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Post. I so thou do'st, Italian Fiend. Aye me, most credulous Foole, Egregious murtherer, Theefe, any thing That's due to all the Villaines past, in being To come. Oh giue me Cord, or knife, or poyson, Some vpright Iusticer. Thou King, send out For Torturors ingenious: it is I That all th' abhorred things o'th' earth amend By being worse then they. I am Posthumus, That kill'd thy Daughter: Villain-like, I lye, That caus'd a lesser villaine then my selfe, A sacrilegious Theefe to doo't. The Temple Of Vertue was she; yea, and she her selfe. Spit, and throw stones, cast myre vpon me, set The dogges o'th' street to bay me: euery villaine Be call'd Posthumus Leonatus, and Be villany lesse then 'twas. Oh Imogen! My Queene, my life, my wife: oh Imogen, Imogen, Imogen