Innogen in her bed, and a Lady
Who's there? My woman Helen?
Please you, madam.
What hour is it?
Almost midnight, madam.
I have read three hours then: mine eyes are weak,
Fold down the leaf where I have left: to bed.
Take not away the taper, leave it burning:
And if thou canst awake by four o'th' clock,
I prithee call me. Sleep hath seized me wholly.
To your protection I commend me, gods,
From fairies and the tempters of the night,
Guard me, beseech ye!
Sleeps. Iachimo comes from the trunk
The crickets sing, and man's o'er-laboured sense
Repairs itself by rest. Our Tarquin thus
Did softly press the rushes, ere he wakened
The chastity he wounded. Cytherea,
How bravely thou becom'st thy bed! Fresh lily,
And whiter than the sheets! That I might touch!
But kiss, one kiss! Rubies unparagoned,
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,
To see th' enclosed lights, now canopied
Under these windows, white and azure laced
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
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.
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)
apparently unsolvable problem, extreme difficulty
As slippery as the Gordian knot was hard.
'Tis mine, and this will witness outwardly,
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
Will force him think I have picked the lock, and ta'en
The treasure of her honour. No more: to what end?
Why should I write this down, that's riveted,
Screwed to my memory? She hath been reading late,
The tale of Tereus, here the leaf's turned down
Where Philomel gave up. I have enough:
To th' trunk again, and shut the spring of it.
Swift, swift, you dragons of the night, that dawning
May bare the raven's eye! I lodge in fear;
Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here.
One, two, three: time, time!
Goes into the trunk. The scene closes