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