each of us fell in praise of our
country mistresses, this gentleman at that time
vouching—and upon warrant of bloody affirmation—
his to be more fair,
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Imogen
A father cruel and a stepdame false,
A foolish suitor to a wedded lady
That hath her husband banished. 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. Blessed be those,
How mean soe’er,
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Imogen
You do seem to know
Something of me or what concerns me. Pray you,
Since doubting 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.

I dedicate myself to your sweet pleasure

Iachimo
Had I this cheek
To bathe my lips upon;
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Imogen
Who’s there? My woman Helen?
Lady
Please you, madam.

To your protection I commend me, gods.
From fairies and the tempters of the night
Guard me, beseech you.

Imogen
What hour is it?
Lady
Almost midnight, madam.
Imogen
I have read three hours then.
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Iachimo
First, her bedchamber—
Where I confess I slept not, but profess
Had that was well worth watching—it was hanged
With tapestry of silk and silver, the story
Proud Cleopatra when she met her Roman
And Cydnus swelled above the banks, or for
The press of boats or pride. A piece of work
So bravely done,
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Iachimo 
The heaviness and guilt within my bosom
Takes off my manhood. I have belied a lady,
The Princess of this country, and the air on ’t
Revengingly enfeebles me; or could this carl,
A very drudge of nature’s, have subdued me
In my profession?

Knighthoods and honors, borne
As I wear mine, are titles but of scorn.
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Cymbeline, to Imogen
Come, stand thou by our side.
Make thy demand aloud. (To Iachimo.) Sir, step you forth.
Give answer to this boy, and do it freely,
Or by our greatness and the grace of it,
Which is our honor, bitter torture shall
Winnow the truth from falsehood.—On. Speak to him.
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Cymbeline
The forlorn soldier that so nobly fought,
He would have well becomed this place and graced
The thankings of a king.
Posthumus
I am, sir,
The soldier that did company these three
In poor beseeming; ’twas a fitment for
The purpose I then followed. That I was he,
Speak, Iachimo. I had you down and might
Have made you finish.
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