The Winters Tale | Page 7

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 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' 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?
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' the 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; So
leaves me to consider what is breeding That