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.

To PISANIO

Beseech you, sir, desire
My man's abode where I did leave him: he
Is strange and peevish.

PISANIO

I was going, sir,
To give him welcome.

Exit

IMOGEN

Continues well my lord? His health, beseech you?

IACHIMO

Well, madam.

IMOGEN

Is he disposed to mirth? I hope he is.

IACHIMO

Exceeding pleasant; none a stranger there
So merry and so gamesome: he is call'd
The Briton reveller.

IMOGEN

When he was here,
He did incline to sadness, and oft-times
Not knowing why.

IACHIMO

I never saw him sad.
There is a Frenchman his companion, one
An eminent monsieur, that, it seems, much loves
A Gallian girl at home; he furnaces
The thick sighs from him, whiles the jolly Briton–
Your lord, I mean–laughs from's free lungs, cries 'O,
Can my sides hold, to think that man, who knows
By history, report, or his own proof,
What woman is, yea, what she cannot choose
But must be, will his free hours languish for
Assured bondage?'

IMOGEN

Will my lord say so?