she is perhaps the most tender and the most artless. Her incredulity
in the opening scene with Iachimo, as to her husband's infidelity,
is much the same as Desdemona's backwardness to believe Othello's
jealousy. Her answer to the most distressing part of the picture is
only, 'My lord, I fear, has forgot Britain.' Her readiness to pardon
Iachimo's false imputations and his designs against herself, is a
good lesson to prudes; and may show that where there is a real
attachment to virtue, it has no need to bolster itself up with an
outrageous or affected antipathy to vice. The scene in which Pisanio
gives Imogen his master's letter, accusing her of incontinency on
the treacherous suggestions of Iachimo, is as touch-ing as it is
possible for any thing to be:

Pisanio. What cheer, Madam? Imogen. False to his bed! What is it to
be false? To lie in watch there, and to think on him? To weep 'twixt
clock and clock? If sleep charge nature, To break it with a fearful
dream of him, And cry myself awake? That's false to's bed, is it?
Pisanio. Alas, good lady! Imogen. I false? thy conscience witness,
Iachimo, Thou didst accuse him of incontinency, Thou then look'dst
like a villain: now methinks, Thy favour's good enough. Some jay of
Italy, Whose mother was her painting, hath betrayed him: Poor I am
stale, a garment out of fashion, And for I am richer than to hang by
th' walls, I must be ript; to pieces with me. Oh, Men's vows are
women's traitors. All good seeming, By thy revolt, oh husband, shall
be thought Put on for villany: not born where't grows, But worn a
bait for ladies. Pisanio. Good madam, hear me--Imogen. Talk thy
tongue weary, speak: I have heard I am a strumpet, and mine ear,
Therein false struck, can take no greater wound, Nor tent to bottom
that.--