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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. Physick 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 it;

It will let in and out the enemy,

With bag and baggage: many a thousand of us
Have the disease, and feel't not.-How now, boy?
Mam. I am like you, they say.

Leon. Why, that's some comfort.-
What! Camillo there?

Cam. Ay, my good lord.

Leon. Go play, Mamillius; thou'rt an honest man.—


Camillo, this great sir will yet stay longer.

Cam. You had much ado to make his anchor hold:

When you cast out, it still came home.

Leon. Didst note it?

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,

Sicilia is a so-forth: 'Tis far gone,

When I shall gust it last.-How came't, Camillo,

That he did stay?

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

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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.
Cam. Business, my lord? I think, most understand
Bohemia stays here longer.

Leon. Ha?

Cam. Stays here longer,

Leon, Ay, but why?

Cam. To satisfy your highness, and the entreaties Of our most gracious mistress.

Leon. 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 cleans'd my bosom; I from thee departed
Thy penitent reform'd: but we have been
Deceiv'd in thy integrity, deceiv'd

In that which seems so.

Cam. Be it forbid, my lord!

Leon. To bide upon't;-Thou art not honest: or, If thou inclin'st that way, thou art a coward;

Which hoxes honesty behind, restraining

From course requir'd: Or else thou must be counted

A servant, grafted in my serious trust,

And therein negligent; or else a fool,

That seest a game play'd home, the rich stake drawn, And tak'st it all for jest.

Cam. 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,
Amongst 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,
Whereof the execution did cry out
Against the non-performance, 'twas a fear
Which oft affects 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.

Leon. Have 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 it,)
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 hobbyhorse; deserves a name
As rank as any flax-wench, that puts to
Before her 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: 'Shrew my heart,
You never spoke what did become you less
Than this; which to reiterate, were sin
As deep as that, though true.

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 cur'd

Of this diseas'd opinion, and betimes;

For 'tis most dangerous.

Leon. Say, it be; 'tis true.

Cam. No, no, my lord.

Leon. 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.

Cam. Who does infect her?

Leon. 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 cup-bearer,-whom I from meaner form
Have bench'd, and rear'd to worship; who may'st see
Plainly, as heaven sees earth, and earth sees heaven,
How I am galled,-might'st bespice a cup,

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,
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 lov'd thee,

Leon. Make't 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?

Cam. I must believe you, sir;

I do; and will fetch off Bohemia for't:

Provided, that, when he's remov'd, your highness

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