IACHIMO.
Thanks, fairest lady.
What, are men mad? Hath nature given them eyes
To see this vaulted arch and the rich crop
Of sea and land, which can distinguish ’twixt
The fiery orbs above and the twinn’d stones
Upon the number’d beach, and can we not
Partition make with spectacles so precious
’Twixt fair and foul?
IMOGEN.
What makes your admiration?
IACHIMO.
It cannot be i’ th’ eye, for apes and monkeys,
’Twixt two such shes, would chatter this way and
Contemn with mows the other; nor i’ th’ judgement,
For idiots in this case of favour would
Be wisely definite; nor i’ th’ appetite;
Sluttery, to such neat excellence oppos’d,
Should make desire vomit emptiness,
Not so allur’d to feed.
IMOGEN.
What is the matter, trow?
IACHIMO.
The cloyed will—
That satiate yet unsatisfied desire, that tub
Both fill’d and running—ravening first the lamb,
Longs after for the garbage.
IMOGEN.
What, dear sir,
Thus raps you? Are you well?
IACHIMO.
Thanks, madam; well. Beseech you, sir,
Desire my man’s abode where I did leave him.
He’s strange and peevish.
PISANIO.
I was going, sir,
To give him welcome.
[Exit.]
IMOGEN.
Continues well my lord? His health beseech you?