pudency

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 stamped . Some coiner with his tools
Made me a counterfeit ; yet my mother seemed
The Dian of that time ; so doth my wife
The nonpareil of this . O , vengeance , vengeance !
Me of my lawful pleasure she restrained
And prayed me oft forbearance ; did it with
A pudency so rosy the sweet view on ’t
Might well have warmed old Saturn , that I thought
her
As chaste as unsunned snow . O , all the devils !
This yellow Iachimo in an hour , was ’t not ?
Or less ? At first ? Perchance he spoke not , but ,
Like a full-acorned boar , a German one ,
Cried O ! and mounted ; found no opposition
But what he looked 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 have a name , 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 .