Cymbeline

First, her bedchamber,--
Where, I confess, I slept not, but profess
Had that was well worth watching--it was hang'd
With tapestry of silk and silver; the story
Proud Cleopatra, when she met her Roman,
And Cydnus swell'd above the banks, or for
The press of boats or pride; a piece of work
So bravely done, so rich, that it did strive
In workmanship and value; which I wonder'd
Could be so rarely and exactly wrought,
Since the true life on't was--

POSTHUMUS.
This is true;
And this you might have heard of here, by me,
Or by some other.

IACHIMO.
More particulars
Must justify my knowledge.

POSTHUMUS.
So they must,
Or do your honour injury.

IACHIMO.
The chimney
Is south the chamber, and the chimney-piece
Chaste Dian bathing. Never saw I figures
So likely to report themselves. The cutter
Was as another Nature, dumb; outwent her,
Motion and breath left out.

POSTHUMUS.
This is a thing
Which you might from relation likewise reap,
Being, as it is, much spoke of.

IACHIMO.
The roof o' the chamber
With golden cherubins is fretted.  Her andirons--
I had forgot them--were two winking Cupids
Of silver, each on one foot standing, nicely
Depending on their brands.

POSTHUMUS.
This is her honour!
Let it be granted you have seen all this--and praise
Be given to your remembrance--the description
Of what is in her chamber nothing saves
The wager you have laid.

IACHIMO.
Then, if you can,

[Showing the bracelet.]

Be pale. I beg but leave to air this jewel; see!
And now 'tis up again. It must be married
To that your diamond; I'll keep them.

POSTHUMUS.
Jove!
Once more let me behold it. Is it that
Which I left with her?

IACHIMO.
Sir--I thank her--that.
She stripp'd it from her arm.  I see her yet.
Her pretty action did outsell her gift,
And yet enrich'd it too. She gave it me, and said
She priz'd it once.

POSTHUMUS.
May be she pluck'd it off
To send it me.

IACHIMO.
She writes so to you, doth she?

POSTHUMUS.
O, no, no, no! 'tis true. Here, take this too;

[Gives the ring.]

It is a basilisk unto mine eye,
Kills me to look on't. Let there be no honour
Where there is beauty; truth, where semblance; love
Where there's another man. The vows of women
Of no more bondage, be to where they are made,
Than they are to their virtues, which is nothing.
O, above measure false!

PHILARIO.
Have patience, sir,
And take your ring again; 'tis not yet won.
It may be probable she lost it, or
Who knows if one her women, being corrupted,
Hath stolen it from her?