CAMILLO.
'Tis now full sixteen years, that I have been
An outcast, banish'd man; and though I've found,
Thro' your good grace, a home more hospitable
Here in Bithynia, still I'd wish to lay
My wearied bones within the bosom of
My mother-earth, Sicilia.

King.
I prithee, good Camillo, don't request it;
You still shall tarry here to share our love.

Cam.
Ah! my good lord, Leontes
Hath long repented of his tyrant deeds,
Which, thro' ill-grounded jealousy, defam'd
His virtuous queen, and gave his little babe
(Most truly his) a prey to rav'ning wolves.

King.
Unhappy man!

Cam.
But see the vengeance of the gods! Antigonus,
Who undertook t'expose the harmless infant,
Most justly perish'd with it.—Now the king,
Too late convinc'd, and childless in his age,
Retires, in cloister'd solitude to waste
The weary remnant of his life in tears;

And wills me come to share the toils of state,
For him too much, already sunk with woe.

King.
But, as thou lov'st me, do not leave me now,
When most we need thy friendship; for thou know'st
How much prince Forizel, my son, afflicts me
With the strange courses he of late hath follow'd.
We oft have wonder'd whence arose the change
So visible in thoughts, words, looks, and actions;
Whence blew the sighs, like mildew blasts, to fade
The roses Hebe shed upon his cheek;
Whence came that irksomeness of ev'ry joy
Our court affords, and ev'ry beauty there;
Whence, for whole weeks, wou'd he withdraw himself.
Sequester'd, unattended, from the ken
Of ev'ry curious eye; whence that he shut
Out ev'ry friend, that once lodg'd in his heart,
Lest he shou'd know the secret brooding there.

Cam.
I oft have thought it strange.

King.
But little thinks he
That kings have eyes, piercing as those of Lynxe..
His ways are now no longer secret to me;
I've hunted him through all his darkest haunts,
Till, in his kennel, I have earth'd the cub,
Degen'rate boy! to mingle with the mud.

Cam.
What means my lord?

King.
My good Camillo, trust me,
I've had intelligence, the time he steals
From us, from study, and from manly feats,
And exercise of arms, is buried all
Beneath an aged shepherd's sordid roof,
Whose bleating flocks spread o'er that beauteous vale
That winds along the river's side. A stranger,
Here settled in Bithynia some few years,
Who yet, beyond th' imagination 'rose
Of all his neighbours, yea from very nothing,
To large possessions, and unnumber'd flocks.

Cam.
I've heard of such a man, who hath a daughter
Of note most rare, beyond her low estate.

King.
Ay, that's the angle plucks him to his ruin.
Fool! to be caught with such a paltry bait!
A woman's bait!—I could have patience with him,
Meant he to sport it with the am'rous wench,
And had he thriv'd, and, from the wholesome theft,
Had bred a mungril hardy as a mule,
I cou'd have kiss'd the sturdy bastard boy,

As he trudg'd barefoot o'er the mountain's brow;
Or smil'd to see his princely sire break forth,
In lording it above the village brats,—
But, O Camillo! where shall I find patience?—
Thou'lt not believe me, shou'd I swear it true—
My son, prince Florizel, Bithynia's hopes,
My kingdom's heir, this very day intends
To wed the daughter of that base-born clown.

Cam.
It is impossible,
A prince to wed a peasant!

King.
'Tis most certain.
But, to confound him past all contradiction,
We mean, at once, to prove and to prevent it.
To-day old Alcon (that's her father's name)
Holds an accustom'd rite, sacred to Pan,
The god of flocks; it is their shearers feast,
At which he means to solemnize the nuptials
With rural pomp, and pastoral festivity.
But I shall disconcert them, I'll thither,
And thou, Camillo, shalt attend me too,
Disguis'd like strangers chance had summon'd there.

Cam.
You may dispose me as your grace shall list.
Yet still, I think, the prince, in your report,
Is much abus'd.—I can not think it true.

King.
I'll think as thou, till I have prov'd the fact. [Exeunt.

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