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KING. Plutus himself, That knows the tinct and multiplying medicine, Hath not in nature’s mystery more science Than I have in this ring. ’Twas mine, ’twas Helen’s, Whoever gave it you. Then if you know That you are well acquainted with yourself, Confess ’twas hers, and by what rough enforcement You got it from her. She call’d the saints to surety That she would never put it from her finger Unless she gave it to yourself in bed, Where you have never come, or sent it us Upon her great disaster.

BERTRAM. She never saw it.

KING. Thou speak’st it falsely, as I love mine honour, And mak’st conjectural fears to come into me Which I would fain shut out. If it should prove That thou art so inhuman,—’twill not prove so: And yet I know not, thou didst hate her deadly. And she is dead; which nothing but to close Her eyes myself, could win me to believe More than to see this ring. Take him away.

[Guards seize Bertram.]

My fore-past proofs, howe’er the matter fall, Shall tax my fears of little vanity, Having vainly fear’d too little. Away with him. We’ll sift this matter further.

BERTRAM. If you shall prove This ring was ever hers, you shall as easy Prove that I husbanded her bed in Florence, Where she yet never was.

[Exit, guarded.]

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