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But must be,—will his free hours languish for
Imo. Will my lord say so?
Iach. Ay, madam; with his eyes in flood with laugh
It is a recreation to be by,
And hear him mock the Frenchman: But, heavens know,
Some men are much to blame.
Imo. Not he, I hope.
Iach. Not he: but yet heaven's bounty towards him might
Be us'd more thankfully. In himself, 'tis much;
Imo. What do you pity, sir?
Iach. Two creatures, heartily.
Imo. Am I one, sir?
You look on me; What wreck discern you in me,
Iach. Lamentable! What!
To hide me from the radiant sun, and solace
I'the dungeon by a snuff?
Imo. I pray you, sir,
Deliver with more openness your answers
To my demands. Why do you pity me?
I was about to say, enjoy your-But
Imo. You do seem to know
Something of me, or what concerns me; 'Pray you,
Iach. Had I this cheek
To bathe my lips upon; this hand, whose touch,
That all the plagues of hell should at one time
Imo. My lord, I fear,
Has forgot Britain.
Iach. And himself. Not I,
Inclin'd to this intelligence, pronounce
The beggary of his change; but 'tis your graces
Imo. Let me hear no more.
Iach. O dearest soul! your cause doth strike my heart
With pity, that doth make me sick. A lady
So fair, and fasten'd to an empery,
Would make the great'st king double! to be partner'd With tomboys, hir'd with that self-exhibition
Which your own coffers yield! with diseas'd ventures,
That play with all infirmities for gold
Which rottenness can lend nature! such boil'd stuff,
How should I be reveng'd? If this be true,
(As I have such a heart, that both mine ears
Iach. Should he make me
Live like Diana's priest, betwixt cold sheets;
In your despite, upon your purse? Revenge it.
Imo. What ho, Pisanio!
Iach. Let me my service tender on your lips.
Thee and the devil alike.--Who ho, Pisanio !--
Of thy assault: if he shall think it fit,
Country call'd his! and you his mistress, only
Were deeply rooted; and shall make
Half all men's hearts are his.
Imo. You make amends.
Iach. He sits 'mongst men, like a descended god : He hath a kind of honour sets him off, More than a mortal seeming. Be not angry, Most mighty princess, that I have adventur'd To try your taking of a false report; which hath Honour'd with confirmation your great judgment In the election of a sir so rare,
Which, you know, cannot err: The love I bear him Made me to fan you thus; but the gods made you, Unlike all others, chaffless. Pray, your pardon.
Imo. All's well, sir: Take my power i'the court for yours.
Iach. My humble thanks. I had almost forgot To entreat your grace but in a small request, And yet of moment too, for it concerns Your lord: myself, and other noble friends,
Are partners in the business.
Imo. Pray, what is't?
Iach. Some dozen Romans of us, and your lord, (The best feather of our wing) have mingled sums, To buy a present for the emperor;
Which I, the factor for the rest, have done
In France: 'Tis plate, of rare device; and jewels,
And pawn mine honour for their safety since My lord hath interest in them, I will keep them In my bed-chamber.
Iach. They are in a trunk,
Attended by my men: I will make bold
To send them to you, only for this night;
I must aboard to-morrow.
Imo. O, no, no.
Iach. Yes, I beseech; or I shall short my word,
By length'ning my return. From Gallia
I cross'd the seas on purpose, and on promise
To see your grace.
Imo. I thank you for your pains;
But not away to-morrow.
Iach. O, I must, madam :
Therefore, I shall beseech you, if you please