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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

       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 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 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

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