POSTHUMUS. Not any; but abide the change of time, Quake in the present winter’s state, and wish That warmer days would come. In these fear’d hopes I barely gratify your love; they failing, I must die much your debtor. PHILARIO. Your very goodness and your company O’erpays all I can do. By this your king Hath heard of great Augustus. Caius Lucius Will do’s commission throughly; and I think He’ll grant the tribute, send th’ arrearages, Or look upon our Romans, whose remembrance Is yet fresh in their grief. POSTHUMUS. I do believe Statist though I am none, nor like to be, That this will prove a war; and you shall hear The legions now in Gallia sooner landed In our not-fearing Britain than have tidings Of any penny tribute paid. Our countrymen Are men more order’d than when Julius Cæsar Smil’d at their lack of skill, but found their courage Worthy his frowning at. Their discipline, Now mingled with their courages, will make known To their approvers they are people such That mend upon the world. Enter Iachimo. PHILARIO. See! Iachimo! POSTHUMUS. The swiftest harts have posted you by land, And winds of all the corners kiss’d your sails, To make your vessel nimble. PHILARIO. Welcome, sir. POSTHUMUS. I hope the briefness of your answer made The speediness of your return. IACHIMO. Your lady Is one of the fairest that I have look’d upon. POSTHUMUS. And therewithal the best; or let her beauty Look through a casement to allure false hearts, And be false with them. IACHIMO. Here are letters for you. POSTHUMUS. Their tenour good, I trust. IACHIMO. ’Tis very like. PHILARIO. Was Caius Lucius in the Britain court When you were there? IACHIMO. He was expected then, But not approach’d. POSTHUMUS. All is well yet. Sparkles this stone as it was wont, or is’t not Too dull for your good wearing? IACHIMO. If I have lost it, I should have lost the worth of it in gold. I’ll make a journey twice as far t’ enjoy A second night of such sweet shortness which Was mine in Britain; for the ring is won. POSTHUMUS. The stone’s too hard to come by. IACHIMO. Not a whit, Your lady being so easy. POSTHUMUS. Make not, sir, Your loss your sport. I hope you know that we Must not continue friends. IACHIMO. Good sir, we must, If you keep covenant. Had I not brought The knowledge of your mistress home, I grant We were to question farther; but I now Profess myself the winner of her honour, Together with your ring; and not the wronger Of her or you, having proceeded but By both your wills. POSTHUMUS. If you can make’t apparent That you have tasted her in bed, my hand And ring is yours. If not, the foul opinion You had of her pure honour gains or loses Your sword or mine, or masterless leaves both To who shall find them. IACHIMO. Sir, my circumstances, Being so near the truth as I will make them, Must first induce you to believe; whose strength I will confirm with oath; which I doubt not You’ll give me leave to spare when you shall find You need it not.