Cam. He would not stay at your petitions; made His business more material. Leon. Didst perceive it? They're here with me already: whispering, rounding, When I shall gust it last.- How came't, Camillo, Cam. At the good queen's entreaty. Leon. 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, Leon. Cam. Leon. Ay, but why? Ha? Stays here longer. Cam. To satisfy your highness, and the entreaties Leon. In that which seems so. Be it forbid, my lord! Cam. Which boxes honesty behind, restraining From course required; or else thou must be counted A servant, grafted in my serious trust, And therein negligent; or else a fool, That seest a game played home, the rich stake drawn, Cam. Sometime puts forth. In your affairs, my lord, It was my folly; if industriously I played the fool, it was my negligence, Against the non-performance, 'twas a fear 'Tis none of mine. Leon. Have not you seen, Camillo, (For, To have nor eyes, nor ears, nor thought,) then say, Before a 'Shrew my heart, a troth-plight say it, and justify it. Cam. I would not be a stander-by to hear My sovereign mistress clouded so, without My present vengeance taken. You never spoke what did become you less Than this, which to reiterate, were sin as that, though true. As deep Leon. 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. Cam. Good my lord, be cured Of this diseased opinion, and betimes; For 'tis most dangerous. Leon. Cam. No, no, my lord. I say, thou liest, Camillo, Say, it be; 'tis true. It is; you lie, you lie: Pronounce thee a gross lout, a mindless slave; Canst with thine eyes at once see good and evil, The running of one glass. Cam. Who does infect her? Leon. Why, he that wears her like his medal, hanging About his neck, Bohemia. Who-if I Had servants true about me, that bare eyes To see alike mine honor as their profits, Their own particular thrifts,-they would do that Have benched, and reared to worship; who mayst see To give mine enemy a lasting wink; Which draught to me were cordial. Cam. Sir, my lord, I could do this; and that with no rash potion, Believe this crack to be in my dread mistress, I have loved thee, Leon. Make't thy question, and go rot! Dost think I am so 'muddy, so unsettled, To appoint myself in this vexation? sully Give scandal to the blood o' the prince, my son, Cam. I must believe you, sir. Even for your son's sake; and thereby, for sealing Leon. Even Thou dost advise me, My lord, So as I mine own course have set down. Go then; and with a countenance as clear Leon. This is all; Do't, and thou hast the one half of my heart; Cam. Cam. 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 [Exit. Is the To me Here a break-neck. Happy star, reign now! Comes Bohemia. Pol. Enter POLIXENES. This is strange! Methinks My favor here begins to warp. Not speak? Good-day, Camillo. Cam. Hail, most royal sir! Pol. What is the news i'the court? Cam. None rare, my lord. Pol. The king hath on him such a countenance, So leaves me to consider what is breeding, Cam. I dare not know, my lord. dare not Do not. Do you know, and Be intelligent to me? 'Tis thereabouts; For, to yourself, what you do know, you must; Myself thus altered with it. Cam. Pol. How! caught of me? Make me not sighted like the basilisk. I have looked on thousands, who have sped the better As you are certainly a gentleman; thereto In whose success we are gentle,-I beseech you, In ignorant concealment. Cam. I may not answer. Pol. A sickness caught of me, and yet I well! I must be answered.-Dost thou hear, Camillo, I conjure thee, by all the parts of man, Which honor does acknowledge, whereof the least What incidency thou dost guess of harm Is creeping toward me; how far off, how near; If not, how best to bear it. Cam. That I think honorable. Therefore, mark my counsel; I mean to utter it; or both yourself and me Cry, lost, and so good-night. On, good Camillo. Pol. |