Page 476 - Shakespeare - Vol. 4

IACHIMO

The crickets sing, and man’s o’er-labour’d sense
Repairs itself by rest. Our Tarquin thus
Did softly press the rushes, ere he waken’d

The chastity he wounded. Cytherea,
How bravely thou becom’st thy bed! fresh lily! [15]
And whiter than the sheets! That I might touch!
But kiss, one kiss! Rubies unparagon’d,
How dearly they do’t: ’tis her breathing that

Perfumes the chamber thus: the flame o’ th’ taper
Bows toward her, and would under-peep her lids, [20]
To see th’ enclosed lights, now canopied

Under these windows, white and azure lac’d
With blue of heaven’s own tinct. But my design.
To note the chamber. I will write all down:
Such, and such pictures: there the window, such [25]
Th’ adornment of her bed; the arras, figures,

Why, such, and such; and the contents o’ th’ story.
Ah, but some natural notes about her body
Above ten thousand meaner moveables

Would testify, t’ enrich mine inventory. [30]
O sleep, thou ape of death, lie dull upon her,
And be her sense but as a monument,
Thus in a chapel lying. Come off, come off;
[Taking off her bracelet.]

As slippery as the Gordian knot was hard.
’Tis mine, and this will witness outwardly, [35]
As strongly as the conscience does within,

To th’ madding of her lord. On her left breast
A mole cinque-spotted: like the crimson drops
I’ th’ bottom of a cowslip. Here’s a voucher,
Stronger than ever law could make; this secret [40]
Will force him think I have pick’d the lock, and ta’en

The treasure of her honour. No more: to what end?
Why should I write this down, that’s riveted,
Screw’d to my memory? She hath been reading late,

The tale of Tereus, here the leaf’s turn’d down [45]
Where Philomel gave up. I have enough: