lord,

In every one of these no man is free,
But that his negligence, his folly, fear,
Amongst the infinite doings of the world,
Sometime puts forth. In your affairs, my
If ever I were wilful negligent,
It was my folly; if induftriously
I play'd the fool, it was my negligence,
Not weighing well the end; if ever fearful
To do a thing, where I the iffue doubted,
Whereof the execution did cry out
Against the non-performance, 'twas a fear
Which oft infects the wifeft: these, my lord,
Are fuch allow'd infirmities, that honefty
Is never free of. But, 'befeech your Grace,
Be plainer with me, let me know my trespass
By its own vifage; if I then deny it,
'Tis none of mine.

Leo. Ha'not you feen, Camillo,

(But that's paft doubt, you have; or your eye-glafs
Is thicker than a cuckold's horn ;) or heard,
(For to a vifion fo apparent, rumour

Cannot be mute ;) or thought, (for cogitation
Refides not in that man, that do's not think it ;)
My wife is flippery? if thou wilt, confess;
(Or else be impudently negative,

To have nor eyes nor ears; nor thought,) then say,
My wife's a hobby-horse, deserves a name
As rank as any flax-wench, that puts to
Before her troth-plight: fay't, and juftify't.
Cam. I would not be a stander-by, to hear
My fovereign Mistress clouded fo, without

Sometimes puts forth in your Affairs, my Lord.] Most accurate Pointing This, and fine Nonfenfe the Refult of it! The old Folio's firft blunder'd thus, and Mr. Rowe by Inadvertence (if he read the Sheets at all,) overlook'd the Fault. Mr. Pope, like a moft obfequious Editor, has taken the Paffage on Content, and pursued the Track of Stupidity. I dare fay, every understanding Reader will allow, my Reformation of the Pointing has entirely retriev'd the Place from Obfcurity, and reconcil'd it to the Author's Meaning.

My

My prefent vengeance taken; 'fhrew my heart,
You never fpoke what did become you lefs
Than this; which to reiterate, were fin
As deep as that, tho' true.

Leo. Is whispering nothing?

Is leaning cheek to cheek? is meating noses ?
Kiffing with infide lip? ftopping the career
Of laughter with a figh? (a note infallible
Of breaking honefty:) horfing foot on foot?
Skulking in corners? wifhing clocks more swift?
Hours, minutes? the noon, midnight, and all eyes
Blind with the pin and web, but theirs; theirs only,
That would, unfeen, be wicked? is this nothing?
Why, then the world, and all that's in't, is nothing;
The covering sky is nothing, Bohemia nothing;
My wife is nothing; nor nothing have these nothings,
If this be nothing.

Cam.

Good my lord, be cur'd

Of this difeas'd Opinion,. and betimes;
For 'tis most dangerous..

Leo. Say it be, 'tis true.

Cam. No, no, my lord.

Leo. It is you lie, you lie:

I fay, thou lieft, Camillo, and I hate thee;
Pronounce thee a grofs lowt, a mindless slave,

Or elfe a hovering temporizer, that

Canft with thine eyes at once fee good and evil,.
Inclining to them both were my wife's liver
Infected, as her life, fhe would not live

The running of one glass.

Cam. Who do's infect her ?

Leo. Why he, that wears her like his medal, hanging

About his neck; Bohemia,—who, if I

Had fervants true about me, that bare eyes
To fee alike mine honour, as their profits,
Their own particular thrifts, they would do That
Which fhould undo more Doing: I, and thou
His cup-bearer, (whom I from meaner forme
Have bench'd, and rear'd to worship; who may'ft fee
Plainly, as heav'n fees earth, and earth fees heav'n,

How

How I am gall'd ;) thou might'ft be-fpice a cup,
To give mine enemy a lafting wink;
Which draught to me were cordial.
Cam. Sir, my lord,

I could do this, and that with no rash potion,
But with a lingring dram, that should not work,
Maliciously, like poifon: but I cannot (4)
Believe this crack to be in my dread mistress,
So fovereignly being honourable.

Leo. I've lov'd thee..

go rot:

-Make't thy Question, and

Do'ft think, I am fo muddy, fo unfettled,
To appoint my felf in this vexation? Sully
The purity and whitenefs of my sheets,
(Which to preserve, is fleep; which being spotted,
Is goads, thorns, nettles, tails of wafps :)
Give fcandal to the blood o'th' Prince, my fon,
Who, I do think, is mine, and love as mine,
Without ripe moving to't? would I do this?
Could man fo blench?

(4)

but I cannot

Believe this Crack to be in my dread Miftrefs,
So fovereignly being honourable.

I have lov'd thee:

Leo. Make that thy Question and go rot.] This paffage wants very little weighing, to determine fafely upon it, that the laft Hemiftich affign'd to Camillo, must have been mistakenly placed to him. It is a strange Inftance of Difrefpe&t and Infolence in Camillo to his King and Mafter, to tell him that He has once lov'd him.-But Senfe and Reason will eafily acquit our Poet from fuch an Impropriety. I have ventur'd at a Tranfpofition, which seems self-evident. Camillo will not be perfuaded into a Sufpicion of the Difloyalty imputed to his Mitrefs. The King, who believes Nothing but his Jealousy, provok'd that Camillo is so obftinately diffident, finely ftarts into a Rage and cries;

I've lov'd thee.

tender'd thee well,

Make't thy Question, and go rot. i. e. I have Camillo, but I here cancel all former Ref pect at once. If Thou any longer make a Queftion of my Wife's Difloyalty; go from my Prefence, and Perdition overtake thee for thy Stubbornness.

Cam

Cam. I muft believe

you, Sir ;
I do, and will fetch off Bohemia for't:

Provided, that, when he's remov'd, your Highness
Will take again your Queen, as yours at first,
Even for your fon's fake, and thereby, for fealing
The injury of tongues, in Courts and Kingdoms
Known and ally'd to yours.

Leo. Thou doft advise me,

Even fo as I mine own course have fet down:
I'll give no blemish to her honour, none.
Cam. My lord,

Go then; and with a countenance as clear

As friendship wears at feafts, keep with Bohemia,
And with your Queen: I am his cup-bearer;
If from me he have wholesome beveridge,
Account me not your fervant.

Leo. This is all;

Do't, and thou haft the one half of my heart;
Do't not, thou split'ft thine own.

Cam. I'll do't, my lord.

Leo. I will feem friendly, as thou hast advis'd me.

Cam. O miferable lady! but, for me,

What cafe ftand I in? I must be the poisoner
Of good Polixenes, and my ground to do't
Is the obedience to a mafter; one,

Who, in rebellion with himself, will have
All that are his, fo too. To do this deed,

Promotion follows. If I could find example

Of thousands, that had ftruck anointed Kings,
And flourish'd after, I'd not do't: but fince

[Exit.

Nor brafs, nor ftone, nor parchment, bears not one;
Let villany it felf forfwear't. I muft

Forfake the Court; to do't, or no, is certain
To me a break-neck. Happy ftar reign now!
Here comes Bohemia.

Enter Polixenes.

Pol. This is ftrange! methinks,

My favour here begins to warp. Not fpeak?

Good

Good day, Camillo.

Cam. Hail, most royal Sir !

Pol. What is the news i'th' court?

Cam. None rare, my Lord.

Pol. The King hath on him fuch a countenance,
As he had loft fome province, and a region,
Lov'd, as he loves himself: even now I met him
With customary compliment, when he,
Wafting his eyes to th' contrary, and falling
A lip of much contempt, fpeeds from me, and
So leaves me to confider what is breeding,
That changes thus his manners.

Cam. I dare not know, my Lord.

Pol. How, dare not? do not? do you know, and dare not ?

Be intelligent to me, 'tis thereabouts:

For to yourself, what you do know, you must;
And cannot fay, you dare not. Good Camillo,
Your chang'd complexions are to me a mirror,
Which fhews me mine chang'd too; for I muft be
A party in this alteration, finding
Myfelf thus alter'd with it.

Cam. There is a fickness

Which puts fome of us in diftemper; but
I cannot name the disease, and it is caught
Of you that yet are well.

Pol. How caught of me?

Make me not fighted like the bafilisk.

I've look'd on thousands, who have sped the better
By my regard, but kill'd none fo: Camillo,

As you are certainly a gentleman,

Clerk-like experienc'd, (which no less adorns
Our gentry, than our parents' noble names,

In whofe fuccefs we are gentle;) I beseech you,
If you know aught, which does behove my knowledge
Thereof to be inform'd, imprison't not

In ignorant concealment.

Cam. I may not answer.

Pol. A ficknefs caught of me, and yet I well? I must be answer'd. Doft thou hear, Camillo,