Cleomines.
The climate's delicate, the air most sweet,
^{1 note}

Dion.
^{2 note}

Of the grave wearers. O, the sacrifice—
How ceremonious, solemn, and unearthly
It was i'th' offering!

Cleo.
But of all, the burst
And the ear-deafning voice o'th' oracle,
Kin to Jove's thunder, so surpriz'd my sense,
That I was nothing.

Dion.
If th' event o'th' journey
Prove as successful to the Queen, (O be't so!)
As it hath been to us, rare, pleasant, speedy,
^{3 note}

Cleo.
Great Apollo,
Turn all to th' best! these proclamations,
So forcing faults upon Hermione,
I little like.

Dion.
The violent carriage of it
Will clear, or end the business; when the oracle,
(Thus by Apollo's great divine seal'd up,)
Shall the contents discover: something rare
Even then will rush to knowledge. Go; fresh horses:
And gracious be the issue! [Exeunt. SCENE II. Represents a Court of Justice. Leontes, Lords and Officers, appear properly seated.

Leo.
This session, (to our great grief, we pronounce,)
Ev'n pushes 'gainst our heart. The party try'd,
The daughter of a King, our wife, and one
Of us too much belov'd;—let us be clear'd
Of being tyrannous, since we so openly

Proceed in justice, which shall have due course,
Even to the guilt, or the purgation.
Produce the prisoner.—

Offi.
It is his Highness' pleasure, that the Queen
Appear in person here in court. Silence! Hermione is brought in, guarded; Paulina, and Ladies attending.

Leo.

Read the indictment.

Offi.

Hermione, Queen to the worthy Leontes, King of Sicilia, thou art here accused and arraigned of high treason, in committing adultery with Polixenes, King of Bohemia, and conspiring with Camillo to take away the life of our sovereign lord the King, thy royal husband; the pretence whereof being by circumstances partly laid open, thou, Hermione, contrary to the faith and allegiance of a true subject, didst counsel and aid them, for their better safety, to fly away by night.

Her.
Since what I am to say, must be but That
Which contradicts my accusation; and
The testimony on my part, no other
But what comes from myself; it shall scarce boot me
To say, Not guilty: mine integrity,
Being counted falshood, shall, as I express it,
Be so receiv'd. But thus, if powers divine
Behold our human actions, as they do,
I doubt not then, but innocence shall make
False accusation blush, &wlquo;and tyranny
&wlquo;Tremble at patience.&wrquo;—You, my Lord, best know,
Who least will seem to do so, my past life
Hath been as continent, as chaste, as true,
As I am now unhappy; which is more
Than history can pattern, tho' devis'd,
And play'd, to take spectators. For behold me
A fellow of the royal bed, which owe
A moiety of the throne, a great King's daughter,
The mother to a hopeful Prince, here standing

To prate and talk for life and honour, 'fore
Who please to come and hear. For life, I prize it
As I weigh grief which I would spare: for honour,
'Tis a derivative from me to mine,
And only That I stand for. I appeal
To your own conscience, Sir, before Polixenes
Came to your court, how I was in your grace,
How merited to be so; since he came,
With what encounter so uncurrent I
Have strain'd t'appear thus; if one jot beyond
The bounds of honour, or in act, or will
That way inclining, hardned be the hearts
Of all that hear me, and my near'st of kin
Cry, fie, upon my grave!

Leo.
I ne'er heard yet,
That any of those bolder vices wanted
Less impudence to gain-say what they did,
Than to perform it first.

Her.
That's true enough;
Tho' 'tis a saying, Sir, not due to me.

Leo.
You will not own it.

Her.
More than mistress of,
What comes to me in name of fault, I must not
At all acknowledge. For Polixenes,
With whom I am accus'd, I do confess,
I lov'd him, as in honour he requir'd;
With such a kind of love, as might become
A lady like me; with a love, even such,
So and no other, as your self commanded:
Which not to have done, I think, had been in me
Both disobedience and ingratitude
To you, and towards your friend; whose love had spoke,
Even since it could speak, from an infant, freely,
That it was yours. Now for Conspiracy,
I know not how it tastes, tho' it be dish'd
For me to try how; all I know of it,

Is, that Camillo was an honest man;
And why he left your Court, the Gods themselves
(Wotting no more than I,) are ignorant.

Leo.
You knew of his departure, as you know
What you have underta'en to do in's absence.

Her.
Sir,
You speak a language that I understand not;
My life stands in the level of your dreams,
Which I'll lay down.

Leo.
Your Actions are my Dreams.
You had a Bastard by Polixenes,
And I but dream'd it:—as you were past all shame,
(Those of your Fact are so) so past all truth;
Which to deny, concerns more than avails: for as
Thy brat hath been cast out, like to it self,
No father owning it, (which is, indeed,
More criminal in thee than it) so thou
Shalt feel our justice; in whose easiest passage
Look for no less than death.

Her.
Sir, spare your threats;
The bug, which you would fright me with, I seek:
To me can life be no commodity.
The crown and comfort of my life, your Favour,
I do give lost; for I do feel it gone,
But know not how it went. My second joy,
The first-fruits of my body, from his presence
I'm barr'd like one infectious. My third comfort,
(Starr'd most unluckily,) is from my breast
(The innocent milk in its most innocent mouth)
Hal'd out to murder; my self on every post
Proclaim'd a strumpet with immodest hatred;
The child-bed privilege deny'd, which 'longs
To women of all fashion: lastly, hurried
Here to this place, i'th' open air, before
I have got strength of limit. Now, my liege,
Tell me what blessings I have here alive,
That I should fear to die? therefore proceed:

But yet hear this; mistake me not; no life,—
I prize it not a straw; but for mine honour,
Which I would free, if I shall be condemn'd
Upon surmises, (all proofs sleeping else,
But what your jealousies awake,) I tell you,
'Tis Rigour, and not Law. Your Honours all,
I do refer me to the Oracle:
Apollo be my judge. SCENE III. Enter Dion and Cleomines.

Lord.
This your request
Is altogether just; therefore bring forth,
And in Apollo's name, his Oracle.

Her.
The Emperor of Russia was my father,
Oh, that he were alive, and here beholding
His daughter's tryal; that he did but see
The flatness of my misery; yet with eyes
Of Pity, not Revenge!

Offi.
You here shall swear upon the Sword of Justice,
That you, Cleomines and Dion, have
Been both at Delphos, and from thence have brought
This seal'd up Oracle, by the hand deliver'd
Of great Apollo's Priest; and that since then
You have not dar'd to break the holy Seal,
Nor read the secrets in't.

Cleo. Dion.
All this we swear.

Leo.
Break up the Seals, and read.

Offi.

Hermione is chaste, Polixenes blameless, Camillo a true Subject, Leontes a jealous Tyrant, his innocent babe truly begotten; and the King shall live without an heir, if That, which is lost, be not found.

Lords.
Now blessed be the great Apollo!

Her.
Praised!

Leo.
Hast thou read truth?

Offi.
Ay, my lord, even so as it is here set down.

Leo.
There is no truth at all i'th' Oracle;
The Session shall proceed; this is meer falshood. Enter Servant.

Ser.
My lord the King, the King,—

Leo.
What is the business?

Ser.
O Sir, I shall be hated to report it.
The Prince your son, with meer conceit and fear
Of the Queen's Speed, is gone.

Leo.
How gone?

Ser.
Is dead.

Leo.
Apollo's angry, and the heav'ns themselves
Do strike at my injustice.—How now, there? [Her. faints.

Pau.
This news is mortal to the Queen: look down,
And see what death is doing.

Leo.
Take her hence;
Her heart is but o'er-charg'd; she will recover. [Exeunt Paulina and ladies with Hermione. SCENE IV.

I have too much believ'd mine own suspicion:
'Beseech you, tenderly apply to her
Some remedies for life. Apollo, pardon
My great Prophaneness 'gainst thine Oracle!
I'll reconcile me to Polixenes,
New woo my Queen, recal the good Camillo;
(Whom I proclaim a man of Truth, of Mercy)
For being transported by my jealousies
To bloody thoughts and to revenge, I chose
Camillo for the Minister, to poison
My friend Polixenes; which had been done,
But that the good mind of Camillo tardied
My swift Command; tho' I with death, and with

Reward, did threaten, and encourage him,
Not doing it, and being done; he (most humane,
And fill'd with Honour) to my kingly Guest
Unclasp'd my practice, quit his fortunes here,
Which you knew great, and to the certain hazard
Of all incertainties himself commended,
No richer than his honour: how he glisters
Through my dark Rust! and how his Piety
Does my deeds make the blacker! SCENE V. Enter Paulina.

Pau.
Woe the while!
O, cut my lace, lest my heart, cracking it,
Break too.—

Lord.
What fit is this, good lady?

Pau.
What studied torments, Tyrant, hast for me?
What wheels? racks? fires? what slaying? boiling? burning
In leads, or oils? what old, or newer, torture
Must I receive? whose every word deserves
To taste of thy most worst. Thy Tyranny
Together working with thy Jealousies,
(Fancies too weak for boys, too green and idle
For girls of nine!) O, think, what they have done,
And then run mad, indeed; stark mad, for all
Thy by-gone fooleries were but spices of it.
That thou betray'dst Polixenes, 'twas nothing;
That did but ^{4 note}shew thee off, a fool, inconstant,
And damnable ingrateful: nor was't much,
Thou would'st have poison'd good Camillo's honour,
To have him kill a King: poor trespasses,

More monstrous standing by; whereof I reckon
The casting forth to crows thy baby-daughter,
To be, or none, or little; tho' a devil
Would have shed water out of fire, ere don't:
Nor is't directly laid to thee, the death
Of the young Prince, whose honourable thoughts
(Thoughts high for one so tender) cleft the heart,
That could conceive a gross and foolish Sire
Blemish'd his gracious Dam: this is not, no,
Laid to thy answer; but the last, O lords,
When I have said, cry, woe! the Queen, the Queen,—
The sweetest, dearest, creature's dead; and vengeance for't
Not dropt down yet.

Lord.
The higher Powers forbid!

Pau.
I say, she's dead: I'll swear't: if word, nor oath,
Prevail not, go and see: if you can bring
Tincture or lustre in her lip, her eye,
Heat outwardly, or breath within, I'll serve you
As I would do the Gods. &plquo;But, O thou tyrant!
&plquo;Do not repent these things; for they are heavier
&plquo;Than all thy woes can stir: therefore betake thee
&plquo;To nothing but Despair. A thousand knees,
&plquo;Ten thousand years together, naked, fasting,
&plquo;Upon a barren mountain, and still winter
&plquo;In storm perpetual, could not move the Gods
&plquo;To look that way thou wert.&prquo;

Leo.
Go on, go on:
Thou canst not speak too much; I have deserv'd
All tongues to talk their bitterest.

Lord.
Say no more;
Howe'er the business goes, you have made fault
I'th' boldness of your speech.

Pau.
I am sorry for't.
All faults I make, when I shall come to know them,
I do repent: alas, I've shew'd too much

The rashness of a woman; he is touch'd
To th' noble heart. What's gone, and what's past help,
Should be past grief. Do not receive affliction
At my petition, I beseech you; rather
Let me be punish'd, that have minded you
Of what you should forget. Now, good my liege,
Sir, royal Sir, forgive a foolish woman;
The love I bore your Queen—lo, fool again!—
I'll speak of her no more, nor of your children:
I'll not remember you of my own lord,
Who is lost too. Take you your patience to you,
And I'll say nothing.

Leo.
Thou didst speak but well,
When most the truth; which I receive much better
Than to be pitied of thee. Pr'ythee, bring me
To the dead bodies of my Queen and son;
One Grave shall be for both. Upon them shall
The causes of their death appear unto
Our shame perpetual; once a day I'll visit
The Chapel where they lye, and tears, shed there,
Shall be my recreation. So long as nature
Will bear up with this exercise, so long
I daily vow to use it. Come, and lead me
To these sorrows. [Exeunt. SCENE VI. Changes to Bohemia. A desart Country; the Sea at a little Distance. Enter Antigonus with a Child, and a Mariner.

Ant.
Thou art perfect then, our ship hath touch'd upon
The desarts of Bohemia?

Mar.
Ay, my lord; and fear,

We've landed in ill time: the skies look grimly,
And threaten present blusters. In my conscience,
The heav'ns with that we have in hand are angry,
And frown upon's.

Ant.
Their sacred wills be done! get thee aboard,
Look to thy bark, I'll not be long before
I call upon thee.

Mar.
Make your best haste, and go not
Too far i'th' land; 'tis like to be loud weather.
Besides, this place is famous for the creatures
Of prey, that keep upon't.

Ant.
Go thou away.
I'll follow instantly.

Mar.
I'm glad at heart
To be so rid o' th' business. [Exit.

Ant.
Come, poor babe;
I have heard, but not believ'd, the spirits of the dead
May walk again; if such thing be, thy mother
Appear'd to me last night; for ne'er was dream
So like a waking. To me comes a creature,
Sometimes her head on one side, some another,
I never saw a vessel of like sorrow
So fill'd, and so becoming; in pure white robes,
Like very sanctity, she did approach
My cabin where I lay; thrice bow'd before me,
And, gasping to begin some speech, her eyes
Became two spouts; the fury spent, anon
Did this break from her. Good Antigonus,
Since fate, against thy better disposition,
Hath made thy person for the thrower-out
Of my poor babe, according to thine oath,
Places remote enough are in Bohemia,
There weep, and leave it crying; and, for the babe
Is counted lost for ever and ever, Perdita,
I pr'ythee, call't. For this ungentle business,
Put on thee by my lord, thou ne'er shalt see
Thy wife Paulina more.—And so, with shrieks,

She melted into air. Affrighted much,
I did in time collect myself, and thought
^{5 note}This was so, and no slumber: Dreams are toys,
Yet for this once, yea, superstitiously,
I will be squar'd by this. I do believe,
Hermione hath suffer'd death; and that
Apollo would, this being indeed the issue
Of King Polixenes, it should here be laid,
Either for life or death, upon the earth
Of its right father. Blossom, speed thee well! [Laying down the child.
There lye, and there thy character: there these,
Which may, if fortune please, both breed thee, pretty one,
And still rest thine. The storm begins;—Poor wretch,
That for thy mother's fault art thus expos'd
To loss, and what may follow, (weep I cannot,
But my heart bleeds: and most accurst am I
To be by oath enjoin'd to this.) Farewel!
The day frowns more and more; thou art like to have
A lullaby too rough: I never saw
The heav'ns so dim by day. A savage clamour!
Well may I get aboard! this is the chace;
I am gone for ever. [Exit, pursued by a bear. SCENE VII. Enter an old Shepherd.

&wlquo;Shep.

&wlquo;I would there were no age between ten and three and twenty, or that youth would sleep out the rest: for there is nothing in the between but getting wenches with child, wronging the ancientry,

stealing, fighting—hark you now!—would any but these boil'd brains of nineteen, and two and twenty, hunt this weather? They have scar'd away two of my best sheep, which, I fear, the wolf will sooner find than the master; if any where I have them, 'tis by the sea-side, brouzing of ivy. Good luck, an't be thy will! what have we here? [Taking up the child.] Mercy on's, a bearne! a very pretty bearne! a boy, or a child, I wonder! a pretty one, a very pretty one; sure, some 'scape: tho' I am not bookish, yet I can read waiting-gentlewoman in the 'scape. This has been some stair-work, some trunk-work, some behind-door-work:&wrquo; they were warmer that got this, than the poor thing is here. I'll take it up for pity, yet I'll tarry 'till my son come: he hollow'd but even now; Whoa, ho-hoa!

Clo.

Hilloa, loa!—

Shep.

What, art so near? if thou'lt see a thing to talk on when thou art dead and rotten, come hither. What ail'st thou, man?

Clo.

I have seen two such sights, by sea and by land; but I am not to say, it is a sea; for it is now the sky; betwixt the firmament and it you cannot thrust a bodkin's point.

Shep.

Why, boy, how is it?

&wlquo;Clo.

&wlquo;I would, you did but see how it chases, how it rages, how it takes up the shore; but that's not to the point; oh, the most piteous cry of the poor souls, sometimes to see 'em, and not to see 'em: now the ship boring the moon with her main-mast, and anon swallow'd with yest and froth, as you'd thrust a cork into a hogshead. ^{6 note}And then for the

land-service.—to see how the bear tore out his shoulder-bone, how he cry'd to me for help, and said, his name was Antigonus, a nobleman. But to make an end of the ship, to see how the sea flap-dragon'd it. But first, how the poor souls roar'd, and the sea mock'd them. And how the poor gentleman roar'd, and the bear mock'd him; both roaring louder than the sea, or weather.&wrquo;

Shep.

'Name of mercy, when was this, boy?

Clo.

Now, now, I have not wink'd since I saw these sights; the men are not yet cold under water, nor the bear half din'd on the gentleman; he's at it now.

Shep.

'Would, I had been by to have help'd the old man.

Clo.

I would, you had been by the ship-side, to have help'd her; there your charity would have lack'd footing.—

Shep.

Heavy matters, heavy matters! but look thee here, boy. Now bless thyself; thou meet'st with things dying, I with things new-born. Here's a sight for thee; look thee, a bearing-cloth for a squire's child! look thee here; take up, take up, boy, open't; so, let's see: it was told me, I should be rich by the fairies. This is some changling: open't; what's within, boy?

Clo.

You're a mad old man; if the sins of your youth are forgiven you, you're well to live. Gold! all gold!—

Shep.

This is fairy gold, boy, and will prove so. Up with it, keep it close: home, home, the next way. We are lucky, boy; and to be so still, requires nothing but secresie. Let my sheep go: come, good boy, the next way home.

Clo.

Go you the next way with your findings, I'll go see if the Bear be gone from the gentleman; and how much he hath eaten: they are never curst but when they are hungry: if there be any of him left, I'll bury it.

Shep.

That's a good deed If thou may'st discern by that which is left of him, what he is, fetch me to th' sight of him.

Clo.

Marry, will I; and you shall help to put him i'th' ground.

Shep.

'Tis a lucky day, boy, and we'll do good deeds on't.

Time.
I, that please some, try all, both joy and terror
Of good and bad, that make and unfold error;
Now take upon me, in the name of Time,
To use my wings. Impute it not a crime
To me, or my swift passage, that I slide
O'er sixteen years, ^{7 note}

In fair Bohemia; and remember well,
I mention here a son o'th' King's whom Florizel
I now name to you; and with speed so pace
To speak of Perdita, now grown in grace
Equal with wondring. What of her ensues,
I list not prophesie. But let Time's news
Be known, when 'tis brought forth. A shepherd's daughter,
And what to her adheres, which follows after,
Is th' argument of time; of this allow,
If ever you have spent time worse ere now:
If never, yet that Time himself doth say,
He wishes earnestly, you never may. [Exit.

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