Leo.
Nor night, nor day, no rest;—it is but weakness
To bear the matter thus; meer weakness, if
The cause were not in being—part o'th' cause,
She, the adultress—for the Harlot-King
Is quite beyond mine arm; out of the blank^{2 note}

And level of my brain; plot-proof; but she
I can hook to me: say, that she were gone,
Given to the fire, a moiety of my rest
Might come to me again. Who's there? Enter an Attendant.

Atten.
My Lord.

Leo.
How do's the boy?

Atten.
He took good rest to night; 'tis hop'd,
His sickness is discharg'd.

Leo.
To see his nobleness!
Conceiving the dishonour of his mother,
He straight declin'd, droop'd, took it deeply;
Fasten'd, and fix'd the shame on't in himself;
Threw off his spirit, his appetite, his sleep,
And down-right languish'd. Leave me solely; go, [Exit Attendant.
See how he fares.—Fy, fy, no thought of him;—
The very thought of my revenges that way
Recoil upon me; in himself too mighty,
And in his parties, his alliance—let him be,
Until a time may serve. For present vengeance,
Take it on her. Camillo and Polixenes
Laugh at me; make their pastime at my sorrow;
They should not laugh, if I could reach them; nor
Shall she, within my power.

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