POSTHUMUS
Yea, bloody cloth, I’ll keep ; for I wish’d
be colour’d thus. You married ones,
If each of you should take this course, how many
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
Had liv’d to put on this; so had you saved
The noble Imogen to repent, and struck
Me, wretch more worth your vengeance. But ,
You snatch some for little faults; that’s love,
To have them fall no more. You some permit
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 blest to obey. I am brought
Among th’ Italian gentry, and to fight
Against my lady’s kingdom. enough
That, Britain, I have kill’d mistress; peace!
I’ll give no wound to . Therefore, good heavens,
Hear patiently my purpose. I’ll disrobe me
Of these Italian weeds, and suit myself
As does a Britain peasant. So I’ll fight
Against the part I come with; so I’ll die
For , O Imogen, even for whom my life
Is every breath a death. And thus unknown,
Pitied nor hated, to the face of peril
Myself I’ll dedicate. Let me make men know
More valour in me than my habits show.
Gods, put the strength o’ th’ Leonati in me!
To shame the guise o’ th’ world, I will begin
The fashion less without and more within.