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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 stamp’d; some coiner with his tools Made me a counterfeit: yet my mother seem’d The Dian of that time so doth my wife The nonpareil of this. O, vengeance, vengeance! Me of my lawful pleasure she restrain’d And pray’d me oft forbearance; did it with A pudency so rosy the sweet view on’t Might well have warm’d old Saturn; that I thought her As chaste as unsunn’d snow. O, all the devils! This yellow Iachimo, in an hour,--wast not?-- Or less,--at first?--perchance he spoke not, but, Like a full-acorn’d boar, a German one, Cried ’O!’ and mounted; found no opposition But what he look’d 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.
Is there no way for men to be except women Must always do half the work? We’re all bastards; And that man I once called my father, I have no idea where He was when I was born; Some forger with his tools Made me a fake: yet my mother seemed Like the goddess Diana back then, and so does my wife Seem like a one-of-a-kind treasure now. Oh, revenge, revenge! She kept me from my lawful desires And often begged me to be patient; did it with Such an innocent sweetness that it almost made me Believe she was as pure as untouched snow. Oh, all the devils! This yellow-bellied Iachimo, in an hour,--wasn’t it?-- Or maybe less,--at first?--maybe he didn’t even speak, but, Like a fully grown boar, a German one, Grunted ’O!’ and mounted; met no resistance Except for what he expected to face, and she Was guarding against anything like that. I wish I could find The woman’s part in me! For there’s no act That leads to sin in a man, but I swear It’s a woman’s part: be it lying, note it, It’s hers; flattering, hers; deceiving, hers; Lust and dirty thoughts, hers, hers; revenge, hers; Ambition, greed, changing attitudes, disdain, False hopes, slanders, unpredictability, All faults that could be named, hell knows them all, Well, they’re hers, partly or entirely; but more than that, all of them; For even in vice They’re never constant, always shifting From one vice, just a minute old, to one Not even half as old as that. I’ll write against them, Detest them, curse them: yet it takes more skill In true hatred, to pray they get what they deserve: Even the devils couldn’t punish them worse.