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 played 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 allowed 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 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 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 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 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 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’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 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 splitt’st thine own.

CAMILLO