IACHIMO.
Two creatures heartily.

IMOGEN.
Am I one, sir?
You look on me; what wreck discern you in me
Deserves your pity?

IACHIMO.
Lamentable! What,
To hide me from the radiant sun, and solace
I' the dungeon by a snuff?

IMOGEN.
I pray you, sir,
Deliver with more openness your answers
To my demands. Why do you pity me?

IACHIMO.
That others do,
I was about to say, enjoy your--But
It is an office of the gods to venge it,
Not mine to speak on't.

IMOGEN.
You do seem to know
Something of me, or what concerns me: pray you,--
Since doubting things go ill often hurts more
Than to be sure they do; for certainties
Either are past remedies, or, timely knowing,