Thy by-gone fooleries were but spices of it.
That thou betrayedst Polixenes, 'twas nothing;
That did but show thee, of a fool, inconstant,
And damnable ungrateful: nor was 't much,
Thou wouldst have poison'd good Camillo's honor,
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; though a devil
Would have shed water out of fire, ere done 't.
Nor is 't directly laid to thee, the death
Of the young prince, whose honorable 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 ven

geance for 't

Not dropp'd down yet.

1 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.-But, O thou tyrant!
Do not repent these things; for they are heavier
Than all thy woes can stir: therefore betake thee
To nothing but despair. A thousand knees

Ten thousand years together, naked, fasting,
Upon a barren mountain, and still winter
In storm perpetual, could not move the gods
To look that way thou wert.

Go on, go on :

Leon. Thou canst not speak too much; I have deserved All tongues to talk their bitterest.

1 Lord.

Say no more; Howe'er the business goes, you have made fault

I' the boldness of your speech.

I am sorry for 't:

Pau. All faults I make, when I shall come to know them, I do repent. Alas, I have show'd too much

The rashness of a woman: he is touch'd

To the 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.

children;

The love I bore your queen,—lo, fool again!—
I'll speak of her no more, nor of your
I'll not remember you of my own lord,
Who is lost too.

Take your patience to you,

And I'll say nothing.

Leon.

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 lie; 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 III.

Bohemia. A desert country near the sea.

Enter ANTIGONUS, with the Child, and a MARINER.

Ant. Thou art perfect 1 then, our ship hath touch'd

upon

The deserts of Bohemia?

Mar

Ay,

7, my lord; and fear We have landed in ill time: the skies look grimly, And threaten present blusters. In my conscience, The heavens with that we have in hand are angry, And frown upon us.

Ant. Their sacred wills be done! - Go, get 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' the land: 'tis like to be loud weather: Besides, this place is famous for the creatures

1 Well assured.

I have heard, (but not believed) 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, 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
This was so, and no slumber. Dreams are toys: