Monologue

Iachimo Monologue from Cymbeline

From Cymbeline by William Shakespeare

male · contemplative · 42 sec

He sits ’mongst men like a descended god: He hath a kind of honour sets him off More than a mortal seeming. Be not angry, Most mighty Princess, that I have adventur’d To try your taking of a false report, which hath Honour’d with confirmation your great judgement In the election of a sir so rare, Which you know cannot err. The love I bear him Made me to fan you thus; but the gods made you, Unlike all others, chaffless. Pray your pardon.

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