Thy penitent reform'd: but we have been
Deceiv'd in thy integrity, deceiv'd

In that which seems so.

Cam.

Be it forbid, my lord!

Leon. To bide upon't;-Thou art not honest: or, If thou inclin'st that way, thou art a coward; Which hoxes honesty behind, restraining

From course requir'd: Or else thou must be counted A servant, grafted in my serious trust,

And therein negligent; or else a fool,

That seest a game play'd home, the rich stake drawn, And tak'st it all for jest.

Cam.

My gracious lord,
I may be negligent, foolish, and fearful;
In every one of these no man is free,
But that his negligence, his folly, fear,
Amongst the infinite doings of the world,
Sometime puts forth: In your affairs, my lord,
If ever I were wilful-negligent,

It was my folly; if industriously

I play'd the fool, it was my negligence,
Not weighing well the end; if ever fearful
To do a thing, where I the issue doubted,
Whereof the execution did cry out
Against the non-performance, 'twas a fear
Which oft affects the wisest: these, my lord,
Are such allow'd infirmities, that honesty
Is never free of. But, 'beseech your grace,
Be plainer with me; let me know my trespass
By its own visage: if I then deny it,

'Tis none of mine.

Leon.

Have not you seen, Camillo, (But that's past doubt: you have; or your eye-glass

Is thicker than a cuckold's horn;) or heard,
(For, to a vision so apparent, rumour
Cannot be mute,) or thought, (for cogitation
Resides not in that man, that does not think it,)
My wife is slippery? If thou wilt confess,
(Or else be impudently negative,

To have nor eyes, nor ears, nor thought,) then say,
My wife's a hobbyhorse; deserves a name

As rank as any flax-wench, that puts to
Before her troth-plight: say it, and justify it.
Cam. I would not be a stander-by, to hear
My sovereign mistress clouded so, without
My present vengeance taken: 'Shrew my heart,
You never spoke what did become you less
Than this; which to reiterate, were sin

As deep as that, though true.

Is whispering nothing?

Leon. Is leaning cheek to cheek? is meeting noses? Kissing with inside lip? stopping the career Of laughter with a sigh? (a note infallible Of breaking honesty:) horsing foot on foot? Skulking in corners? wishing clocks more swift? Hours, minutes? noon, midnight? and all eyes blind With the pin and web, but theirs, theirs only, That would unseen be wicked? is this nothing? Why, then the world, and all that's in't, is nothing; The covering sky is nothing; Bohemia nothing; My wife is nothing; nor nothing have these nothings, If this be nothing.

Cam.

Good my lord, be cur'd

Of this diseas'd opinion, and betimes;

For 'tis most dangerous.

Leon.

Say, it be; 'tis true.

Cam. No, no, my lord.

Leon.
It is; you lie, you lie:
I say, thou liest, Camillo, and I hate thee;
Pronounce thee a gross lout, a mindless slave;
Or else a hovering temporizer, that

Canst with thine eyes at once see good and evil,
Inclining to them both: Were my wife's liver
Infected as her life, she would not live

The running of one glass.

Cam.

Who does infect her?

Leon. Why he, that wears her like her medal, hanging About his neck, Bohemia: Who-if I

Had servants true about me: that bare eyes

To see alike mine honour as their profits,

Their own particular thrifts, they would do that
Which should undo more doing: Ay, and thou,
His cup-bearer,-whom I from meaner form
Have bench'd, and rear'd to worship; who may'st see
Plainly, as heaven sees earth, and earth sees heaven,
How I am galled,-might'st bespice a cup,

To give mine enemy a lasting wink;

Which draught to me were cordial,

Cam.

Sir, my lord,

I could do this; and that with no rash potion,
But with a ling'ring dram, that should not work
Maliciously like poison: But I cannot

Believe this crack to be in my dread mistress,
So sovereignly being honourable.

I have lov'd thee,

Leon.

Make't thy question, and go rot!

Dost think, I am so muddy, so unsettled,
To appoint myself in this vexation? sully
The purity and whiteness of my sheets,

Which to preserve, is sleep; which being spotted,
Is goads, thorns, nettles, tails of wasps?
Give scandal to the blood o' th' prince my son,
Who, I do think is mine, and love as mine;
Without ripe moving to't? Would I do this?
Could man so blench?

Cam.

I must believe you, sir;

I do; and will fetch off Bohemia for't:

Provided, that when he's remov'd, your highness
Will take again your queen, as yours at first;

Even for your son's sake; and, thereby, for sealing
The injury of tongues, in courts and kingdoms
Known and allied to yours.

Leon.
Thou dost advise me,
Even so as I my own course have set down:

I'll give no blemish to her honour, none.
Cam. My lord,

Go then; and with a countenance as clear
As friendship wears at feasts, keep with Bohemia,
And with your queen: I am his cupbearer;
If from me he have wholesome beverage,
Account me not your servant.

This is all:

Leon.
Do't, and thou hast the one half of my heart;
Do't not, thou split'st thine own.

Cam.

I'll do't, my lord.

Leon. I will seem friendly, as thou hast advis'd me.

Cam. O miserable lady!-But, for me,

What case stand I in? I must be the poisoner
Of good Polixenes: and my ground to do't
Is the obedience to a master; one,
Who, in rebellion with himself, will have

[Exit.

All that are his, so too.—To do this deed,
Promotion follows: If I could find example
Of thousands, that had struck anointed kings,
And flourish'd after, I'd not do't: but since

Nor brass, nor stone, nor parchment, bears not one, Let villainy itself forswear't. I must

Forsake the court: to do't, or no, is certain

To me a break-neck. Happy star, reign now !
Here comes Bohemia.

Pol.

Enter POLIXENES.

This is strange! methinks,

My favour here begins to warp. Not speak?-
Good-day, Camillo.

Cam.

Hail, most royal sir!

Pol. What is the news i' th' court?

Cam.

None rare, my lord.
Pol. The king hath on him such a countenance,
As he had lost some province, and a region,
Lov'd as he loves himself: even now I met him
With customary compliment; when he,
Wafting his eyes to th' contrary, and falling
A lip of much contempt, speeds from me; and
So leaves me, to consider what is breeding,
That changes thus his manners.

Cam. I dare not know, my lord.
Pol. How! dare not? do not.

dare not

Do you know, and

Be intelligent to me? "Tis thereabouts;
For, to yourself, what you do know, you must;
And cannot say, you dare not. Good Camillo,
Your chang'd complexions are to me a mirror,