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?

IACHIMO.
Ay, madam, with his eyes in flood with laughter.
It is a recreation to be by
And hear him mock the Frenchman. But, heavens know,
Some men are much to blame.

IMOGEN.
Not he, I hope.

IACHIMO.
Not he; but yet heaven's bounty towards him might
Be used more thankfully. In himself, 'tis much;
In you--which I account his--beyond all talents.
Whilst I am bound to wonder, I am bound
To pity too.

IMOGEN.
What do you pity, sir?