The Winters Tale | Page 5

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

pr'ythee 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 the 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. It is Grace indeed. Why, lo you now, I have spoke to the
purpose twice; The one for ever earn'd a royal husband; Th' other for
some while a friend.
[Giving her hand to POLIXENES.]
LEONTES. Too hot, too hot! [Aside.] 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' the 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 [Observing POL. and
HER.] 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 co-active art, And fellow'st nothing: then 'tis very credent Thou
mayst 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.