• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

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 wilfull-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 infects 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 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 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 gall'd- 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