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Page 4
LEONTES.
At my request he would not.
Hermione, my dearest, thou never spok'st
To better purpose.
HERMIONE.
Never?
LEONTES.
Never but once.
HERMIONE.
What! have I twice said well? when was't before?
I pr'ythee tell me; cram 's with praise, and make 's
As fat as tame things: one good deed dying tongueless
Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that.
Our praises are our wages; you may ride 's
With one soft kiss a thousand furlongs ere
With spur we heat an acre. But to the goal:--
My last good deed was to entreat his stay;
What was my first? it has an elder sister,
Or I mistake you: O, would her name were Grace!
But once before I spoke to the purpose--when?
Nay, let me have't; I long.
LEONTES.
Why, that was when
Three crabb�d months had sour'd themselves to death,
Ere I could make thee open thy white hand
And clap thyself my love; then didst thou utter
'I am yours for ever.'
HERMIONE.
It is Grace indeed.
Why, lo you now, I have spoke to the purpose twice;
The one for ever earn'd a royal husband;
Th' other for some while a friend.
[Giving her hand to POLIXENES.]
LEONTES.
[Aside.]
Too hot, too hot!
To mingle friendship far is mingling bloods.
I have _tremor cordis_ on me;--my heart dances;
But not for joy,--not joy.--This entertainment
May a free face put on; derive a liberty
From heartiness, from bounty, fertile bosom,
And well become the agent:'t may, I grant:
But to be paddling palms and pinching fingers,
As now they are; and making practis'd smiles
As in a looking-glass; and then to sigh, as 'twere
The mort o' the deer: O, that is entertainment
My bosom likes not, nor my brows,--Mamillius,
Art thou my boy?
MAMILLIUS.
Ay, my good lord.
LEONTES.
I' fecks!
Why, that's my bawcock. What! hast smutch'd thy nose?--
They say it is a copy out of mine. Come, captain,
We must be neat;--not neat, but cleanly, captain:
And yet the steer, the heifer, and the calf,
Are all call'd neat.--
[Observing POLIXENES and HERMIONE]
Still virginalling
Upon his palm?--How now, you wanton calf!
Art thou my calf?
MAMILLIUS.
Yes, if you will, my lord.
LEONTES.
Thou want'st a rough pash, and the shoots that I have,
To be full like me:--yet they say we are
Almost as like as eggs; women say so,
That will say anything: but were they false
As o'er-dy'd blacks, as wind, as waters,--false
As dice are to be wish'd by one that fixes
No bourn 'twixt his and mine; yet were it true
To say this boy were like me.--Come, sir page,
Look on me with your welkin eye: sweet villain!
Most dear'st! my collop!--Can thy dam?--may't be?
Affection! thy intention stabs the centre:
Thou dost make possible things not so held,
Communicat'st with dreams;--how can this be?--
With what's unreal thou co-active art,
And fellow'st nothing: then 'tis very credent
Thou mayst co-join with something; and thou dost,--
And that beyond commission; and I find it,--
And that to the infection of my brains
And hardening of my brows.
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