Complete Plays, The Read online

  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-dyed 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,

  Communicatest with dreams;— how can this be?—

  With what’s unreal thou coactive 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 moved, 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

  Officed with me: we two will walk, my lord,

  And leave you to your graver steps. Hermione,

  How thou lovest 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 disgraced 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 deceived, cuckolds ere now;

  And many a man there is, even at this present,

  Now while I speak this, holds his wife by the arm,

  That little thinks she has been sluiced 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 have revolted wives, the tenth of mankind

  Would hang themselves. Physic for’t there is 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 on’s

  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, whispering, 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!

  The 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-councils, wherein, priest-like, thou

  Hast cleansed my bosom, I from thee departed

  Thy penitent reform’d: but we have been

  Deceived in thy integrity, deceived

  In that which seems so.

  Camillo

  Be it forbid, my lord!

  Leontes

  To bide upon’t, thou art not honest, or,

  If thou inclinest that way, thou art a coward,

  Which hoxes honesty behind, restraining

  From course required; or else thou must be counted

  A servant gra
fted in my serious trust

  And therein negligent; or else a fool

  That seest a game play’d home, the rich stake drawn,

  And takest 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,

  Where of 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 laughing 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 cured

  Of this diseased 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 a 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 benched and reared 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 lingering 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 loved 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 removed, 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 split’st thine own.

  Camillo

  I’ll do’t, my lord.

  Leontes

  I will seem friendly, as thou hast advised 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’ld not do’t; but since

  Nor brass nor stone nor parchment bears not one,

  Let villany 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.

  Re-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

  Loved 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 changeth 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 changed complexions are to me a mirror

  Which shows me mine changed 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 experienced, 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 charged in honour and by him

  That I think honourable: therefore mark my counsel,

  Which must be even as swiftly follow’d as

  I mean to utter it, or both yourself and me

  Cry lost, and so good night!

  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 yoked 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,