Cam.

Leon. Ay, but why?

Stays here longer.

Cam. To satisfy your highness, and the entreaties

Of our most gracious mistress.

Leon.

Satisfy

The entreaties of your mistress-satisfy ?-
Let that suffice.

I have trusted thee, Camillo,
With all the nearest things to my heart, as well
My chamber-councils, wherein, priest-like, thou
Hast cleansed my bosom; I from thee departed
Thy penitent reformed: but we have been
Deceived in thy integrity, deceived

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 required; or else thou must be counted

A servant grafted in my serious trust,

And therein negligent; or else a fool

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

Cam.

My gracious lord,

I may be negligent, foolish, and fearful;

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 played 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, 't was a fear
Which oft infects the wisest. These, my lord,
Are such allowed 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,

'T is none of mine.

Leon.

Ha' 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-
My wife is slippery? If thou wilt confess—
Or else be impudently negative,

To have nor eyes, nor thought,—then say
My wife's a hobbyhorse, deserves a name
As rank as any flax-wench that nuts to

32

THE WINTER'S TALE.

Before her troth-plight; say 't, and justify 't.
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.

Leon.

Is whispering nothing?

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 cured

Of this diseased opinion, and betimes;

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 temporiser, 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 benched, and reared to worship; who may'st.

see,

Plainly as heaven sees earth and earth sees heaven, How I am galléd,-might'st bespice a cup,

To give mine enemy a lasting wink;

Which draught to me were cordial.

Cam.

1

Sir, my lord!

But with a lingering 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 loved thee,

Leon.

Make that 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' the 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, I do; and will fetch off Bohemia for 't;

sir:

Provided, that when he's removed, 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 mine own course have set down.