Rome. Another Room in Philario's House.
 Enter POSTHUMUS.

Posthumus	Is there no way for men to be but women
	Must be half-workers? We are all bastards,
	And that most venerable man which I
	Did call my father was I know not where
	When I was stamped; some coiner with his tools
	Made me a counterfeit. Yet my mother seemed
	The Dian of that time; so doth my wife
	The nonpareil of this. O, vengeance, vengeance!
	Me of my lawful pleasure she restrained,
	And prayed me oft forbearance - did it with
	A pudency so rosy the sweet view on't
	Might well have warmed old Saturn - that I thought her
	As chaste as unsunned snow. O, all the devils!
	This yellow Iachimo, in an hour, was't not?-
	Or less - at first? Perchance he spoke not, but,
	Like a full-acorned boar, a German one,
	Cried 'O!' and mounted; found no opposition
	But what he looked for should oppose and she
	Should from encounter guard. Could I find out
	The woman's part in me - for there 's no motion
	That tends to vice in man but I affirm
	It is the woman's part; be it lying, note it,
	The woman's; flattering, hers; deceiving, hers;
	Lust and rank thoughts, hers, hers; revenges, hers;
	Ambitions, covetings, change of prides, disdain,
	Nice longing, slanders, mutability,
	All faults that may be named, nay, that hell knows,
	Why, hers, in part or all; but rather all.
	For even to vice
	They are not constant, but are changing still
	One vice but of a minute old for one
	Not half so old as that. I'll write against them,
	Detest them, curse them; yet 'tis greater skill
	In a true hate to pray they have their will.
	The very devils cannot plague them better.
													[Exit.
