Shakespeare - First Folio facsimile (1910)/The Winters Tale/Act 1 Scene 2

Scœna Secunda.


Enter Leontes, Hermione, Mamillius, Polixenes, Camillo.
Pol. Nine Changes of the Watry-Starre hath beenThe Shepheards Note, since we haue left our ThroneWithout a Burthen: Time as long againeWould be fill'd vp (my Brother) with our Thanks,And yet we should, for perpetuitie,Goe hence in debt: And therefore, like a Cypher(Yet standing in rich place) I multiplyWith one we thanke you, many thousands moe,That goe before it.
Leo. Stay your Thanks a while,And pay them when you part.
Pol. Sir, that's to morrow:I am question'd by my feares, of what may chance,Or breed vpon our absence, that may blowNo sneaping Winds at home, to make vs say,This is put forth too truly: besides, I haue stay'dTo tyre your Royaltie.
Leo. We are tougher (Brother)Then you can put vs to't.
Pol. No longer stay.
Leo. One Seue' night longer.
Pol. Very sooth, to morrow.
Leo. Wee'le part the time betweene's then: and in thatIle no gaine-saying.
Pol. Presse me not ('beseech you) so:There is no Tongue that moues; none, none i'th' WorldSo soone as yours, could win me: so it should now,Were there necessitie in your request, although'Twere needfull I deny'd it. My AffairesDoe euen drag me home-ward: which to hinder,Were (in your Loue) a Whip to me; my stay,To you a Charge, and Trouble: to saue both,Farewell (our Brother.)
Leo. Tongue-ty'd our Queene? speake you.
Her. I had thought (Sir) to haue held my peace, vntillYou had drawne Oathes from him, not to stay: you (Sir)Charge him too coldly. Tell him, you are sureAll in Bohemia's well: this satisfaction,The by-gone-day proclaym'd, say this to him,He's beat from his best ward.
Leo. Well said, Hermione.
Her. To tell, he longs to see his Sonne, were strong:But let him say so then, and let him goe;But let him sweare so, and he shall not stay,Wee'l thwack him hence with Distaffes.Yet of your Royall presence, Ile aduentureThe borrow of a Weeke. When at BohemiaYou take my Lord, Ile giue him my Commission,To let him there a Moneth, behind the GestPrefix'd for's parting: yet (good-deed) Leontes,I loue thee not a Iarre o'th' Clock, behind What Lady she her Lord. You'le stay?
Pol. No, Madame.
Her. Nay, but you will?
Pol. I may not verely.
Her. Verely?You put me off with limber Vowes: but I,Though you would seek t' vnsphere the Stars with Oaths,Should yet say, Sir, no going: VerelyYou shall not goe; a Ladyes Verely 'isAs potent as a Lords. Will you goe yet?Force me to keepe you as a Prisoner,Not like a Guest: so you shall pay your FeesWhen you depart, and saue your Thanks. How say you?My Prisoner? or my Guest? by your dread Verely,One of them you shall be.
Pol. Your Guest then, Madame:To be your Prisoner, should import offending;Which is for me, lesse easie to commit,Then you to punish.
Her. Not your Gaoler then,But your kind Hostesse. Come, Ile question youOf my Lords Tricks, and yours, when you were Boyes:You were pretty Lordings then?
Pol. We were (faire Queene)Two Lads, that thought there was no more behind,But such a day to morrow, as to day,And to be Boy eternall.
Her. Was not my LordThe veryer Wag o'th' two?
Pol. We were as twyn'd Lambs, that did frisk i'th' Sun,And bleat the one at th' other: what we chang'd,Was Innocence, for Innocence: we knew notThe Doctrine of ill-doing, nor dream'dThat any did: Had we pursu'd that life,And our weake Spirits ne're been higher rear'dWith stronger blood, we should haue answer'd HeauenBoldly, not guilty; the Imposition clear'd,Hereditarie ours.
Her. By this we gatherYou haue tript since.
Pol. O my most sacred Lady,Temptations haue since then been borne to's: forIn those vnfledg'd dayes, was my Wife a Girle;Your precious selfe had then not cross'd the eyesOf my young Play-fellow.
Her. Grace to boot:Of this make no conclusion, least you sayYour Queene and I are Deuils: yet goe on,Th' offences we haue made you doe, wee'le answere,If you first sinn'd with vs: and that with vsYou did continue fault; and that you slipt notWith any, but with vs.
Leo. Is he woon yet?
Her. Hee'le stay (my Lord.)
Leo. At my request, he would not:Hermione (my dearest) thou neuer spoak'stTo better purpose.
Her. Neuer?
Leo. Neuer, but once.
Her. What? haue I twice said well? when was't before?I prethee tell me: cram's with prayse, and make'sAs fat as tame things: One good deed, dying tonguelesse,Slaughters a thousand, wayting vpon that.Our prayses are our Wages. You may ride'sWith one soft Kisse a thousand Furlongs, ereWith Spur we heat an Acre. But to th' Goale:My last good deed, was to entreat his stay.What was my first? it ha's an elder Sister,Or I mistake you: O, would her Name were Grace.But once before I spoke to th' purpose? when?Nay, let me haue't: I long.
Leo. Why, that was whenThree crabbed Moneths had sowr'd themselues to death,Ere I could make thee open thy white Hand:A clap thy selfe, my Loue; then didst thou vtter,I am yours for euer.
Her. 'Tis Grace indeed.Why lo-you now; I haue spoke to th' purpose twice:The one, for euer earn'd a Royall Husband;Th' other, for some while a Friend.
Leo. Too hot, too hot:To mingle friendship farre, is mingling bloods.I haue Tremor Cordis on me: my heart daunces,But not for ioy; not ioy. This EntertainmentMay a free face put on: deriue a LibertieFrom Heartinesse, from Bountie, fertile Bosome,And well become the Agent: 't may; I graunt:But to be padling Palmes, and pinching Fingers,As now they are, and making practis'd SmilesAs in a Looking-Glasse; and then to sigh, as 'twereThe Mort o'th' Deere: oh, that is entertainmentMy Bosome likes not, nor my Browes. Mamillius,Art thou my Boy?
Mam. I, my good Lord.
Leo. I'fecks:Why that's my Bawcock: what? has't smutch'd thy Nose?They say it is a Coppy out of mine. Come Captaine,We must be neat; not neat, but cleanly, Captaine:And yet the Steere, the Heycfer, and the Calfe,Are all call'd Neat. Still VirginallingVpon his Palme? How now (you wanton Calfe)Art thou my Calfe?
Mam. Yes, if you will (my Lord.)
Leo. Thou want'st a rough pash, & the shoots that I haueTo be full, like me: yet they say we areAlmost as like as Egges; Women say so,(That will say any thing.) But were they falseAs o're-dy'd Blacks, as Wind, as Waters; falseAs Dice are to be wish'd, by one that fixesNo borne 'twixt his and mine; yet were it true,To say this Boy were like me. Come (Sir Page)Looke on me with your Welkin eye: sweet Villaine,Most dear'st, my Collop: Can thy Dam, may't beAffection? thy Intention stabs the Center.Thou do'st make possible things not so held,Communicat'st with Dreames (how can this be?)With what's vnreall: thou coactiue art,And fellow'st nothing. Then 'tis very credent,Thou may'st co-ioyne with something, and thou do'st,(And that beyond Commission) and I find it,(And that to the infection of my Braines,And hardning of my Browes.)
Pol. What meanes Sicilia?
Her. He something seemes vnsetled.
Pol. How? my Lord?
Leo. What cheere? how is't with you, best Brother?
Her. You look as if you held a Brow of much distraction:Are you mou'd (my Lord?)
Leo. No, in good earnest.How sometimes Nature will betray it's folly?It's tendernesse? and make it selfe a PastimeTo harder bosomes? Looking on the Lynes Of my Boyes face, me thoughts I did requoyleTwentie three yeeres, and saw my selfe vn-breech'd,In my greene Veluet Coat; my Dagger muzzel'd,Least it should bite it's Master, and so proue(As Ornaments oft do's) too dangerous:How like (me thought) I then was to this Kernell,This Squash, this Gentleman. Mine honest Friend,Will you take Egges for Money?
Mam. No (my Lord) Ile fight.
Leo. You will: why happy man be's dole. My BrotherAre you so fond of your young Prince, as weDoe seeme to be of ours?
Pol. If at home (Sir)He's all my Exercise, my Mirth, my Matter;Now my sworne Friend, and then mine Enemy;My Parasite, my Souldier: States-man; all:He makes a Iulyes day, short as December,And with his varying child-nesse, cures in meThoughts, that would thick my blood.
Leo. So stands this SquireOffic'd with me: We two will walke (my Lord)And leaue you to your grauer steps. Hermione,How thou lou'st vs, shew in our Brothers welcome;Let what is deare in Sicily, be cheape:Next to thy selfe, and my young Rouer, he'sApparant to my heart.
Her. If you would seeke vs,We are yours i'th' Garden: shall's attend you there?
Leo. To your owne bents dispose you: you'le be found,Be you beneath the Sky: I am angling now,(Though you perceiue me not how I giue Lyne)Goe too, goe too.How she holds vp the Neb? the Byll to him?And armes her with the boldnesse of a WifeTo her allowing Husband. Gone already,Ynch-thick, knee-deepe; ore head and eares a fork'd one.Goe play (Boy) play: thy Mother playes, and IPlay too; but so disgrac'd a part, whose issueWill hisse me to my Graue: Contempt and ClamorWill be my Knell. Goe play (Boy) play, there haue been(Or I am much deceiu'd) Cuckolds ere now,And many a man there is (euen at this present,Now, while I speake this) holds his Wife by th' Arme,That little thinkes she ha's been sluyc'd in's absence,And his Pond fish'd by his next Neighbor (bySir Smile, his Neighbor:) nay, there's comfort in't,Whiles other men haue Gates, and those Gates open'd(As mine) against their will. Should all despaireThat haue reuolted Wiues, the tenth of MankindWould hang themselues. Physick for't, there's none:It is a bawdy Planet, that will strikeWhere 'tis predominant; and 'tis powrefull: thinke 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'sHaue the Disease, and feele't not. How now Boy?
Mam. I am like you say.
Leo. Why, that's some comfort.What? Camillo there?
Cam. I, my good Lord.
Leo. Goe play (Mamillius) thou'rt an honest man:Camillo, this great Sir will yet stay longer.
Cam. You had much adoe to make his Anchor hold,When you cast out, it still came home.
Leo. Didst note it?
Cam. He would not stay at your Petitions, madeHis Businesse more materiall.
Leo. Didst perceiue it?They're here with me already; whisp'ring, rounding:Sicilia is a so-forth: 'tis farre gone,When I shall gust it last. How cam't (Camillo)That he did stay?
Cam. At the good Queenes entreatie.
Leo. At the Queenes be't: Good should be pertinent,But so it is, it is not. Was this takenBy any vnderstanding Pate but thine?For thy Conceit is soaking, will draw inMore then the common Blocks. Not noted, is't,But of the finer Natures? by some SeuerallsOf Head-peece extraordinarie? Lower MessesPerchance are to this Businesse purblind? say.
Cam. Businesse, my Lord? I thinke most vnderstandBohemia stayes here longer.
Leo. Ha?
Cam. Stayes here longer.
Leo. I, but why?
Cam. To satisfie your Highnesse, and the EntreatiesOf our most gracious Mistresse.
Leo. Satisfie?Th' entreaties of your Mistresse? Satisfie?Let that suffice. I haue trusted thee (Camillo)With all the neerest things to my heart, as wellMy Chamber-Councels, wherein (Priest-like) thouHast cleans'd my Bosome: I, from thee departedThy Penitent reform'd: but we haue beenDeceiu'd in thy Integritie, deceiu'dIn that which seemes so.
Cam. Be it forbid (my Lord.)
Leo. To bide vpon't: thou art not honest: orIf thou inclin'st that way, thou art a Coward,Which hoxes honestie behind, restrayningFrom Course requir'd: or else thou must be countedA Seruant, grafted in my serious Trust,And therein negligent: or else a Foole,That seest a Game play'd home, the rich Stake drawne,And tak'st it all for ieast.
Cam. My gracious Lord,I may be negligent, foolish, and fearefull,In euery one of these, no man is free,But that his negligence, his folly, feare,Among the infinite doings of the World,Sometime puts forth in your affaires (my Lord.)If euer I were wilfull-negligent,It was my folly: if industriouslyI play'd the Foole, it was my negligence,Not weighing well the end: if euer fearefullTo doe a thing, where I the issue doubted,Whereof the execution did cry outAgainst the non-performance, 'twas a feareWhich oft infects the wisest: these (my Lord)Are such allow'd Infirmities, that honestieIs neuer free of. But beseech your GraceBe plainer with me, let me know my TrespasBy it's owne visage; if I then deny it,'Tis none of mine.
Leo. Ha' not you seene Camillo?(But that's past doubt: you haue, or your eye-glasseIs thicker then a Cuckolds Horne) or heard?(For to a Vision so apparant, RumorCannot be mute) or thought? (for CogitationResides not in that man, that do's not thinke) My Wife is slipperie? If thou wilt confesse,Or else be impudently negatiue,To haue nor Eyes, nor Eares, nor Thought, then sayMy Wife's a Holy-Horse, deserues a NameAs ranke as any Flax-Wench, that puts toBefore her troth-plight: say't, and iustify't.
Cam. I would not be a stander-by, to heareMy Soueraigne Mistresse clouded so, withoutMy present vengeance taken: 'shrew my heart,You neuer spoke what did become you lesseThen this; which to reiterate, were sinAs deepe as that, though true.
Leo. Is whispering nothing?Is leaning Cheeke to Cheeke? is meating Noses?Kissing with in-side Lip? stopping the CariereOf Laughter, with a sigh? (a Note infallibleOf breaking Honestie) horsing foot on foot?Skulking in corners? wishing Clocks more swift?Houres, Minutes? Noone, Mid-night? and all EyesBlind with the Pin and Web, but theirs; theirs onely,That would vnseene be wicked? Is this nothing?Why then the World, and all that's in't, is nothing,The couering Skie is nothing, Bohemia nothing,My Wife is nothing, nor Nothing haue these Nothings,If this be nothing.
Cam. Good my Lord, be cur'dOf this diseas'd Opinion, and betimes,For 'tis most dangerous.
Leo. Say it be, 'tis true.
Cam. No, no, my Lord.
Leo. It is: you lye, you lye:I say thou lyest Camillo, and I hate thee,Pronounce thee a grosse Lowt, a mindlesse Slaue,Or else a houering Temporizer, thatCanst with thine eyes at once see good and euill,Inclining to them both: were my Wiues LiuerInfected (as her life) she would not liueThe running of one Glasse.
Cam. Who do's infect her?
Leo. Why he that weares her like her Medull, hangingAbout his neck (Bohemia) who, if IHad Seruants true about me, that bare eyesTo see alike mine Honor, as their Profits,(Their owne particular Thrifts) they would doe thatWhich should vndoe more doing: I, and thouHis Cup-bearer, whom I from meaner formeHaue Bench'd, and rear'd to Worship, who may'st seePlainely, as Heauen sees Earth, and Earth sees Heauen,How I am gall'd, might'st be-spice a Cup,To giue mine Enemy a lasting Winke:Which Draught to me, were cordiall.
Cam. Sir (my Lord)I could doe this, and that with no rash Potion,But with a lingring Dram, that should not workeMaliciously, like Poyson: But I cannotBeleeue this Crack to be in my dread Mistresse(So soueraignely being Honorable.)I haue lou'd thee,
Leo. Make that thy question, and goe rot:Do'st thinke I am so muddy, so vnsetled,To appoint my selfe in this vexation?Sully the puritie and whitenesse of my Sheetes(Which to preserue, is Sleepe; which being spotted,Is Goades, Thornes, Nettles, Tayles of Waspes)Giue scandall to the blood o'th' Prince, my Sonne,(Who I doe thinke is mine, and loue as mine)Without ripe mouing to't? Would I doe this?Could man so blench?
Cam. I must beleeue you (Sir)I doe, and will fetch off Bohemia for't:Prouided, that when hee's remou'd, your HighnesseWill take againe your Queene, as yours at first,Euen for your Sonnes sake, and thereby for sealingThe Iniurie of Tongues, in Courts and KingdomesKnowne, and ally'd to yours.
Leo. Thou do'st aduise me,Euen so as I mine owne course haue set downe:Ile giue no blemish to her Honor, none.
Cam. My Lord,Goe then; and with a countenance as cleareAs Friendship weares at Feasts, keepe with Bohemia,And with your Queene: I am his Cup-bearer,If from me he haue wholesome Beueridge,Account me not your Seruant.
Leo. This is all:Do't, and thou hast the one halfe of my heart;Do't not, thou splitt'st thine owne.
Cam. Ile do't, my Lord.
Leo. Exit.I wil seeme friendly, as thou hast aduis'd me.
Cam.O miserable Lady. But for me,What case stand I in? I must be the poysonerOf good Polixenes, and my ground to do't,Is the obedience to a Master; one,Who in Rebellion with himselfe, will haueAll that are his, so too. To doe this deed,Promotion followes: If I could find exampleOf thousand's that had struck anoynted Kings,And flourish'd after, Il'd not do't: But sinceNor Brasse, nor Stone, nor Parchment beares not one,Let Villanie it selfe forswear't. I mustForsake the Court: to do't, or no, is certaineTo me a breake-neck. Happy Starre raigne now,Here comes Bohemia.
Enter Polixenes.
Pol. This is strange: Me thinkesMy fauor here begins to warpe. Not speake?Good day Camillo.
Cam. Hayle most Royall Sir.
Pol. What is the Newes i'th' Court?
Cam. None rare (my Lord.)
Pol. The King hath on him such a countenance,As he had lost some Prouince, and a RegionLou'd, as he loues himselfe: euen now I met himWith customarie complement, when heeWafting his eyes to th' contrary, and fallingA Lippe of much contempt, speedes from me, andSo leaues me, to consider what is breeding,That changes thus his Manners.
Cam. I dare not know (my Lord.)
Pol. How, dare not? doe not? doe you know, and dare not?Be intelligent to me, 'tis thereabouts:For to your selfe, what you doe know, you must,And cannot say, you dare not. Good Camillo,Your chang'd complexions are to me a Mirror,Which shewes me mine chang'd too: for I must beA partie in this alteration, findingMy selfe thus alter'd with't.
Cam. There is a sicknesseWhich puts some of vs in distemper, butI cannot name the Disease, and it is caughtOf you, that yet are well.
Pol. How caught of me?Make me not sighted like the Basilisque. I haue look'd on thousands, who haue sped the betterBy my regard, but kill'd none so: Camillo,As you are certainely a Gentleman, theretoClerke-like experienc'd, which no lesse adornesOur Gentry, then our Parents Noble Names,In whose successe we are gentle: I beseech you,If you know ought which do's behoue my knowledge,Thereof to be inform'd, imprison't notIn ignorant concealement.
Cam. I may not answere.
Pol. A Sicknesse caught of me, and yet I well?I must be answer'd. Do'st thou heare Camillo,I coniure thee, by all the parts of man,Which Honor do's acknowledge, whereof the leastIs not this Suit of mine, that thou declareWhat incidencie thou do'st ghesse of harmeIs creeping toward me; how farre off, how neere,Which way to be preuented, if to be:If not, how best to beare it.
Cam. Sir, I will tell you,Since I am charg'd in Honor, and by himThat I thinke Honorable: therefore marke my counsaile,Which must be eu'n as swiftly followed, asI meane to vtter it; or both your selfe, and me,Cry lost, and so good night.
Pol. On, good Camillo.
Cam. I am appointed him to murther you.
Pol. By whom, Camillo?
Cam. By the King.
Pol. For what?
Cam. He thinkes, nay with all confidence he sweares,As he had seen't, or beene an InstrumentTo vice you to't, that you haue toucht his QueeneForbiddenly.
Pol. Oh then, my best blood turneTo an infected Gelly, and my NameBe yoak'd with his, that did betray the Best:Turne then my freshest Reputation toA sauour, that may strike the dullest NosthrillWhere I arriue, and my approch be shun'd,Nay hated too, worse then the great'st InfectionThat ere was heard, or read.
Cam. Sweare his thought ouerBy each particular Starre in Heauen, andBy all their Influences; you may as wellForbid the Sea for to obey the Moone,As (or by Oath) remoue, or (Counsaile) shakeThe Fabrick of his Folly, whose foundationIs pyl'd vpon his Faith, and will continueThe standing of his Body.
Pol. How should this grow?
Cam. I know not: but I am sure 'tis safer toAuoid what's growne, then question how 'tis borne.If therefore you dare trust my honestie,That lyes enclosed in this Trunke, which youShall beare along impawnd, away to Night,Your Followers I will whisper to the Businesse,And will by twoes, and threes, at seuerall Posternes,Cleare them o'th' Citie: For my selfe, Ile putMy fortunes to your seruice (which are hereBy this discouerie lost.) Be not vncertaine,For by the honor of my Parents, IHaue vttred Truth: which if you seeke to proue,I dare not stand by; nor shall you be safer,Then one condemnd by the Kings owne mouth:Thereon his Execution sworne.
Pol. I doe beleeue thee:I saw his heart in's face. Giue me thy hand,Be Pilot to me, and thy places shallStill neighbour mine. My Ships are ready, andMy people did expect my hence departureTwo dayes agoe. This IealousieIs for a precious Creature: as shee's rare,Must it be great; and, as his Person's mightie,Must it be violent: and, as he do's conceiue,He is dishonor'd by a man, which euerProfess'd to him: why his Reuenges mustIn that be made more bitter. Feare ore-shades me:Good Expedition be my friend, and comfortThe gracious Queene, part of his Theame; but nothingOf his ill-ta'ne suspition. Come Camillo,I will respect thee as a Father, ifThou bear'st my life off, hence: Let vs auoid.
Cam. It is in mine authoritie to commandThe Keyes of all the Posternes: Please your HighnesseExeunt.To take the vrgent houre. Come Sir, away.