Act I, Scene II — The same. A Room of State in the Palace…

Act I, Scene II — The same. A Room of State in the Palace

Enter Leontes, Polixenes, Hermione, Mamillius, Camillo and Attendants.

POLIXENES. Nine changes of the watery star hath been The shepherd’s note since we have left our throne Without a burden. Time as long again Would be fill’d up, my brother, with our thanks; And yet we should, for perpetuity, Go hence in debt: and therefore, like a cipher, Yet standing in rich place, I multiply With one “we thank you” many thousands more That go before it.

LEONTES. Stay your thanks a while, And pay them when you part.

POLIXENES. Sir, that’s tomorrow. I am question’d by my fears, of what may chance Or breed upon our absence; that may blow No sneaping winds at home, to make us say “This is put forth too truly.” Besides, I have stay’d To tire your royalty.

LEONTES. We are tougher, brother, Than you can put us to ’t.

POLIXENES. No longer stay.

LEONTES. One seve’night longer.

POLIXENES. Very sooth, tomorrow.

LEONTES. We’ll part the time between ’s then: and in that I’ll no gainsaying.

POLIXENES. Press me not, beseech you, so, There is no tongue that moves, none, none i’ th’ world, So soon as yours, could win me: so it should now, Were there necessity in your request, although ’Twere needful I denied it. My affairs Do even drag me homeward: which to hinder Were, in your love a whip to me; my stay To you a charge and trouble: to save both, Farewell, our brother.

LEONTES. Tongue-tied, our queen? Speak you.

HERMIONE. I had thought, sir, to have held my peace until You had drawn oaths from him not to stay. You, sir, Charge him too coldly. Tell him you are sure All in Bohemia’s well: this satisfaction The by-gone day proclaimed. Say this to him, He’s beat from his best ward.

LEONTES. Well said, Hermione.

HERMIONE. To tell he longs to see his son were strong. But let him say so then, and let him go; But let him swear so, and he shall not stay, We’ll thwack him hence with distaffs. [To Polixenes.] Yet of your royal presence I’ll adventure The borrow of a week. When at Bohemia You take my lord, I’ll give him my commission To let him there a month behind the gest Prefix’d for’s parting:—yet, good deed, Leontes, I love thee not a jar of th’ clock behind What lady she her lord. You’ll stay?

POLIXENES. No, madam.

HERMIONE. Nay, but you will?

POLIXENES. I may not, verily.

HERMIONE. Verily! You put me off with limber vows; but I, Though you would seek t’ unsphere the stars with oaths, Should yet say “Sir, no going.” Verily, You shall not go. A lady’s verily is As potent as a lord’s. Will go yet? Force me to keep you as a prisoner, Not like a guest: so you shall pay your fees When you depart, and save your thanks. How say you? My prisoner or my guest? By your dread “verily,” One of them you shall be.

POLIXENES. Your guest, then, madam. To be your prisoner should import offending; Which is for me less easy to commit Than you to punish.

HERMIONE. Not your gaoler then, But your kind hostess. Come, I’ll question you Of my lord’s tricks and yours when you were boys. You were pretty lordings then.

POLIXENES. We were, fair queen, Two lads that thought there was no more behind But such a day tomorrow as today, And to be boy eternal.

HERMIONE. Was not my lord The verier wag o’ th’ two?

POLIXENES. We were as twinn’d lambs that did frisk i’ th’ sun And bleat the one at th’ other. What we chang’d Was innocence for innocence; we knew not The doctrine of ill-doing, nor dream’d That any did. Had we pursu’d that life, And our weak spirits ne’er been higher rear’d With stronger blood, we should have answer’d heaven Boldly “Not guilty,” the imposition clear’d Hereditary ours.

HERMIONE. By this we gather You have tripp’d since.

POLIXENES. O my most sacred lady, Temptations have since then been born to ’s! for In those unfledg’d days was my wife a girl; Your precious self had then not cross’d the eyes Of my young play-fellow.

HERMIONE. Grace to boot! Of this make no conclusion, lest you say Your queen and I are devils. Yet go on; Th’ offences we have made you do we’ll answer, If you first sinn’d with us, and that with us You did continue fault, and that you slipp’d not With any but with us.

LEONTES. Is he won yet?

HERMIONE. He’ll stay, my lord.

LEONTES. At my request he would not. Hermione, my dearest, thou never spok’st To better purpose.

HERMIONE. Never?

LEONTES. Never but once.

HERMIONE. What! have I twice said well? when was’t before? I prithee tell me. Cram ’s with praise, and make ’s As fat as tame things: one good deed dying tongueless Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that. Our praises are our wages. You may ride ’s With one soft kiss a thousand furlongs ere With spur we heat an acre. But to th’ goal: My last good deed was to entreat his stay. What was my first? It has an elder sister, Or I mistake you: O, would her name were Grace! But once before I spoke to the purpose—when? Nay, let me have’t; I long.

LEONTES. Why, that was when Three crabbed months had sour’d themselves to death, Ere I could make thee open thy white hand And clap thyself my love; then didst thou utter “I am yours for ever.”

HERMIONE. ’Tis Grace indeed. Why, lo you now, I have spoke to th’ purpose twice. The one for ever earn’d a royal husband; Th’ other for some while a friend.

[Giving her hand to Polixenes.]

LEONTES. [Aside.] Too hot, too hot! To mingle friendship far is mingling bloods. I have tremor cordis on me. My heart dances, But not for joy,—not joy. This entertainment May a free face put on, derive a liberty From heartiness, from bounty, fertile bosom, And well become the agent: ’t may, I grant: But to be paddling palms and pinching fingers, As now they are, and making practis’d smiles As in a looking-glass; and then to sigh, as ’twere The mort o’ th’ deer. O, that is entertainment My bosom likes not, nor my brows. Mamillius, Art thou my boy?

MAMILLIUS. Ay, my good lord.

LEONTES. I’ fecks! Why, that’s my bawcock. What! hast smutch’d thy nose? They say it is a copy out of mine. Come, captain, We must be neat; not neat, but cleanly, captain: And yet the steer, the heifer, and the calf Are all call’d neat.—Still virginalling Upon his palm?—How now, you wanton calf! Art thou my calf?

MAMILLIUS. Yes, if you will, my lord.

LEONTES. Thou want’st a rough pash and the shoots that I have To be full like me:—yet they say we are Almost as like as eggs; women say so, That will say anything. But were they false As o’er-dy’d blacks, as wind, as waters, false As dice are to be wish’d by one that fixes No bourn ’twixt his and mine, yet were it true To say this boy were like me. Come, sir page, Look on me with your welkin eye: sweet villain! Most dear’st! my collop! Can thy dam?—may’t be? Affection! thy intention stabs the centre: Thou dost make possible things not so held, Communicat’st with dreams;—how can this be?— With what’s unreal thou coactive art, And fellow’st nothing: then ’tis very credent Thou may’st co-join with something; and thou dost, And that beyond commission, and I find it, And that to the infection of my brains And hardening of my brows.

POLIXENES. What means Sicilia?

HERMIONE. He something seems unsettled.

POLIXENES. How, my lord? What cheer? How is’t with you, best brother?

HERMIONE. You look As if you held a brow of much distraction: Are you mov’d, my lord?

LEONTES. No, in good earnest. How sometimes nature will betray its folly, Its tenderness, and make itself a pastime To harder bosoms! Looking on the lines Of my boy’s face, methoughts I did recoil Twenty-three years, and saw myself unbreech’d, In my green velvet coat; my dagger muzzled Lest it should bite its master, and so prove, As ornaments oft do, too dangerous. How like, methought, I then was to this kernel, This squash, this gentleman. Mine honest friend, Will you take eggs for money?

MAMILLIUS. No, my lord, I’ll fight.

LEONTES. You will? Why, happy man be ’s dole! My brother, Are you so fond of your young prince as we Do seem to be of ours?

POLIXENES. If at home, sir, He’s all my exercise, my mirth, my matter: Now my sworn friend, and then mine enemy; My parasite, my soldier, statesman, all. He makes a July’s day short as December; And with his varying childness cures in me Thoughts that would thick my blood.

LEONTES. So stands this squire Offic’d with me. We two will walk, my lord, And leave you to your graver steps. Hermione, How thou lov’st us show in our brother’s welcome; Let what is dear in Sicily be cheap: Next to thyself and my young rover, he’s Apparent to my heart.

HERMIONE. If you would seek us, We are yours i’ the garden. Shall ’s attend you there?

LEONTES. To your own bents dispose you: you’ll be found, Be you beneath the sky. [Aside.] I am angling now, Though you perceive me not how I give line. Go to, go to! How she holds up the neb, the bill to him! And arms her with the boldness of a wife To her allowing husband!

[Exeunt Polixenes, Hermione and Attendants.]

Gone already! Inch-thick, knee-deep, o’er head and ears a fork’d one!— Go, play, boy, play. Thy mother plays, and I Play too; but so disgrac’d a part, whose issue Will hiss me to my grave: contempt and clamour Will be my knell. Go, play, boy, play. There have been, Or I am much deceiv’d, cuckolds ere now; And many a man there is, even at this present, Now while I speak this, holds his wife by th’ arm, That little thinks she has been sluic’d in ’s absence, And his pond fish’d by his next neighbour, by Sir Smile, his neighbour. Nay, there’s comfort in ’t, Whiles other men have gates, and those gates open’d, As mine, against their will. Should all despair That hath revolted wives, the tenth of mankind Would hang themselves. Physic for’t there’s none; It is a bawdy planet, that will strike Where ’tis predominant; and ’tis powerful, think it, From east, west, north, and south. Be it concluded, No barricado for a belly. Know’t; It will let in and out the enemy With bag and baggage. Many thousand of us Have the disease, and feel’t not.—How now, boy!

MAMILLIUS. I am like you, they say.

LEONTES. Why, that’s some comfort. What! Camillo there?

CAMILLO. Ay, my good lord.

LEONTES. Go play, Mamillius; thou’rt an honest man.

[Exit Mamillius.]

Camillo, this great sir will yet stay longer.

CAMILLO. You had much ado to make his anchor hold: When you cast out, it still came home.

LEONTES. Didst note it?

CAMILLO. He would not stay at your petitions; made His business more material.

LEONTES. Didst perceive it? [Aside.] They’re here with me already; whisp’ring, rounding, “Sicilia is a so-forth.” ’Tis far gone When I shall gust it last.—How came’t, Camillo, That he did stay?

CAMILLO. At the good queen’s entreaty.

LEONTES. At the queen’s be’t: “good” should be pertinent, But so it is, it is not. Was this taken By any understanding pate but thine? For thy conceit is soaking, will draw in More than the common blocks. Not noted, is’t, But of the finer natures? by some severals Of head-piece extraordinary? lower messes Perchance are to this business purblind? say.

CAMILLO. Business, my lord? I think most understand Bohemia stays here longer.

LEONTES. Ha?

CAMILLO. Stays here longer.

LEONTES. Ay, but why?

CAMILLO. To satisfy your highness, and the entreaties Of our most gracious mistress.

LEONTES. Satisfy? Th’ 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-counsels, wherein, priest-like, thou Hast cleans’d my bosom; I from thee departed Thy penitent reform’d. But we have been Deceiv’d in thy integrity, deceiv’d In that which seems so.

CAMILLO. Be it forbid, my lord!

LEONTES. 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.

CAMILLO. 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, Among 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.

LEONTES. 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 ears nor thought, then say My wife’s a hobby-horse, deserves a name As rank as any flax-wench that puts to Before her troth-plight: say’t and justify’t.

CAMILLO. 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.

LEONTES. 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.

CAMILLO. Good my lord, be cur’d Of this diseas’d opinion, and betimes, For ’tis most dangerous.

LEONTES. Say it be, ’tis true.

CAMILLO. No, no, my lord.

LEONTES. 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.

CAMILLO. Who does infect her?

LEONTES. 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 cupbearer,—whom I from meaner form Have bench’d and rear’d to worship, who mayst see Plainly as heaven sees earth and earth sees heaven, How I am galled,—mightst bespice a cup, To give mine enemy a lasting wink; Which draught to me were cordial.

CAMILLO. 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,—

LEONTES. 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’ 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?

CAMILLO. 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.

LEONTES. Thou dost advise me Even so as I mine own course have set down: I’ll give no blemish to her honour, none.

CAMILLO. 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.

LEONTES. This is all: Do’t, and thou hast the one half of my heart; Do’t not, thou splitt’st thine own.

CAMILLO. I’ll do’t, my lord.

LEONTES. I will seem friendly, as thou hast advis’d me.

[Exit.]

CAMILLO. 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 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.

Enter Polixenes.

POLIXENES. This is strange. Methinks My favour here begins to warp. Not speak? Good day, Camillo.

CAMILLO. Hail, most royal sir!

POLIXENES. What is the news i’ th’ court?

CAMILLO. None rare, my lord.

POLIXENES. 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 the 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.

CAMILLO. I dare not know, my lord.

POLIXENES. How, dare not? Do not? Do you know, and dare not? 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 Which shows me mine chang’d too; for I must be A party in this alteration, finding Myself thus alter’d with’t.

CAMILLO. There is a sickness Which puts some of us in distemper, but I cannot name the disease, and it is caught Of you that yet are well.

POLIXENES. How caught of me? Make me not sighted like the basilisk. I have look’d on thousands who have sped the better By my regard, but kill’d none so. Camillo,— As you are certainly a gentleman, thereto Clerk-like, experienc’d, which no less adorns Our gentry than our parents’ noble names, In whose success we are gentle,—I beseech you, If you know aught which does behove my knowledge Thereof to be inform’d, imprison’t not In ignorant concealment.

CAMILLO. I may not answer.

POLIXENES. A sickness caught of me, and yet I well? I must be answer’d. Dost thou hear, Camillo, I conjure thee, by all the parts of man Which honour does acknowledge, whereof the least Is not this suit of mine, that thou declare What incidency thou dost guess of harm Is creeping toward me; how far off, how near; Which way to be prevented, if to be; If not, how best to bear it.

CAMILLO. Sir, I will tell you; Since I am charg’d in honour, and by him That I think honourable. Therefore mark my counsel, Which must be ev’n as swiftly follow’d as I mean to utter it, or both yourself and me Cry lost, and so goodnight!

POLIXENES. On, good Camillo.

CAMILLO. I am appointed him to murder you.

POLIXENES. By whom, Camillo?

CAMILLO. By the king.

POLIXENES. For what?

CAMILLO. He thinks, nay, with all confidence he swears, As he had seen’t or been an instrument To vice you to’t, that you have touch’d his queen Forbiddenly.

POLIXENES. O, then my best blood turn To an infected jelly, and my name Be yok’d with his that did betray the Best! Turn then my freshest reputation to A savour that may strike the dullest nostril Where I arrive, and my approach be shunn’d, Nay, hated too, worse than the great’st infection That e’er was heard or read!

CAMILLO. Swear his thought over By each particular star in heaven and By all their influences, you may as well Forbid the sea for to obey the moon As or by oath remove or counsel shake The fabric of his folly, whose foundation Is pil’d upon his faith, and will continue The standing of his body.

POLIXENES. How should this grow?

CAMILLO. I know not: but I am sure ’tis safer to Avoid what’s grown than question how ’tis born. If therefore you dare trust my honesty, That lies enclosed in this trunk, which you Shall bear along impawn’d, away tonight. Your followers I will whisper to the business, And will by twos and threes, at several posterns, Clear them o’ th’ city. For myself, I’ll put My fortunes to your service, which are here By this discovery lost. Be not uncertain, For, by the honour of my parents, I Have utter’d truth: which if you seek to prove, I dare not stand by; nor shall you be safer Than one condemned by the king’s own mouth, Thereon his execution sworn.

POLIXENES. I do believe thee. I saw his heart in ’s face. Give me thy hand, Be pilot to me, and thy places shall Still neighbour mine. My ships are ready, and My people did expect my hence departure Two days ago. This jealousy Is for a precious creature: as she’s rare, Must it be great; and, as his person’s mighty, Must it be violent; and as he does conceive He is dishonour’d by a man which ever Profess’d to him, why, his revenges must In that be made more bitter. Fear o’ershades me. Good expedition be my friend, and comfort The gracious queen, part of his theme, but nothing Of his ill-ta’en suspicion! Come, Camillo, I will respect thee as a father if Thou bear’st my life off hence. Let us avoid.

CAMILLO. It is in mine authority to command The keys of all the posterns: please your highness To take the urgent hour. Come, sir, away.

[Exeunt.]

Act II, Scene I — Sicilia. A Room in the Palace

Enter Hermione, Mamillius and Ladies.

HERMIONE. Take the boy to you: he so troubles me, ’Tis past enduring.

FIRST LADY. Come, my gracious lord, Shall I be your playfellow?

MAMILLIUS. No, I’ll none of you.

FIRST LADY. Why, my sweet lord?

MAMILLIUS. You’ll kiss me hard, and speak to me as if I were a baby still. I love you better.

SECOND LADY. And why so, my lord?

MAMILLIUS. Not for because Your brows are blacker; yet black brows, they say, Become some women best, so that there be not Too much hair there, but in a semicircle Or a half-moon made with a pen.

SECOND LADY. Who taught this?

MAMILLIUS. I learn’d it out of women’s faces. Pray now, What colour are your eyebrows?

FIRST LADY. Blue, my lord.

MAMILLIUS. Nay, that’s a mock. I have seen a lady’s nose That has been blue, but not her eyebrows.

FIRST LADY. Hark ye, The queen your mother rounds apace. We shall Present our services to a fine new prince One of these days, and then you’d wanton with us, If we would have you.

SECOND LADY. She is spread of late Into a goodly bulk: good time encounter her!

HERMIONE. What wisdom stirs amongst you? Come, sir, now I am for you again. Pray you sit by us, And tell ’s a tale.

MAMILLIUS. Merry or sad shall’t be?

HERMIONE. As merry as you will.

MAMILLIUS. A sad tale’s best for winter. I have one Of sprites and goblins.

HERMIONE. Let’s have that, good sir. Come on, sit down. Come on, and do your best To fright me with your sprites: you’re powerful at it.

MAMILLIUS. There was a man,—

HERMIONE. Nay, come, sit down, then on.

MAMILLIUS. Dwelt by a churchyard. I will tell it softly, Yond crickets shall not hear it.

HERMIONE. Come on then, And give’t me in mine ear.

Enter Leontes, Antigonus, Lords and Guards.

LEONTES. Was he met there? his train? Camillo with him?

FIRST LORD. Behind the tuft of pines I met them, never Saw I men scour so on their way: I ey’d them Even to their ships.

LEONTES. How blest am I In my just censure, in my true opinion! Alack, for lesser knowledge! How accurs’d In being so blest! There may be in the cup A spider steep’d, and one may drink, depart, And yet partake no venom, for his knowledge Is not infected; but if one present Th’ abhorr’d ingredient to his eye, make known How he hath drunk, he cracks his gorge, his sides, With violent hefts. I have drunk, and seen the spider. Camillo was his help in this, his pander. There is a plot against my life, my crown; All’s true that is mistrusted. That false villain Whom I employ’d, was pre-employ’d by him. He has discover’d my design, and I Remain a pinch’d thing; yea, a very trick For them to play at will. How came the posterns So easily open?

FIRST LORD. By his great authority, Which often hath no less prevail’d than so On your command.

LEONTES. I know’t too well. Give me the boy. I am glad you did not nurse him. Though he does bear some signs of me, yet you Have too much blood in him.

HERMIONE. What is this? sport?

LEONTES. Bear the boy hence, he shall not come about her, Away with him, and let her sport herself With that she’s big with; for ’tis Polixenes Has made thee swell thus.

[Exit Mamillius with some of the Guards.]

HERMIONE. But I’d say he had not, And I’ll be sworn you would believe my saying, Howe’er you learn th’ nayward.

LEONTES. You, my lords, Look on her, mark her well. Be but about To say, “she is a goodly lady,” and The justice of your hearts will thereto add “’Tis pity she’s not honest, honourable”: Praise her but for this her without-door form, Which on my faith deserves high speech, and straight The shrug, the hum or ha, these petty brands That calumny doth use—O, I am out, That mercy does; for calumny will sear Virtue itself—these shrugs, these hum’s, and ha’s, When you have said “she’s goodly,” come between, Ere you can say “she’s honest”: but be it known, From him that has most cause to grieve it should be, She’s an adultress!

HERMIONE. Should a villain say so, The most replenish’d villain in the world, He were as much more villain: you, my lord, Do but mistake.

LEONTES. You have mistook, my lady, Polixenes for Leontes. O thou thing, Which I’ll not call a creature of thy place, Lest barbarism, making me the precedent, Should a like language use to all degrees, And mannerly distinguishment leave out Betwixt the prince and beggar. I have said She’s an adultress; I have said with whom: More, she’s a traitor, and Camillo is A federary with her; and one that knows What she should shame to know herself But with her most vile principal, that she’s A bed-swerver, even as bad as those That vulgars give bold’st titles; ay, and privy To this their late escape.

HERMIONE. No, by my life, Privy to none of this. How will this grieve you, When you shall come to clearer knowledge, that You thus have publish’d me! Gentle my lord, You scarce can right me throughly then, to say You did mistake.

LEONTES. No. If I mistake In those foundations which I build upon, The centre is not big enough to bear A school-boy’s top. Away with her to prison! He who shall speak for her is afar off guilty But that he speaks.

HERMIONE. There’s some ill planet reigns: I must be patient till the heavens look With an aspect more favourable. Good my lords, I am not prone to weeping, as our sex Commonly are; the want of which vain dew Perchance shall dry your pities. But I have That honourable grief lodg’d here which burns Worse than tears drown: beseech you all, my lords, With thoughts so qualified as your charities Shall best instruct you, measure me; and so The king’s will be perform’d.

LEONTES. Shall I be heard?

HERMIONE. Who is’t that goes with me? Beseech your highness My women may be with me, for you see My plight requires it. Do not weep, good fools; There is no cause: when you shall know your mistress Has deserv’d prison, then abound in tears As I come out: this action I now go on Is for my better grace. Adieu, my lord: I never wish’d to see you sorry; now I trust I shall. My women, come; you have leave.

LEONTES. Go, do our bidding. Hence!

[Exeunt Queen and Ladies with Guards.]

FIRST LORD. Beseech your highness, call the queen again.

ANTIGONUS. Be certain what you do, sir, lest your justice Prove violence, in the which three great ones suffer, Yourself, your queen, your son.

FIRST LORD. For her, my lord, I dare my life lay down, and will do’t, sir, Please you to accept it, that the queen is spotless I’ th’ eyes of heaven and to you—I mean In this which you accuse her.

ANTIGONUS. If it prove She’s otherwise, I’ll keep my stables where I lodge my wife; I’ll go in couples with her; Than when I feel and see her no further trust her. For every inch of woman in the world, Ay, every dram of woman’s flesh, is false, If she be.

LEONTES. Hold your peaces.

FIRST LORD. Good my lord,—

ANTIGONUS. It is for you we speak, not for ourselves: You are abus’d, and by some putter-on That will be damn’d for’t: would I knew the villain, I would land-damn him. Be she honour-flaw’d, I have three daughters; the eldest is eleven; The second and the third, nine and some five; If this prove true, they’ll pay for’t. By mine honour, I’ll geld ’em all; fourteen they shall not see, To bring false generations: they are co-heirs, And I had rather glib myself than they Should not produce fair issue.

LEONTES. Cease; no more. You smell this business with a sense as cold As is a dead man’s nose: but I do see’t and feel’t, As you feel doing thus; and see withal The instruments that feel.

ANTIGONUS. If it be so, We need no grave to bury honesty. There’s not a grain of it the face to sweeten Of the whole dungy earth.

LEONTES. What! Lack I credit?

FIRST LORD. I had rather you did lack than I, my lord, Upon this ground: and more it would content me To have her honour true than your suspicion, Be blam’d for’t how you might.

LEONTES. Why, what need we Commune with you of this, but rather follow Our forceful instigation? Our prerogative Calls not your counsels, but our natural goodness Imparts this; which, if you, or stupified Or seeming so in skill, cannot or will not Relish a truth, like us, inform yourselves We need no more of your advice: the matter, The loss, the gain, the ord’ring on’t, is all Properly ours.

ANTIGONUS. And I wish, my liege, You had only in your silent judgement tried it, Without more overture.

LEONTES. How could that be? Either thou art most ignorant by age, Or thou wert born a fool. Camillo’s flight, Added to their familiarity, (Which was as gross as ever touch’d conjecture, That lack’d sight only, nought for approbation But only seeing, all other circumstances Made up to th’ deed) doth push on this proceeding. Yet, for a greater confirmation (For in an act of this importance, ’twere Most piteous to be wild), I have dispatch’d in post To sacred Delphos, to Apollo’s temple, Cleomenes and Dion, whom you know Of stuff’d sufficiency: now from the oracle They will bring all, whose spiritual counsel had, Shall stop or spur me. Have I done well?

FIRST LORD. Well done, my lord.

LEONTES. Though I am satisfied, and need no more Than what I know, yet shall the oracle Give rest to the minds of others, such as he Whose ignorant credulity will not Come up to th’ truth. So have we thought it good From our free person she should be confin’d, Lest that the treachery of the two fled hence Be left her to perform. Come, follow us; We are to speak in public; for this business Will raise us all.

ANTIGONUS. [Aside.] To laughter, as I take it, If the good truth were known.

[Exeunt.]

Act II, Scene II — The same. The outer Room of a Prison

Enter Paulina, a Gentleman and Attendants.

PAULINA. The keeper of the prison, call to him; Let him have knowledge who I am.

[Exit the Gentleman.]

Good lady! No court in Europe is too good for thee; What dost thou then in prison?

Enter Gentleman with the Gaoler.

Now, good sir, You know me, do you not?

GAOLER. For a worthy lady And one who much I honour.

PAULINA. Pray you then, Conduct me to the queen.

GAOLER. I may not, madam. To the contrary I have express commandment.

PAULINA. Here’s ado, to lock up honesty and honour from Th’ access of gentle visitors! Is’t lawful, pray you, To see her women? any of them? Emilia?

GAOLER. So please you, madam, To put apart these your attendants, I Shall bring Emilia forth.

PAULINA. I pray now, call her. Withdraw yourselves.

[Exeunt Gentleman and Attendants.]

GAOLER. And, madam, I must be present at your conference.

PAULINA. Well, be’t so, prithee.

[Exit Gaoler.]

Here’s such ado to make no stain a stain As passes colouring.

Re-enter Gaoler with Emilia.

Dear gentlewoman, How fares our gracious lady?

EMILIA. As well as one so great and so forlorn May hold together: on her frights and griefs, (Which never tender lady hath borne greater) She is, something before her time, deliver’d.

PAULINA. A boy?

EMILIA. A daughter; and a goodly babe, Lusty, and like to live: the queen receives Much comfort in ’t; says “My poor prisoner, I am as innocent as you.”

PAULINA. I dare be sworn. These dangerous unsafe lunes i’ th’ king, beshrew them! He must be told on’t, and he shall: the office Becomes a woman best. I’ll take’t upon me. If I prove honey-mouth’d, let my tongue blister, And never to my red-look’d anger be The trumpet any more. Pray you, Emilia, Commend my best obedience to the queen. If she dares trust me with her little babe, I’ll show’t the king, and undertake to be Her advocate to th’ loud’st. We do not know How he may soften at the sight o’ th’ child: The silence often of pure innocence Persuades, when speaking fails.

EMILIA. Most worthy madam, Your honour and your goodness is so evident, That your free undertaking cannot miss A thriving issue: there is no lady living So meet for this great errand. Please your ladyship To visit the next room, I’ll presently Acquaint the queen of your most noble offer, Who but today hammer’d of this design, But durst not tempt a minister of honour, Lest she should be denied.

PAULINA. Tell her, Emilia, I’ll use that tongue I have: if wit flow from ’t As boldness from my bosom, let’t not be doubted I shall do good.

EMILIA. Now be you blest for it! I’ll to the queen: please you come something nearer.

GAOLER. Madam, if ’t please the queen to send the babe, I know not what I shall incur to pass it, Having no warrant.

PAULINA. You need not fear it, sir: This child was prisoner to the womb, and is, By law and process of great nature thence Freed and enfranchis’d: not a party to The anger of the king, nor guilty of, If any be, the trespass of the queen.

GAOLER. I do believe it.

PAULINA. Do not you fear: upon mine honour, I Will stand betwixt you and danger.

[Exeunt.]

Act II, Scene III — The same. A Room in the Palace

Enter Leontes, Antigonus, Lords and other Attendants.

LEONTES. Nor night nor day no rest: it is but weakness To bear the matter thus, mere weakness. If The cause were not in being,—part o’ th’ cause, She th’ adultress; for the harlot king Is quite beyond mine arm, out of the blank And level of my brain, plot-proof. But she I can hook to me. Say that she were gone, Given to the fire, a moiety of my rest Might come to me again. Who’s there?

FIRST ATTENDANT. My lord.

LEONTES. How does the boy?

FIRST ATTENDANT. He took good rest tonight; ’Tis hop’d his sickness is discharg’d.

LEONTES. To see his nobleness, Conceiving the dishonour of his mother. He straight declin’d, droop’d, took it deeply, Fasten’d and fix’d the shame on’t in himself, Threw off his spirit, his appetite, his sleep, And downright languish’d. Leave me solely: go, See how he fares.

[Exit First Attendant.]

Fie, fie! no thought of him. The very thought of my revenges that way Recoil upon me: in himself too mighty, And in his parties, his alliance. Let him be, Until a time may serve. For present vengeance, Take it on her. Camillo and Polixenes Laugh at me; make their pastime at my sorrow: They should not laugh if I could reach them, nor Shall she, within my power.

Enter Paulina carrying a baby, with Antigonus, lords and servants.

FIRST LORD. You must not enter.

PAULINA. Nay, rather, good my lords, be second to me: Fear you his tyrannous passion more, alas, Than the queen’s life? a gracious innocent soul, More free than he is jealous.

ANTIGONUS. That’s enough.

SERVANT. Madam, he hath not slept tonight; commanded None should come at him.

PAULINA. Not so hot, good sir; I come to bring him sleep. ’Tis such as you, That creep like shadows by him, and do sigh At each his needless heavings,—such as you Nourish the cause of his awaking. I Do come with words as med’cinal as true, Honest as either, to purge him of that humour That presses him from sleep.

LEONTES. What noise there, ho?

PAULINA. No noise, my lord; but needful conference About some gossips for your highness.

LEONTES. How! Away with that audacious lady! Antigonus, I charg’d thee that she should not come about me. I knew she would.

ANTIGONUS. I told her so, my lord, On your displeasure’s peril and on mine, She should not visit you.

LEONTES. What, canst not rule her?

PAULINA. From all dishonesty he can. In this, Unless he take the course that you have done, Commit me for committing honour—trust it, He shall not rule me.

ANTIGONUS. La you now, you hear. When she will take the rein I let her run; But she’ll not stumble.

PAULINA. Good my liege, I come,— And, I beseech you hear me, who professes Myself your loyal servant, your physician, Your most obedient counsellor, yet that dares Less appear so, in comforting your evils, Than such as most seem yours—I say I come From your good queen.

LEONTES. Good queen!

PAULINA. Good queen, my lord, good queen: I say, good queen, And would by combat make her good, so were I A man, the worst about you.

LEONTES. Force her hence.

PAULINA. Let him that makes but trifles of his eyes First hand me: on mine own accord I’ll off; But first I’ll do my errand. The good queen, (For she is good) hath brought you forth a daughter; Here ’tis; commends it to your blessing.

[Laying down the child.]

LEONTES. Out! A mankind witch! Hence with her, out o’ door: A most intelligencing bawd!

PAULINA. Not so. I am as ignorant in that as you In so entitling me; and no less honest Than you are mad; which is enough, I’ll warrant, As this world goes, to pass for honest.

LEONTES. Traitors! Will you not push her out? [To Antigonus.] Give her the bastard, Thou dotard! Thou art woman-tir’d, unroosted By thy Dame Partlet here. Take up the bastard, Take’t up, I say; give’t to thy crone.

PAULINA. For ever Unvenerable be thy hands, if thou Tak’st up the princess by that forced baseness Which he has put upon ’t!

LEONTES. He dreads his wife.

PAULINA. So I would you did; then ’twere past all doubt You’d call your children yours.

LEONTES. A nest of traitors!

ANTIGONUS. I am none, by this good light.

PAULINA. Nor I; nor any But one that’s here, and that’s himself. For he The sacred honour of himself, his queen’s, His hopeful son’s, his babe’s, betrays to slander, Whose sting is sharper than the sword’s; and will not, (For, as the case now stands, it is a curse He cannot be compell’d to’t) once remove The root of his opinion, which is rotten As ever oak or stone was sound.

LEONTES. A callat Of boundless tongue, who late hath beat her husband, And now baits me! This brat is none of mine; It is the issue of Polixenes. Hence with it, and together with the dam Commit them to the fire.

PAULINA. It is yours; And, might we lay th’ old proverb to your charge, So like you ’tis the worse. Behold, my lords, Although the print be little, the whole matter And copy of the father: eye, nose, lip, The trick of ’s frown, his forehead; nay, the valley, The pretty dimples of his chin and cheek; his smiles; The very mould and frame of hand, nail, finger: And thou, good goddess Nature, which hast made it So like to him that got it, if thou hast The ordering of the mind too, ’mongst all colours No yellow in ’t, lest she suspect, as he does, Her children not her husband’s!

LEONTES. A gross hag! And, losel, thou art worthy to be hang’d That wilt not stay her tongue.

ANTIGONUS. Hang all the husbands That cannot do that feat, you’ll leave yourself Hardly one subject.

LEONTES. Once more, take her hence.

PAULINA. A most unworthy and unnatural lord Can do no more.

LEONTES. I’ll have thee burnt.

PAULINA. I care not. It is an heretic that makes the fire, Not she which burns in ’t. I’ll not call you tyrant; But this most cruel usage of your queen, Not able to produce more accusation Than your own weak-hing’d fancy, something savours Of tyranny, and will ignoble make you, Yea, scandalous to the world.

LEONTES. On your allegiance, Out of the chamber with her! Were I a tyrant, Where were her life? She durst not call me so, If she did know me one. Away with her!

PAULINA. I pray you, do not push me; I’ll be gone. Look to your babe, my lord; ’tis yours: Jove send her A better guiding spirit! What needs these hands? You that are thus so tender o’er his follies, Will never do him good, not one of you. So, so. Farewell; we are gone.

[Exit.]

LEONTES. Thou, traitor, hast set on thy wife to this. My child? Away with’t. Even thou, that hast A heart so tender o’er it, take it hence, And see it instantly consum’d with fire; Even thou, and none but thou. Take it up straight: Within this hour bring me word ’tis done, And by good testimony, or I’ll seize thy life, With that thou else call’st thine. If thou refuse And wilt encounter with my wrath, say so; The bastard brains with these my proper hands Shall I dash out. Go, take it to the fire; For thou set’st on thy wife.

ANTIGONUS. I did not, sir: These lords, my noble fellows, if they please, Can clear me in ’t.

LORDS We can: my royal liege, He is not guilty of her coming hither.

LEONTES. You’re liars all.

FIRST LORD. Beseech your highness, give us better credit: We have always truly serv’d you; and beseech So to esteem of us. And on our knees we beg, As recompense of our dear services Past and to come, that you do change this purpose, Which being so horrible, so bloody, must Lead on to some foul issue. We all kneel.

LEONTES. I am a feather for each wind that blows. Shall I live on to see this bastard kneel And call me father? better burn it now Than curse it then. But be it; let it live. It shall not neither. [To Antigonus.] You, sir, come you hither, You that have been so tenderly officious With Lady Margery, your midwife, there, To save this bastard’s life—for ’tis a bastard, So sure as this beard’s grey. What will you adventure To save this brat’s life?

ANTIGONUS. Anything, my lord, That my ability may undergo, And nobleness impose: at least thus much: I’ll pawn the little blood which I have left To save the innocent. Anything possible.

LEONTES. It shall be possible. Swear by this sword Thou wilt perform my bidding.

ANTIGONUS. I will, my lord.

LEONTES. Mark, and perform it, seest thou? for the fail Of any point in’t shall not only be Death to thyself, but to thy lewd-tongu’d wife, Whom for this time we pardon. We enjoin thee, As thou art liegeman to us, that thou carry This female bastard hence, and that thou bear it To some remote and desert place, quite out Of our dominions; and that there thou leave it, Without more mercy, to it own protection And favour of the climate. As by strange fortune It came to us, I do in justice charge thee, On thy soul’s peril and thy body’s torture, That thou commend it strangely to some place Where chance may nurse or end it. Take it up.

ANTIGONUS. I swear to do this, though a present death Had been more merciful. Come on, poor babe: Some powerful spirit instruct the kites and ravens To be thy nurses! Wolves and bears, they say, Casting their savageness aside, have done Like offices of pity. Sir, be prosperous In more than this deed does require! And blessing Against this cruelty, fight on thy side, Poor thing, condemn’d to loss!

[Exit with the child.]

LEONTES. No, I’ll not rear Another’s issue.

Enter a Servant.

SERVANT. Please your highness, posts From those you sent to th’ oracle are come An hour since: Cleomenes and Dion, Being well arriv’d from Delphos, are both landed, Hasting to th’ court.

FIRST LORD. So please you, sir, their speed Hath been beyond account.

LEONTES. Twenty-three days They have been absent: ’tis good speed; foretells The great Apollo suddenly will have The truth of this appear. Prepare you, lords; Summon a session, that we may arraign Our most disloyal lady; for, as she hath Been publicly accus’d, so shall she have A just and open trial. While she lives, My heart will be a burden to me. Leave me, And think upon my bidding.

[Exeunt.]

Act III, Scene I — Sicilia. A Street in some Town

Enter Cleomenes and Dion.

CLEOMENES The climate’s delicate; the air most sweet, Fertile the isle, the temple much surpassing The common praise it bears.

DION. I shall report, For most it caught me, the celestial habits (Methinks I so should term them) and the reverence Of the grave wearers. O, the sacrifice! How ceremonious, solemn, and unearthly, It was i’ th’ offering!

CLEOMENES But of all, the burst And the ear-deaf’ning voice o’ th’ oracle, Kin to Jove’s thunder, so surprised my sense That I was nothing.

DION. If the event o’ th’ journey Prove as successful to the queen,—O, be’t so!— As it hath been to us rare, pleasant, speedy, The time is worth the use on’t.

CLEOMENES Great Apollo Turn all to th’ best! These proclamations, So forcing faults upon Hermione, I little like.

DION. The violent carriage of it Will clear or end the business: when the oracle, (Thus by Apollo’s great divine seal’d up) Shall the contents discover, something rare Even then will rush to knowledge. Go. Fresh horses! And gracious be the issue!

[Exeunt.]

Act III, Scene II — The same. A Court of Justice

Enter Leontes, Lords and Officers appear, properly seated.

LEONTES. This sessions (to our great grief we pronounce) Even pushes ’gainst our heart: the party tried The daughter of a king, our wife, and one Of us too much belov’d. Let us be clear’d Of being tyrannous, since we so openly Proceed in justice, which shall have due course, Even to the guilt or the purgation. Produce the prisoner.

OFFICER. It is his highness’ pleasure that the queen Appear in person here in court. Silence!

Hermione is brought in guarded; Paulina and Ladies attending.

LEONTES. Read the indictment.

OFFICER. [Reads.] “Hermione, queen to the worthy Leontes, king of Sicilia, thou art here accused and arraigned of high treason, in committing adultery with Polixenes, king of Bohemia; and conspiring with Camillo to take away the life of our sovereign lord the king, thy royal husband: the pretence whereof being by circumstances partly laid open, thou, Hermione, contrary to the faith and allegiance of a true subject, didst counsel and aid them, for their better safety, to fly away by night.”

HERMIONE. Since what I am to say must be but that Which contradicts my accusation, and The testimony on my part no other But what comes from myself, it shall scarce boot me To say “Not guilty”. Mine integrity, Being counted falsehood, shall, as I express it, Be so receiv’d. But thus, if powers divine Behold our human actions, as they do, I doubt not, then, but innocence shall make False accusation blush, and tyranny Tremble at patience. You, my lord, best know, Who least will seem to do so, my past life Hath been as continent, as chaste, as true, As I am now unhappy; which is more Than history can pattern, though devis’d And play’d to take spectators. For behold me, A fellow of the royal bed, which owe A moiety of the throne, a great king’s daughter, The mother to a hopeful prince, here standing To prate and talk for life and honour ’fore Who please to come and hear. For life, I prize it As I weigh grief, which I would spare. For honour, ’Tis a derivative from me to mine, And only that I stand for. I appeal To your own conscience, sir, before Polixenes Came to your court, how I was in your grace, How merited to be so; since he came, With what encounter so uncurrent I Have strain’d t’ appear thus: if one jot beyond The bound of honour, or in act or will That way inclining, harden’d be the hearts Of all that hear me, and my near’st of kin Cry fie upon my grave!

LEONTES. I ne’er heard yet That any of these bolder vices wanted Less impudence to gainsay what they did Than to perform it first.

HERMIONE. That’s true enough; Though ’tis a saying, sir, not due to me.

LEONTES. You will not own it.

HERMIONE. More than mistress of Which comes to me in name of fault, I must not At all acknowledge. For Polixenes, With whom I am accus’d, I do confess I lov’d him as in honour he requir’d, With such a kind of love as might become A lady like me; with a love even such, So and no other, as yourself commanded: Which not to have done, I think had been in me Both disobedience and ingratitude To you and toward your friend, whose love had spoke, Ever since it could speak, from an infant, freely, That it was yours. Now, for conspiracy, I know not how it tastes, though it be dish’d For me to try how: all I know of it Is that Camillo was an honest man; And why he left your court, the gods themselves, Wotting no more than I, are ignorant.

LEONTES. You knew of his departure, as you know What you have underta’en to do in ’s absence.

HERMIONE. Sir, You speak a language that I understand not: My life stands in the level of your dreams, Which I’ll lay down.

LEONTES. Your actions are my dreams. You had a bastard by Polixenes, And I but dream’d it. As you were past all shame (Those of your fact are so) so past all truth, Which to deny concerns more than avails; for as Thy brat hath been cast out, like to itself, No father owning it (which is, indeed, More criminal in thee than it), so thou Shalt feel our justice; in whose easiest passage Look for no less than death.

HERMIONE. Sir, spare your threats: The bug which you would fright me with, I seek. To me can life be no commodity. The crown and comfort of my life, your favour, I do give lost, for I do feel it gone, But know not how it went. My second joy, And first-fruits of my body, from his presence I am barr’d, like one infectious. My third comfort, Starr’d most unluckily, is from my breast, (The innocent milk in its most innocent mouth) Hal’d out to murder; myself on every post Proclaim’d a strumpet; with immodest hatred The child-bed privilege denied, which ’longs To women of all fashion; lastly, hurried Here to this place, i’ th’ open air, before I have got strength of limit. Now, my liege, Tell me what blessings I have here alive, That I should fear to die. Therefore proceed. But yet hear this: mistake me not: no life, I prize it not a straw, but for mine honour, Which I would free, if I shall be condemn’d Upon surmises, all proofs sleeping else But what your jealousies awake, I tell you ’Tis rigour, and not law. Your honours all, I do refer me to the oracle: Apollo be my judge!

FIRST LORD. This your request Is altogether just: therefore bring forth, And in Apollo’s name, his oracle:

[Exeunt certain Officers.]

HERMIONE. The Emperor of Russia was my father. O that he were alive, and here beholding His daughter’s trial! that he did but see The flatness of my misery; yet with eyes Of pity, not revenge!

Enter Officers with Cleomenes and Dion.

OFFICER. You here shall swear upon this sword of justice, That you, Cleomenes and Dion, have Been both at Delphos, and from thence have brought This seal’d-up oracle, by the hand deliver’d Of great Apollo’s priest; and that since then You have not dared to break the holy seal, Nor read the secrets in’t.

CLEOMENES, DION. All this we swear.

LEONTES. Break up the seals and read.

OFFICER. [Reads.] “Hermione is chaste; Polixenes blameless; Camillo a true subject; Leontes a jealous tyrant; his innocent babe truly begotten; and the king shall live without an heir, if that which is lost be not found.”

LORDS Now blessed be the great Apollo!

HERMIONE. Praised!

LEONTES. Hast thou read truth?

OFFICER. Ay, my lord, even so As it is here set down.

LEONTES. There is no truth at all i’ th’ oracle: The sessions shall proceed: this is mere falsehood.

Enter a Servant hastily.

SERVANT. My lord the king, the king!

LEONTES. What is the business?

SERVANT. O sir, I shall be hated to report it. The prince your son, with mere conceit and fear Of the queen’s speed, is gone.

LEONTES. How! gone?

SERVANT. Is dead.

LEONTES. Apollo’s angry, and the heavens themselves Do strike at my injustice.

[Hermione faints.]

How now there?

PAULINA. This news is mortal to the queen. Look down And see what death is doing.

LEONTES. Take her hence: Her heart is but o’ercharg’d; she will recover. I have too much believ’d mine own suspicion. Beseech you tenderly apply to her Some remedies for life.

[Exeunt Paulina and Ladies with Hermione.]

Apollo, pardon My great profaneness ’gainst thine oracle! I’ll reconcile me to Polixenes, New woo my queen, recall the good Camillo, Whom I proclaim a man of truth, of mercy; For, being transported by my jealousies To bloody thoughts and to revenge, I chose Camillo for the minister to poison My friend Polixenes: which had been done, But that the good mind of Camillo tardied My swift command, though I with death and with Reward did threaten and encourage him, Not doing it and being done. He, most humane And fill’d with honour, to my kingly guest Unclasp’d my practice, quit his fortunes here, Which you knew great, and to the certain hazard Of all incertainties himself commended, No richer than his honour. How he glisters Thorough my rust! And how his piety Does my deeds make the blacker!

Enter Paulina.

PAULINA. Woe the while! O, cut my lace, lest my heart, cracking it, Break too!

FIRST LORD. What fit is this, good lady?

PAULINA. What studied torments, tyrant, hast for me? What wheels? racks? fires? what flaying? boiling In leads or oils? What old or newer torture Must I receive, whose every word deserves To taste of thy most worst? Thy tyranny, Together working with thy jealousies, Fancies too weak for boys, too green and idle For girls of nine. O, think what they have done, And then run mad indeed, stark mad! for all Thy by-gone fooleries were but spices of it. That thou betray’dst Polixenes, ’twas nothing; That did but show thee, of a fool, inconstant And damnable ingrateful; nor was’t much Thou wouldst have poison’d good Camillo’s honour, To have him kill a king; poor trespasses, More monstrous standing by: whereof I reckon The casting forth to crows thy baby daughter, To be or none or little, though a devil Would have shed water out of fire ere done’t, Nor is’t directly laid to thee the death Of the young prince, whose honourable thoughts, Thoughts high for one so tender, cleft the heart That could conceive a gross and foolish sire Blemish’d his gracious dam: this is not, no, Laid to thy answer: but the last—O lords, When I have said, cry Woe!—the queen, the queen, The sweet’st, dear’st creature’s dead, and vengeance for’t Not dropp’d down yet.

FIRST LORD. The higher powers forbid!

PAULINA. I say she’s dead: I’ll swear’t. If word nor oath Prevail not, go and see: if you can bring Tincture, or lustre, in her lip, her eye, Heat outwardly or breath within, I’ll serve you As I would do the gods. But, O thou tyrant! Do not repent these things, for they are heavier Than all thy woes can stir. Therefore betake thee To nothing but despair. A thousand knees Ten thousand years together, naked, fasting, Upon a barren mountain, and still winter In storm perpetual, could not move the gods To look that way thou wert.

LEONTES. Go on, go on: Thou canst not speak too much; I have deserv’d All tongues to talk their bitterest.

FIRST LORD. Say no more: Howe’er the business goes, you have made fault I’ th’ boldness of your speech.

PAULINA. I am sorry for ’t: All faults I make, when I shall come to know them, I do repent. Alas, I have show’d too much The rashness of a woman: he is touch’d To th’ noble heart. What’s gone and what’s past help, Should be past grief. Do not receive affliction At my petition; I beseech you, rather Let me be punish’d, that have minded you Of what you should forget. Now, good my liege, Sir, royal sir, forgive a foolish woman: The love I bore your queen—lo, fool again! I’ll speak of her no more, nor of your children. I’ll not remember you of my own lord, Who is lost too. Take your patience to you, And I’ll say nothing.

LEONTES. Thou didst speak but well When most the truth, which I receive much better Than to be pitied of thee. Prithee, bring me To the dead bodies of my queen and son: One grave shall be for both. Upon them shall The causes of their death appear, unto Our shame perpetual. Once a day I’ll visit The chapel where they lie, and tears shed there Shall be my recreation. So long as nature Will bear up with this exercise, so long I daily vow to use it. Come, and lead me To these sorrows.

[Exeunt.]

Act III, Scene III — Bohemia. A desert Country near the Sea

Enter Antigonus with the Child and a Mariner.

ANTIGONUS. Thou art perfect, then, our ship hath touch’d upon The deserts of Bohemia?

MARINER. Ay, my lord, and fear We have landed in ill time: the skies look grimly, And threaten present blusters. In my conscience, The heavens with that we have in hand are angry, And frown upon ’s.

ANTIGONUS. Their sacred wills be done! Go, get aboard; Look to thy bark: I’ll not be long before I call upon thee.

MARINER. Make your best haste, and go not Too far i’ th’ land: ’tis like to be loud weather; Besides, this place is famous for the creatures Of prey that keep upon ’t.

ANTIGONUS. Go thou away: I’ll follow instantly.

MARINER. I am glad at heart To be so rid o’ th’ business.

[Exit.]

ANTIGONUS. Come, poor babe. I have heard, but not believ’d, the spirits of the dead May walk again: if such thing be, thy mother Appear’d to me last night; for ne’er was dream So like a waking. To me comes a creature, Sometimes her head on one side, some another. I never saw a vessel of like sorrow, So fill’d and so becoming: in pure white robes, Like very sanctity, she did approach My cabin where I lay: thrice bow’d before me, And, gasping to begin some speech, her eyes Became two spouts. The fury spent, anon Did this break from her: “Good Antigonus, Since fate, against thy better disposition, Hath made thy person for the thrower-out Of my poor babe, according to thine oath, Places remote enough are in Bohemia, There weep, and leave it crying. And, for the babe Is counted lost for ever, Perdita I prithee call’t. For this ungentle business, Put on thee by my lord, thou ne’er shalt see Thy wife Paulina more.” And so, with shrieks, She melted into air. Affrighted much, I did in time collect myself and thought This was so, and no slumber. Dreams are toys, Yet for this once, yea, superstitiously, I will be squar’d by this. I do believe Hermione hath suffer’d death, and that Apollo would, this being indeed the issue Of King Polixenes, it should here be laid, Either for life or death, upon the earth Of its right father. Blossom, speed thee well! There lie; and there thy character: there these;

[Laying down the child and a bundle.]

Which may if fortune please, both breed thee, pretty, And still rest thine. The storm begins: poor wretch, That for thy mother’s fault art thus expos’d To loss and what may follow! Weep I cannot, But my heart bleeds, and most accurs’d am I To be by oath enjoin’d to this. Farewell! The day frowns more and more. Thou’rt like to have A lullaby too rough. I never saw The heavens so dim by day. A savage clamour! Well may I get aboard! This is the chase: I am gone for ever.

[Exit, pursued by a bear.]

Enter an old Shepherd.

SHEPHERD. I would there were no age between ten and three-and-twenty, or that youth would sleep out the rest; for there is nothing in the between but getting wenches with child, wronging the ancientry, stealing, fighting—Hark you now! Would any but these boiled brains of nineteen and two-and-twenty hunt this weather? They have scared away two of my best sheep, which I fear the wolf will sooner find than the master: if anywhere I have them, ’tis by the sea-side, browsing of ivy. Good luck, an ’t be thy will, what have we here?

[Taking up the child.]

Mercy on ’s, a bairn! A very pretty bairn! A boy or a child, I wonder? A pretty one; a very pretty one. Sure, some scape. Though I am not bookish, yet I can read waiting-gentlewoman in the scape. This has been some stair-work, some trunk-work, some behind-door-work. They were warmer that got this than the poor thing is here. I’ll take it up for pity: yet I’ll tarry till my son come; he halloed but even now. Whoa-ho-hoa!

Enter Clown.

CLOWN. Hilloa, loa!

SHEPHERD. What, art so near? If thou’lt see a thing to talk on when thou art dead and rotten, come hither. What ail’st thou, man?

CLOWN. I have seen two such sights, by sea and by land! But I am not to say it is a sea, for it is now the sky: betwixt the firmament and it, you cannot thrust a bodkin’s point.

SHEPHERD. Why, boy, how is it?

CLOWN. I would you did but see how it chafes, how it rages, how it takes up the shore! But that’s not to the point. O, the most piteous cry of the poor souls! sometimes to see ’em, and not to see ’em. Now the ship boring the moon with her mainmast, and anon swallowed with yest and froth, as you’d thrust a cork into a hogshead. And then for the land service, to see how the bear tore out his shoulder-bone, how he cried to me for help, and said his name was Antigonus, a nobleman. But to make an end of the ship, to see how the sea flap-dragon’d it: but first, how the poor souls roared, and the sea mocked them, and how the poor gentleman roared, and the bear mocked him, both roaring louder than the sea or weather.

SHEPHERD. Name of mercy, when was this, boy?

CLOWN. Now, now. I have not winked since I saw these sights: the men are not yet cold under water, nor the bear half dined on the gentleman. He’s at it now.

SHEPHERD. Would I had been by to have helped the old man!

CLOWN. I would you had been by the ship side, to have helped her: there your charity would have lacked footing.

SHEPHERD. Heavy matters, heavy matters! But look thee here, boy. Now bless thyself: thou met’st with things dying, I with things new-born. Here’s a sight for thee. Look thee, a bearing-cloth for a squire’s child! Look thee here; take up, take up, boy; open’t. So, let’s see. It was told me I should be rich by the fairies. This is some changeling: open’t. What’s within, boy?

CLOWN. You’re a made old man. If the sins of your youth are forgiven you, you’re well to live. Gold! all gold!

SHEPHERD. This is fairy gold, boy, and ’twill prove so. Up with it, keep it close: home, home, the next way. We are lucky, boy, and to be so still requires nothing but secrecy. Let my sheep go: come, good boy, the next way home.

CLOWN. Go you the next way with your findings. I’ll go see if the bear be gone from the gentleman, and how much he hath eaten. They are never curst but when they are hungry: if there be any of him left, I’ll bury it.

SHEPHERD. That’s a good deed. If thou mayest discern by that which is left of him what he is, fetch me to th’ sight of him.

CLOWN. Marry, will I; and you shall help to put him i’ th’ ground.

SHEPHERD. ’Tis a lucky day, boy, and we’ll do good deeds on ’t.

[Exeunt.]

Act IV, Scene I

Enter Time, the Chorus.

TIME. I that please some, try all: both joy and terror Of good and bad, that makes and unfolds error, Now take upon me, in the name of Time, To use my wings. Impute it not a crime To me or my swift passage, that I slide O’er sixteen years, and leave the growth untried Of that wide gap, since it is in my power To o’erthrow law, and in one self-born hour To plant and o’erwhelm custom. Let me pass The same I am, ere ancient’st order was Or what is now received. I witness to The times that brought them in; so shall I do To th’ freshest things now reigning, and make stale The glistering of this present, as my tale Now seems to it. Your patience this allowing, I turn my glass, and give my scene such growing As you had slept between. Leontes leaving Th’ effects of his fond jealousies, so grieving That he shuts up himself, imagine me, Gentle spectators, that I now may be In fair Bohemia, and remember well, I mentioned a son o’ th’ king’s, which Florizel I now name to you; and with speed so pace To speak of Perdita, now grown in grace Equal with wondering. What of her ensues I list not prophesy; but let Time’s news Be known when ’tis brought forth. A shepherd’s daughter, And what to her adheres, which follows after, Is th’ argument of Time. Of this allow, If ever you have spent time worse ere now; If never, yet that Time himself doth say He wishes earnestly you never may.

[Exit.]

Act IV, Scene II — Bohemia. A Room in the palace of Polixenes

Enter Polixenes and Camillo.

POLIXENES. I pray thee, good Camillo, be no more importunate: ’tis a sickness denying thee anything; a death to grant this.

CAMILLO. It is fifteen years since I saw my country. Though I have for the most part been aired abroad, I desire to lay my bones there. Besides, the penitent king, my master, hath sent for me; to whose feeling sorrows I might be some allay, or I o’erween to think so,—which is another spur to my departure.

POLIXENES. As thou lov’st me, Camillo, wipe not out the rest of thy services by leaving me now: the need I have of thee, thine own goodness hath made; better not to have had thee than thus to want thee. Thou, having made me businesses which none without thee can sufficiently manage, must either stay to execute them thyself, or take away with thee the very services thou hast done, which if I have not enough considered (as too much I cannot) to be more thankful to thee shall be my study; and my profit therein the heaping friendships. Of that fatal country Sicilia, prithee speak no more; whose very naming punishes me with the remembrance of that penitent, as thou call’st him, and reconciled king, my brother; whose loss of his most precious queen and children are even now to be afresh lamented. Say to me, when sawest thou the Prince Florizel, my son? Kings are no less unhappy, their issue not being gracious, than they are in losing them when they have approved their virtues.

CAMILLO. Sir, it is three days since I saw the prince. What his happier affairs may be, are to me unknown, but I have missingly noted he is of late much retired from court, and is less frequent to his princely exercises than formerly he hath appeared.

POLIXENES. I have considered so much, Camillo, and with some care; so far that I have eyes under my service which look upon his removedness; from whom I have this intelligence, that he is seldom from the house of a most homely shepherd, a man, they say, that from very nothing, and beyond the imagination of his neighbours, is grown into an unspeakable estate.

CAMILLO. I have heard, sir, of such a man, who hath a daughter of most rare note: the report of her is extended more than can be thought to begin from such a cottage.

POLIXENES. That’s likewise part of my intelligence: but, I fear, the angle that plucks our son thither. Thou shalt accompany us to the place, where we will, not appearing what we are, have some question with the shepherd; from whose simplicity I think it not uneasy to get the cause of my son’s resort thither. Prithee, be my present partner in this business, and lay aside the thoughts of Sicilia.

CAMILLO. I willingly obey your command.

POLIXENES. My best Camillo! We must disguise ourselves.

[Exeunt.]

Act IV, Scene III — The same. A Road near the Shepherd’s cottage

Enter Autolycus, singing.

AUTOLYCUS. _When daffodils begin to peer, With, hey! the doxy over the dale, Why, then comes in the sweet o’ the year, For the red blood reigns in the winter’s pale._

_The white sheet bleaching on the hedge, With, hey! the sweet birds, O, how they sing! Doth set my pugging tooth on edge; For a quart of ale is a dish for a king._

_The lark, that tirra-lirra chants, With, hey! with, hey! the thrush and the jay, Are summer songs for me and my aunts, While we lie tumbling in the hay._

I have served Prince Florizel, and in my time wore three-pile, but now I am out of service.

_But shall I go mourn for that, my dear? The pale moon shines by night: And when I wander here and there, I then do most go right._

_If tinkers may have leave to live, And bear the sow-skin budget, Then my account I well may give And in the stocks avouch it._

My traffic is sheets; when the kite builds, look to lesser linen. My father named me Autolycus; who being, I as am, littered under Mercury, was likewise a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles. With die and drab I purchased this caparison, and my revenue is the silly cheat. Gallows and knock are too powerful on the highway. Beating and hanging are terrors to me. For the life to come, I sleep out the thought of it. A prize! a prize!

Enter Clown.

CLOWN. Let me see: every ’leven wether tods; every tod yields pound and odd shilling; fifteen hundred shorn, what comes the wool to?

AUTOLYCUS. [Aside.] If the springe hold, the cock’s mine.

CLOWN. I cannot do’t without counters. Let me see; what am I to buy for our sheep-shearing feast? “Three pound of sugar, five pound of currants, rice”—what will this sister of mine do with rice? But my father hath made her mistress of the feast, and she lays it on. She hath made me four-and-twenty nosegays for the shearers, three-man song-men all, and very good ones; but they are most of them means and basses, but one puritan amongst them, and he sings psalms to hornpipes. I must have saffron to colour the warden pies; “mace; dates”, none, that’s out of my note; “nutmegs, seven; a race or two of ginger”, but that I may beg; “four pound of prunes, and as many of raisins o’ th’ sun.”

AUTOLYCUS. [Grovelling on the ground.] O that ever I was born!

CLOWN. I’ th’ name of me!

AUTOLYCUS. O, help me, help me! Pluck but off these rags; and then, death, death!

CLOWN. Alack, poor soul! thou hast need of more rags to lay on thee, rather than have these off.

AUTOLYCUS. O sir, the loathsomeness of them offends me more than the stripes I have received, which are mighty ones and millions.

CLOWN. Alas, poor man! a million of beating may come to a great matter.

AUTOLYCUS. I am robbed, sir, and beaten; my money and apparel ta’en from me, and these detestable things put upon me.

CLOWN. What, by a horseman or a footman?

AUTOLYCUS. A footman, sweet sir, a footman.

CLOWN. Indeed, he should be a footman by the garments he has left with thee: if this be a horseman’s coat, it hath seen very hot service. Lend me thy hand, I’ll help thee: come, lend me thy hand.

[Helping him up.]

AUTOLYCUS. O, good sir, tenderly, O!

CLOWN. Alas, poor soul!

AUTOLYCUS. O, good sir, softly, good sir. I fear, sir, my shoulder blade is out.

CLOWN. How now! canst stand?

AUTOLYCUS. Softly, dear sir! [Picks his pocket.] good sir, softly. You ha’ done me a charitable office.

CLOWN. Dost lack any money? I have a little money for thee.

AUTOLYCUS. No, good sweet sir; no, I beseech you, sir: I have a kinsman not past three-quarters of a mile hence, unto whom I was going. I shall there have money or anything I want. Offer me no money, I pray you; that kills my heart.

CLOWN. What manner of fellow was he that robbed you?

AUTOLYCUS. A fellow, sir, that I have known to go about with troll-my-dames. I knew him once a servant of the prince; I cannot tell, good sir, for which of his virtues it was, but he was certainly whipped out of the court.

CLOWN. His vices, you would say; there’s no virtue whipped out of the court. They cherish it to make it stay there; and yet it will no more but abide.

AUTOLYCUS. Vices, I would say, sir. I know this man well. He hath been since an ape-bearer, then a process-server, a bailiff. Then he compassed a motion of the Prodigal Son, and married a tinker’s wife within a mile where my land and living lies; and, having flown over many knavish professions, he settled only in rogue. Some call him Autolycus.

CLOWN. Out upon him! prig, for my life, prig: he haunts wakes, fairs, and bear-baitings.

AUTOLYCUS. Very true, sir; he, sir, he; that’s the rogue that put me into this apparel.

CLOWN. Not a more cowardly rogue in all Bohemia. If you had but looked big and spit at him, he’d have run.

AUTOLYCUS. I must confess to you, sir, I am no fighter. I am false of heart that way; and that he knew, I warrant him.

CLOWN. How do you now?

AUTOLYCUS. Sweet sir, much better than I was. I can stand and walk: I will even take my leave of you and pace softly towards my kinsman’s.

CLOWN. Shall I bring thee on the way?

AUTOLYCUS. No, good-faced sir; no, sweet sir.

CLOWN. Then fare thee well. I must go buy spices for our sheep-shearing.

AUTOLYCUS. Prosper you, sweet sir!

[Exit Clown.]

Your purse is not hot enough to purchase your spice. I’ll be with you at your sheep-shearing too. If I make not this cheat bring out another, and the shearers prove sheep, let me be unrolled, and my name put in the book of virtue! [Sings.] Jog on, jog on, the footpath way, And merrily hent the stile-a: A merry heart goes all the day, Your sad tires in a mile-a.

[Exit.]