THE WINTER’S TALE

THE WINTER’S TALE THE astrologer Simon Forman saw The Winter’s Tale at the Globe on 15 May 1611. Just how much earlier the play was written is not certainly known. During the sheep-shearing feast in Act 4, twelve countrymen perform a satyrs’ dance that three of them are said to have already ‘danced before the King’. This is not necessarily a topical reference, but satyrs danced in Ben Jonson’s Masque of Oberon, performed before King James on 1 January 1611. It seems likely that this dance was incorporated in The Winter’s Tale (just as, later, another masque dance seems to have been transferred to The Two Noble Kinsmen). But it occurs in a self-contained passage that may well have been added after Shakespeare wrote the play itself. The Winter’s Tale, first printed in the 1623 Folio, is usually thought to have been written after Cymbeline, but stylistic evidence places it before that play, perhaps in 1609-10. A mid sixteenth-century book classes ‘winter tales’ along with ‘old wives’ tales‘; Shakespeare’s title prepared his audiences for a tale of romantic improbability, one to be wondered at rather than believed; and within the play itself characters compare its events to ‘an old tale’ (5.2.61; 5.3.118). The comparison is just: Shakespeare is dramatizing a story by his old rival Robert Greene, published as Pandosto: The Triumph of Time in or before 1588. This gave Shakespeare his plot outline, of a king (Leontes) who believes his wife (Hermione) to have committed adultery with another king (Polixenes), his boyhood friend, and who casts off his new-born daughter (Perdita—the lost one) in the belief that she is his friend’s bastard. In both versions the baby is brought up as a shepherdess, falls in love with her supposed father’s son (Florizel in the play), and returns to her real father’s court where she is at last recognized as his daughter. In both versions, too, the wife’s innocence is demonstrated by the pronouncement of the Delphic oracle, and her husband passes the period of his daughter’s absence in penitence; but Shakespeare alters the ending of his source story, bringing it into line with the conventions of romance. He adopts Greene’s tripartite structure, but greatly develops it, adding for instance Leontes’ steward Antigonus and his redoubtable wife Paulina, along with the comic rogue Autolycus, ‘snapper-up of unconsidered trifles’. The intensity of poetic suffering with which Leontes expresses his irrational jealousy is matched by the lyrical rapture of the love episodes between Florizel and Perdita. In both verse and prose The Winter’s Tale shows Shakespeare’s verbal powers at their greatest, and his theatrical mastery is apparent in, for example, Hermione’s trial (3.1) and the daring final scene in which time brings about its triumph. THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY LEONTES, King of Sicily HERMIONE, his wife MAMILLIUS, his son PERDITA, his daughter PAULINA, Antigonus’s wife EMILIA, a lady attending on Hermione A JAILER A MARINER Other Lords and Gentlemen, Ladies, Officers, and Servants at Leontes’s court POLIXENES, King of Bohemia FLORIZEL, his son, in love with Perdita; known as Doricles ARCHIDAMUS, a Bohemian lord AUTOLYCUS, a rogue, once in the service of Florizel OLD SHEPHERD CLOWN, his son SERVANT of the Old Shepherd Other Shepherds and Shepherdesses Twelve countrymen disguised as satyrs

TIME, as chorus

The Winter’s Tale

Atto 1, Scena 1

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Camillo and Archidamus
ARCHIDAMUS	If you shall chance, Camillo, to visit Bohemia on the like occasion whereon my services are now on foot, you shall see, as I have said, great difference betwixt our Bohemia and your Sicilia.
CAMILLO	I think this coming summer the King of Sicilia means to pay Bohemia the visitation which he justly owes him.
ARCHIDAMUS	Wherein our entertainment shall shame us, we will be justified in our loves; for indeed—
CAMILLO	Beseech you—
ARCHIDAMUS	Verily, I speak it in the freedom of my knowledge. We cannot with such magnificence—in so rare—I know not what to say.—We will give you sleepy drinks, that your senses, unintelligent of our insufficience, may, though they cannot praise us, as little accuse us.
CAMILLO	You pay a great deal too dear for what’s given freely.
ARCHIDAMUS	Believe me, I speak as my understanding instructs me, and as mine honesty puts it to utterance.
CAMILLO	Sicilia cannot show himself over-kind to Bohemia. They were trained together in their childhoods, and there rooted betwixt them then such an affection which cannot choose but branch now. Since their more mature dignities and royal necessities made separation of their society, their encounters—though not personal—hath been royally attorneyed with interchange of gifts, letters, loving embassies, that they have seemed to be together, though absent; shook hands as over a vast; and embraced as it were from the ends of opposed winds. The heavens continue their loves.
ARCHIDAMUS	I think there is not in the world either malice or matter to alter it. You have an unspeakable comfort of your young prince, Mamillius. It is a gentleman of the greatest promise that ever came into my note.
CAMILLO	I very well agree with you in the hopes of him. It is a gallant child; one that, indeed, physics the subject, makes old hearts fresh. They that went on crutches ere he was born desire yet their life to see him a man.
ARCHIDAMUS	Would they else be content to die?
CAMILLO	Yes—if there were no other excuse why they should desire to live.
ARCHIDAMUS	If the King had no son they would desire to live on crutches till he had one. Exeunt

Atto 1, Scena 2

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Leontes, Hermione, Mamillius, Polixenes, and Camillo
POLIXENES	Nine changes of the wat‘ry star hath been The shepherd’s note since we have left our throne Without a burden. Time as long again Would be filled up, my brother, with our thanks, And yet we should for perpetuity Go hence in debt. And therefore, like a cipher, Yet standing in rich place, I multiply With one ‘We thank you’ many thousands more That go before it.
LEONTES	Stay your thanks a while, And pay them when you part.
POLIXENES	Sir, that’s tomorrow. I am questioned by my fears of what may chance Or breed upon our absence, that may blow No sneaping winds at home to make us say ‘This is put forth too truly.’ Besides, I have stayed To tire your royalty.
LEONTES	We are tougher, brother, Than you can put us to’t.
POLIXENES	No longer stay.
LEONTES	One sennight longer.
POLIXENES	Very sooth, tomorrow.
LEONTES	We’ll part the time between’s, then; and in that I’ll no gainsaying.
POLIXENES	Press me not, beseech you, so. There is no tongue that moves, none, none i‘th’ world So soon as yours, could win me. So it should now, Were there necessity in your request, although ’Twere needful I denied it. My affairs Do even drag me homeward; which to hinder Were, in your love, a whip to me; my stay To you a charge and trouble. To save both, Farewell, our brother.
LEONTES	Tongue-tied, our queen? Speak you.
HERMIONE	I had thought, sir, to have held my peace until You had drawn oaths from him not to stay. You, sir, Charge him too coldly. Tell him you are sure All in Bohemia’s well. This satisfaction The bygone day proclaimed. Say this to him, He’s beat from his best ward.
LEONTES	Well said, Hermione!
HERMIONE	To tell he longs to see his son were strong. But let him say so then, and let him go. But let him swear so and he shall not stay, We’ll thwack him hence with distaffs. (To Polixenes) Yet of your royal presence I’ll adventure The borrow of a week. When at Bohemia You take my lord, I’ll give him my commission To let him there a month behind the gest Prefixed for’s parting.—Yet, good deed, Leontes, I love thee not a jar o’th’ clock behind What lady she her lord.—You’ll stay?
POLIXENES	No, madam.
HERMIONE	Nay, but you will?
POLIXENES	I may not, verily.
HERMIONE	Verily? You put me off with limber vows. But I, Though you would seek t‘unsphere the stars with oaths, Should yet say ‘Sir, no going.’ Verily You shall not go. A lady’s ‘verily’ ’s As potent as a lord’s. Will you go yet? Force me to keep you as a prisoner, Not like a guest: so you shall pay your fees When you depart, and save your thanks. How say you? My prisoner? or my guest? By your dread ‘verily’, One of them you shall be.
POLIXENES	Your guest then, madam. To be your prisoner should import offending, Which is for me less easy to commit Than you to punish.
HERMIONE	Not your jailer then, But your kind hostess. Come, I’ll question you Of my lord’s tricks and yours when you were boys. You were pretty lordings then?
POLIXENES	We were, fair Queen, Two lads that thought there was no more behind But such a day tomorrow as today, And to be boy eternal.
HERMIONE	Was not my lord The verier wag o’th’ two?
POLIXENES	We were as twinned lambs that did frisk i‘th’ sun, And bleat the one at th’other. What we changed Was innocence for innocence. We knew not The doctrine of ill-doing, nor dreamed That any did. Had we pursued that life, And our weak spirits ne‘er been higher reared With stronger blood, we should have answered heaven Boldly, ‘Not guilty’, the imposition cleared Hereditary ours.
HERMIONE	By this we gather You have tripped since.
POLIXENES	O my most sacred lady, Temptations have since then been born to’s; for In those unfledged days was my wife a girl. Your precious self had then not crossed the eyes Of my young playfellow.
HERMIONE	Grace to boot! Of this make no conclusion, lest you say Your queen and I are devils. Yet go on. Th’offences we have made you do we’ll answer, If you first sinned with us, and that with us You did continue fault, and that you slipped not With any but with us.
LEONTES	Is he won yet?
HERMIONE	He’ll stay, my lord.
LEONTES	At my request he would not. Hermione, my dearest, thou never spok’st To better purpose.
HERMIONE	Never?
LEONTES	Never but once.
HERMIONE	What, have I twice said well? When was’t before? I prithee tell me. Cram’s with praise, and make’s As fat as tame things. One good deed dying tongueless Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that. Our praises are our wages. You may ride’s With one soft kiss a thousand furlongs ere With spur we heat an acre. But to th’ goal. My last good deed was to entreat his stay. What was my first? It has an elder sister, Or I mistake you. O, would her name were Gracel But once before I spoke to th’ purpose? When? Nay, let me have’t. I long.
LEONTES	Why, that was when Three crabbed months had soured themselves to death Ere I could make thee open thy white hand And clap thyself my love. Then didst thou utter, ‘I am yours for ever.’
HERMIONE	’Tis grace indeed. Why lo you now; I have spoke to th’ purpose twice. The one for ever earned a royal husband; Th’other, for some while a friend.
(didascalia)	She gives her hand to Polixenes.
HERMIONE	They stand aside
LEONTES	(aside) Too hot, too hot: To mingle friendship farre is mingling bloods. I have tremor cordis on me. My heart dances, But not for joy, not joy. This entertainment May a free face put on, derive a liberty From heartiness, from bounty, fertile bosom, And well become the agent. ’T may, I grant. But to be paddling palms and pinching fingers, As now they are, and making practised smiles As in a looking-glass; and then to sigh, as ‘twere The mort o’th’ deer—O, that is entertainment My bosom likes not, nor my brows.—Mamillius, Art thou my boy?
MAMILLIUS	Ay, my good lord.
LEONTES	I’fecks, Why, that’s my bawcock. What? Hast smutched thy nose? They say it is a copy out of mine. Come, captain, We must be neat—not neat, but cleanly, captain. And yet the steer, the heifer, and the calf Are all called neat.—Still virginalling Upon his palm?—How now, you wanton calf— Art thou my calf?
MAMILLIUS	Yes, if you will, my lord.
LEONTES	Thou want‘st a rough pash and the shoots that I have, To be full like me. Yet they say we are Almost as like as eggs. Women say so, That will say anything. But were they false As o’er-dyed blacks, as wind, as waters, false As dice are to be wished by one that fixes No bourn ‘twixt his and mine, yet were it true To say this boy were like me. Come, sir page, Look on me with your welkin eye. Sweet villain, Most dear’st, my collop! Can thy dam—may’t be?— Affection, thy intention stabs the centre. Thou dost make possible things not so held, Communicat‘st with dreams—how can this be?— With what’s unreal thou coactive art, And fellow’st nothing. Then ‘tis very credent Thou mayst co-join with something, and thou dost— And that beyond commission; and I find it— And that to the infection of my brains And hard’ning of my brows.
POLIXENES	What means Sicilia?
HERMIONE	He something seems unsettled.
POLIXENES	How, my lord!
LEONTES	What cheer? How is’t with you, best brother?
HERMIONE	You look As if you held a brow of much distraction. Are you moved, my lord?
LEONTES	No, in good earnest. How sometimes nature will betray its folly, Its tenderness, and make itself a pastime To harder bosoms! Looking on the lines Of my boy’s face, methoughts I did recoil Twenty-three years, and saw myself unbreeched, In my green velvet coat; my dagger muzzled, Lest it should bite its master, and so prove, As ornament oft does, too dangerous. How like, methought, I then was to this kernel, This squash, this gentleman.—Mine honest friend, Will you take eggs for money?
MAMILLIUS	No, my lord, I’ll fight.
LEONTES	You will? Why, happy man be’s dole!—My brother, Are you so fond of your young prince as we Do seem to be of ours?
POLIXENES	If at home, sir, He’s all my exercise, my mirth, my matter; Now my sworn friend, and then mine enemy; My parasite, my soldier, statesman, all. He makes a July’s day short as December, And with his varying childness cures in me Thoughts that would thick my blood.
LEONTES	So stands this squire Officed with me. We two will walk, my lord, And leave you to your graver steps. Hermione, How thou lov’st us show in our brother’s welcome. Let what is dear in Sicily be cheap. Next to thyself and my young rover, he’s Apparent to my heart.
HERMIONE	If you would seek us, We are yours i’th’ garden. Shall’s attend you there?
LEONTES	To your own bents dispose you. You’ll be found, Be you beneath the sky. (Aside) I am angling now, Though you perceive me not how I give line. Go to, go to! How she holds up the neb, the bill to him, And arms her with the boldness of a wife To her allowing husband!
(didascalia)	Exeunt Polixenes and Hermione Gone already.
LEONTES	Inch-thick, knee-deep, o‘er head and ears a forked one!— Go play, boy, play. Thy mother plays, and I Play too; but so disgraced a part, whose issue Will hiss me to my grave. Contempt and clamour Will be my knell. Go play, boy, play. There have been, Or I am much deceived, cuckolds ere now, And many a man there is, even at this present, Now, while I speak this, holds his wife by th’arm, That little thinks she has been sluiced in’s absence, And his pond fished by his next neighbour, by Sir Smile, his neighbour. Nay, there’s comfort in‘t, Whiles other men have gates, and those gates opened, As mine, against their will. Should all despair That have revolted wives, the tenth of mankind Would hang themselves. Physic for’t there’s none. It is a bawdy planet, that will strike Where ’tis predominant; and ‘tis powerful. Think it: From east, west, north, and south, be it concluded, No barricado for a belly. Know’t, It will let in and out the enemy With bag and baggage. Many thousand on’s Have the disease and feel’t not.—How now, boy?
MAMILLIUS	I am like you, they say.
LEONTES	Why, that’s some comfort. What, Camillo there!
CAMILLO	[coming forward] Ay, my good lord.
LEONTES	Go play, Mamillius, thou’rt an honest man.
(didascalia)	Exit Mamillius
LEONTES	Camillo, this great sir will yet stay longer.
CAMILLO	You had much ado to make his anchor hold. When you cast out, it still came home.
LEONTES	Didst note it?
CAMILLO	He would not stay at your petitions, made His business more material.
LEONTES	Didst perceive it? (Aside) They’re here with me already, whisp‘ring, rounding, ‘Sicilia is a so-forth’. ’Tis far gone When I shall gust it last.—How came’t, Camillo, That he did stay?
CAMILLO	At the good Queen’s entreaty.
LEONTES	‘At the Queen’s’ be’t. ‘Good’ should be pertinent, But so it is, it is not. Was this taken By any understanding pate but thine? For thy conceit is soaking, will draw in More than the common blocks. Not noted, is’t, But of the finer natures? By some severals Of head-piece extraordinary? Lower messes Perchance are to this business purblind? Say.
CAMILLO	Business, my lord? I think most understand Bohemia stays here longer.
LEONTES	Ha?
CAMILLO	Stays here longer.
LEONTES	Ay, but why?
CAMILLO	To satisfy your highness, and the entreaties Of our most gracious mistress.
LEONTES	Satisfy? Th‘entreaties of your mistress? Satisfy? Let that suffice. I have trusted thee, Camillo, With all the near’st things to my heart, as well My chamber-counsels, wherein, priest-like, thou Hast cleansed my bosom, I from thee departed Thy penitent reformed. But we have been Deceived in thy integrity, deceived In that which seems so.
CAMILLO	Be it forbid, my lord.
LEONTES	To bide upon’t: thou art not honest; or If thou inclin‘st that way, thou art a coward, Which hoxes honesty behind, restraining From course required. Or else thou must be counted A servant grafted in my serious trust And therein negligent, or else a fool That seest a game played home, the rich stake drawn, And tak’st it all for jest.
CAMILLO	My gracious lord, I may be negligent, foolish, and fearful. In every one of these no man is free, But that his negligence, his folly, fear, Among the infinite doings of the world Sometime puts forth. In your affairs, my lord, If ever I were wilful-negligent, It was my folly. If industriously I played the fool, it was my negligence, Not weighing well the end. If ever fearful To do a thing where I the issue doubted, Whereof the execution did cry out Against the non-performance, ‘twas a fear Which oft infects the wisest. These, my lord, Are such allowed infirmities that honesty Is never free of. But beseech your grace Be plainer with me, let me know my trespass By its own visage. If I then deny it, ’Tis none of mine.
LEONTES	Ha’ not you seen, Camillo— But that’s past doubt; you have, or your eye-glass Is thicker than a cuckold’s horn—or heard— For, to a vision so apparent, rumour Cannot be mute—or thought—for cogitation Resides not in that man that does not think— My wife is slippery? 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. Say’t, and justify’t.
CAMILLO	I would not be a stander-by to hear My sovereign mistress clouded so without My present vengeance taken. ’Shrew my heart, You never spoke what did become you less Than this, which to reiterate were sin As deep as that, though true.
LEONTES	Is whispering nothing? Is leaning cheek to cheek? Is meeting noses? Kissing with inside lip? Stopping the career Of laughter with a sigh?—a note infallible Of breaking honesty. Horsing foot on foot? Skulking in corners? Wishing clocks more swift, Hours minutes, noon midnight? And all eyes Blind with the pin and web but theirs, theirs only, That would unseen 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.
CAMILLO	Good my lord, be cured Of this diseased opinion, and betimes, For ’tis most dangerous.
LEONTES	Say it be, ’tis true.
CAMILLO	No, no, my lord.
LEONTES	It is. You lie, you lie. I say thou liest, Camillo, and I hate thee, Pronounce thee a gross lout, a mindless slave, Or else a hovering temporizer, that Canst with thine eyes at once see good and evil, Inclining to them both. Were my wife’s liver Infected as her life, she would not live The running of one glass.
CAMILLO	Who does infect her?
LEONTES	Why, he that wears her like her medal, hanging About his neck, Bohemia, who, if I Had servants true about me, that bare eyes To see alike mine honour as their profits, Their own particular thrifts, they would do that Which should undo more doing. Ay, and thou His cupbearer, whom I from meaner form Have benched, and reared to worship, who mayst see Plainly as heaven sees earth and earth sees heaven, How I am galled, mightst bespice a cup To give mine enemy a lasting wink, Which draught to me were cordial.
CAMILLO	Sir, my lord, I could do this, and that with no rash potion, But with a ling’ring dram, that should not work Maliciously, like poison. But I cannot Believe this crack to be in my dread mistress, So sovereignly being honourable. I have loved thee—
LEONTES	Make that thy question, and go rot! Dost think I am so muddy, so unsettled, To appoint myself in this vexation? Sully the purity and whiteness of my sheets— Which to preserve is sleep, which being spotted Is goads, thorns, nettles, tails of wasps-Give scandal to the blood o’th’ prince, my son— Who I do think is mine, and love as mine— Without ripe moving to’t? Would I do this? Could man so blench?
CAMILLO	I must believe you, sir. I do, and will fetch off Bohemia for’t, Provided that when he’s removed your highness Will take again your queen as yours at first, Even for your son’s sake, and thereby for sealing The injury of tongues in courts and kingdoms Known and allied to yours.
LEONTES	Thou dost advise me Even so as I mine own course have set down. I’ll give no blemish to her honour, none.
CAMILLO	My lord, go then, and with a countenance as clear As friendship wears at feasts, keep with Bohemia And with your queen. I am his cupbearer. If from me he have wholesome beverage, Account me not your servant.
LEONTES	This is all. Do‘t, and thou hast the one half of my heart; Do’t not, thou splitt’st thine own.
CAMILLO	I’ll do’t, my lord.
LEONTES	I will seem friendly, as thou hast advised me.
(didascalia)	Exit
CAMILLO	O miserable lady. But for me, What case stand I in? I must be the poisoner Of good Polixenes, and my ground to do’t Is the obedience to a master—one Who in rebellion with himself, will have All that are his so too. To do this deed, Promotion follows. If I could find example Of thousands that had struck anointed kings And flourished after, I’d not do’t. But since Nor brass, nor stone, nor parchment bears not one, Let villainy itself forswear’t. I must Forsake the court. To do’t, or no, is certain To me a break-neck.
(didascalia)	Enter Polixenes
CAMILLO	Happy star reign now! Here comes Bohemia.
POLIXENES	(aside) This is strange. Methinks My favour here begins to warp. Not speak?— Good day, Camillo.
CAMILLO	Hail, most royal sir.
POLIXENES	What is the news i’th’ court?
CAMILLO	None rare, my lord.
POLIXENES	The King hath on him such a countenance As he had lost some province, and a region Loved 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, speeds from me, and So leaves me to consider what is breeding That changes thus his manners.
CAMILLO	I dare not know, my lord.
POLIXENES	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 say you ‘dare not’. Good Camillo, Your changed complexions are to me a mirror Which shows me mine changed, too; for I must be A party in this alteration, finding Myself thus altered with’t.
CAMILLO	There is a sickness Which puts some of us in distemper, but I cannot name th’ disease, and it is caught Of you that yet are well.
POLIXENES	How caught of me? Make me not sighted like the basilisk. I have looked on thousands who have sped the better By my regard, but killed none so. Camillo, As you are certainly a gentleman, thereto Clerk-like experienced, which no less adorns Our gentry than our parents’ noble names, In whose success we are gentle: I beseech you, If you know aught which does behove my knowledge Thereof to be informed, imprison’t not In ignorant concealment.
CAMILLO	I may not answer.
POLIXENES	A sickness caught of me, and yet I well? I must be answered. Dost thou hear, Camillo, I conjure thee, by all the parts of man Which honour does acknowledge, whereof the least Is not this suit of mine, that thou declare What incidency thou dost guess of harm Is creeping toward me; how far off, how near, Which way to be prevented, if to be; If not, how best to bear it.
CAMILLO	Sir, I will tell you, Since I am charged in honour, and by him That I think honourable. Therefore mark my counsel, Which must be e’en as swiftly followed as I mean to utter it; or both yourself and me Cry lost, and so good night!
POLIXENES	On, good Camillo.
CAMILLO	I am appointed him to murder you.
POLIXENES	By whom, Camillo?
CAMILLO	By the King.
POLIXENES	For what?
CAMILLO	He thinks, nay, with all confidence he swears As he had seen‘t, or been an instrument To vice you to’t, that you have touched his queen Forbiddenly.
POLIXENES	O, then my best blood turn To an infected jelly, and my name Be yoked with his that did betray the Best! Turn then my freshest reputation to A savour that may strike the dullest nostril Where I arrive, and my approach be shunned, Nay hated, too, worse than the great‘st infection That e’er was heard or read.
CAMILLO	Swear his thought over By each particular star in heaven, and By all their influences, you may as well Forbid the sea for to obey the moon As or by oath remove or counsel shake The fabric of his folly, whose foundation Is piled upon his faith, and will continue The standing of his body.
POLIXENES	How should this grow?
CAMILLO	I know not, but I am sure ‘tis safer to Avoid what’s grown than question how ’tis born. If therefore you dare trust my honesty, That lies enclosed in this trunk which you Shall bear along impawned, away tonight! Your followers I will whisper to the business, And will by twos and threes at several posterns Clear them o’th’ city. For myself, I’ll put My fortunes to your service, which are here By this discovery lost. Be not uncertain, For by the honour of my parents, I Have uttered truth; which if you seek to prove, I dare not stand by; nor shall you be safer Than one condemned by the King’s own mouth, Thereon his execution sworn.
POLIXENES	I do believe thee, I saw his heart in’s face. Give me thy hand. Be pilot to me, and thy places shall Still neighbour mine. My ships are ready, and My people did expect my hence departure Two days ago. This jealousy Is for a precious creature. As she’s rare Must it be great; and as his person’s mighty Must it be violent; and as he does conceive He is dishonoured by a man which ever Professed to him, why, his revenges must In that be made more bitter. Fear o‘ershades me. Good expedition be my friend and comfort The gracious Queen, part of his theme, but nothing Of his ill-ta’en suspicion. Come, Camillo, I will respect thee as a father if Thou bear’st my life off hence. Let us avoid.
CAMILLO	It is in mine authority to command The keys of all the posterns. Please your highness To take the urgent hour. Come, sir, away.
(didascalia)	Exeunt

Atto 2, Scena 1

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Hermione, Mamillius, and Ladies
HERMIONE	Take the boy to you. He so troubles me ’Tis past enduring.
FIRST LADY	Come, my gracious lord, Shall I be your play-fellow?
MAMILLIUS	No, I’ll none of you.
FIRST LADY	Why, my sweet lord?
MAMILLIUS	You’ll kiss me hard, and speak to me as if I were a baby still. (To Second Lady) I love you better.
SECOND LADY	And why so, my lord?
MAMILLIUS	Not for because Your brows are blacker—yet black brows they say Become some women best, so that there be not Too much hair there, but in a semicircle, Or a half-moon made with a pen.
SECOND LADY	Who taught ’this?
MAMILLIUS	I learned it out of women’s faces. Pray now, What colour are your eyebrows?
FIRST LADY	Blue, my lord.
MAMILLIUS	Nay, that’s a mock. I have seen a lady’s nose That has been blue, but not her eyebrows.
FIRST LADY	Hark ye, The Queen your mother rounds apace. We shall Present our services to a fine new prince One of these days, and then you’d wanton with us, If we would have you.
SECOND LADY	She is spread of late Into a goodly bulk, good time encounter her.
HERMIONE	What wisdom stirs amongst you? Come sir, now I am for you again. Pray you sit by us, And tell’s a tale.
MAMILLIUS	Merry or sad shall’t be?
HERMIONE	As merry as you will.
MAMILLIUS	A sad tale’s best for winter. I have one Of sprites and goblins.
HERMIONE	Let’s have that, good sir. Come on, sit down, come on, and do your best To fright me with your sprites. You’re powerful at it.
MAMILLIUS	There was a man—
HERMIONE	Nay, come sit down, then on.
MAMILLIUS	(sitting) Dwelt by a churchyard.—I will tell it softly, Yon crickets shall not hear it.
HERMIONE	Come on then, and give’t me in mine ear.
(didascalia)	Enter apart Leontes, Antigonus, and Lords
LEONTES	Was he met there? His train? Camillo with him? A LORD Behind the tuft of pines I met them. Never Saw I men scour so on their way. I eyed them Even to their ships.
LEONTES	How blest am I In my just censure, in my true opinion! Alack, for lesser knowledge—how accursed In being so blest! There may be in the cup A spider steeped, and one may drink, depart, And yet partake no venom, for his knowledge Is not infected; but if one present Th’abhorred ingredient to his eye, make known How he hath drunk, he cracks his gorge, his sides, With violent hefts. I have drunk, and seen the spider. Camillo was his help in this, his pander. There is a plot against my life, my crown. All’s true that is mistrusted. That false villain Whom I employed was pre-employed by him. He has discovered my design, and I Remain a pinched thing, yea, a very trick For them to play at will. How came the posterns So easily open? A LORD By his great authority, Which often hath no less prevailed than so On your command.
LEONTES	I know’t too well. (To Hermione) Give me the boy. I am glad you did not nurse him. Though he does bear some signs of me, yet you Have too much blood in him.
HERMIONE	What is this? Sport?
LEONTES	(to a Lord) Bear the boy hence. He shall not come about her. Away with him, and let her sport herself With that she’s big with, (to Hermione) for ’tis Polixenes Has made thee swell thus. Exit one with Mamillius
HERMIONE	But I’d say he had not, And I’ll be sworn you would believe my saying, Howe’er you lean to th’ nayward.
LEONTES	You, my lords, Look on her, mark her well. Be but about To say she is a goodly lady, and The justice of your hearts will thereto add “Tis pity she’s not honest, honourable.’ Praise her but for this her without-door form— Which on my faith deserves high speech—and straight The shrug, the ‘hum’ or ‘ha’, these petty brands That calumny doth use—O, I am out, That mercy does, for calumny will sear Virtue itself—these shrugs, these ‘hum’s’ and ‘ha’s’, When you have said she’s goodly, come between Ere you can say she’s honest. But be’t known From him that has most cause to grieve it should be, She’s an adultress.
HERMIONE	Should a villain say so, The most replenished villain in the world, He were as much more villain. You, my lord, Do but mistake.
LEONTES	You have mistook, my lady— Polixenes for Leontes. O, thou thing, Which I’ll not call a creature of thy place Lest barbarism, making me the precedent, Should a like language use to all degrees, And mannerly distinguishment leave out Betwixt the prince and beggar. I have said She’s an adultress, I have said with whom. More, she’s a traitor, and Camillo is A federary with her, and one that knows What she should shame to know herself, But with her most vile principal: that she’s A bed-swerver, even as bad as those That vulgars give bold’st titles; ay, and privy To this their late escape.
HERMIONE	No, by my life, Privy to none of this. How will this grieve you When you shall come to clearer knowledge, that You thus have published me? Gentle my lord, You scarce can right me throughly then to say You did mistake.
LEONTES	No. If I mistake In those foundations which I build upon, The centre is not big enough to bear A schoolboy’s top.—Away with her to prison! He who shall speak for her is afar-off guilty, But that he speaks.
HERMIONE	There’s some ill planet reigns. I must be patient till the heavens look With an aspect more favourable. Good my lords, I am not prone to weeping, as our sex no Commonly are; the want of which vain dew Perchance shall dry your pities. But I have That honourable grief lodged here which burns Worse than tears drown. Beseech you all, my lords, With thoughts so qualified as your charities Shall best instruct you, measure me; and so The King’s will be performed.
LEONTES	Shall I be heard?
HERMIONE	Who is’t that goes with me? Beseech your highness My women may be with me, for you see My plight requires it.—Do not weep, good fools, There is no cause. When you shall know your mistress Has deserved prison, then abound in tears As I come out. This action I now go on Is for my better grace.—Adieu, my lord. I never wished to see you sorry; now I trust I shall. My women, come, you have leave.
LEONTES	Go, do our bidding. Hence!
(didascalia)	Exit Hermione, guarded, with Ladies
LEONTES	A LORD Beseech your highness, call the Queen again.
ANTIGONUS	(to Leontes) Be certain what you do, sir, lest your justice Prove violence, in the which three great ones suffer— Yourself, your queen, your son. A LORD (to Leontes) For her, my lord, I dare my life lay down, and will do‘t, sir, Please you t’accept it, that the Queen is spotless I’th’ eyes of heaven and to you—I mean In this which you accuse her.
ANTIGONUS	(to Leontes) If it prove She’s otherwise, I’ll keep my stables where I lodge my wife, I’ll go in couples with her; Than when I feel and see her, no farther trust her. For every inch of woman in the world, Ay, every dram of woman’s flesh is false If she be.
LEONTES	Hold your peaces. A LORD Good my lord—
ANTIGONUS	(to Leontes) It is for you we speak, not for ourselves. You are abused, and by some putter-on That will be damned for’t. Would I knew the villain— I would land-damn him. Be she honour-flawed— I have three daughters: the eldest is eleven; The second and the third nine and some five; If this prove true, they’ll pay for’t. By mine honour, I’ll geld ’em all. Fourteen they shall not see, To bring false generations. They are co-heirs, And I had rather glib myself than they Should not produce fair issue.
LEONTES	Cease, no more! You smell this business with a sense as cold As is a dead man’s nose. But I do see’t and feel’t As you feel doing thus; and see withal The instruments that feel.
ANTIGONUS	If it be so, We need no grave to bury honesty; There’s not a grain of it the face to sweeten Of the whole dungy earth.
LEONTES	What? Lack I credit? A LORD I had rather you did lack than I, my lord, Upon this ground; and more it would content me To have her honour true than your suspicion, Be blamed for’t how you might.
LEONTES	Why, what need we Commune with you of this, but rather follow Our forceful instigation? Our prerogative Calls not your counsels, but our natural goodness Imparts this; which, if you—or stupefied Or seeming so in skill—cannot or will not Relish a truth like us, inform yourselves We need no more of your advice. The matter, The loss, the gain, the ord‘ring on’t, is all Properly ours.
ANTIGONUS	And I wish, my liege, You had only in your silent judgement tried it Without more overture.
LEONTES	How could that be? Either thou art most ignorant by age Or thou wert born a fool. Camillo’s flight Added to their familiarity, Which was as gross as ever touched conjecture That lacked sight only, naught for approbation But only seeing, all other circumstances Made up to th’ deed—doth push on this proceeding. Yet for a greater confirmation— For in an act of this importance ’twere Most piteous to be wild—I have dispatched in post To sacred Delphos, to Apollo’s temple, Cleomenes and Dion, whom you know Of stuffed sufficiency. Now from the oracle They will bring all, whose spiritual counsel had Shall stop or spur me. Have I done well? A LORD Well done, my lord.
LEONTES	Though I am satisfied, and need no more Than what I know, yet shall the oracle Give rest to th’ minds of others such as he, Whose ignorant credulity will not Come up to th’ truth. So have we thought it good From our free person she should be confined, Lest that the treachery of the two fled hence Be left her to perform. Come, follow us. We are to speak in public; for this business Will raise us all.
ANTIGONUS	(aside) To laughter, as I take it, If the good truth were known. Exeunt

Atto 2, Scena 2

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Paulina, a Gentleman, and attendants
PAULINA	The keeper of the prison, call to him. Let him have knowledge who I am.
(didascalia)	Exit Gentleman
PAULINA	Good lady, No court in Europe is too good for thee. What dost thou then in prison?
(didascalia)	Enter Jailer and Gentleman
PAULINA	Now, good sir, You know me, do you not?
JAILER	For a worthy lady, And one who much I honour.
PAULINA	Pray you then, Conduct me to the Queen.
JAILER	I may not, madam. To the contrary I have express commandment.
PAULINA	Here’s ado, To lock up honesty and honour from Th’access of gentle visitors. Is’t lawful, pray you, To see her women? Any of them? Emilia?
JAILER	So please you, madam, To put apart these your attendants, Shall bring Emilia forth.
PAULINA	I pray now call her.— Withdraw yourselves.
(didascalia)	Exeunt Gentleman and attendants
JAILER	And, madam, I must be present at your conference.
PAULINA	Well, be’t so, prithee.
(didascalia)	Exit Jailer
PAULINA	Here’s such ado, to make no stain a stain As passes colouring.
(didascalia)	Enter Jailer and Emilia
PAULINA	Dear gentlewoman, How fares our gracious lady?
EMILIA	As well as one so great and so forlorn May hold together. On her frights and griefs, Which never tender lady hath borne greater, She is, something before her time, delivered.
PAULINA	A boy?
EMILIA	A daughter, and a goodly babe, Lusty, and like to live. The Queen receives Much comfort in’t; says, ‘My poor prisoner, I am innocent as you.’
PAULINA	I dare be sworn. These dangerous, unsafe lunes i‘th’ King, beshrew them! He must be told on’t, and he shall. The office Becomes a woman best. I’ll take’t upon me. If I prove honey-mouthed, let my tongue blister, And never to my red-looked anger be The trumpet any more. Pray you, Emilia, Commend my best obedience to the Queen. If she dares trust me with her little babe I’ll show’t the King, and undertake to be Her advocate to th’ loud‘st. We do not know How he may soften at the sight o’th’ child. The silence often of pure innocence Persuades when speaking fails.
EMILIA	Most worthy madam, Your honour and your goodness is so evident That your free undertaking cannot miss A thriving issue. There is no lady living So meet for this great errand. Please your ladyship To visit the next room, I’ll presently Acquaint the Queen of your most noble offer, Who but today hammered of this design But durst not tempt a minister of honour Lest she should be denied.
PAULINA	Tell her, Emilia, I’ll use that tongue I have. If wit flow from’t As boldness from my bosom, let’t not be doubted I shall do good.
EMILIA	Now be you blest for it! I’ll to the Queen. Please you come something nearer.
JAILER	Madam, if’t please the Queen to send the babe I know not what I shall incur to pass it, Having no warrant.
PAULINA	You need not fear it, sir. This child was prisoner to the womb, and is By law and process of great nature thence Freed and enfranchised, not a party to The anger of the King, nor guilty of— If any be—the trespass of the Queen.
JAILER	I do believe it.
PAULINA	Do not you fear. Upon mine honour, I will stand twixt you and danger.
(didascalia)	Exeunt
PAULINA	2.3 Enter Leontes
LEONTES	Nor night nor day, no rest! It is but weakness To bear the matter thus, mere weakness. If The cause were not in being—part o‘th’ cause, She, th’adultress; for the harlot King Is quite beyond mine arm, out of the blank 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?
(didascalia)	Enter a Servant
SERVANT	My lord.
LEONTES	How does the boy?
SERVANT	He took good rest tonight. ’Tis hoped his sickness is discharged.
LEONTES	To see his nobleness! Conceiving the dishonour of his mother He straight declined, drooped, took it deeply, Fastened and fixed the shame on’t in himself; Threw off his spirit, his appetite, his sleep, And downright languished. Leave me solely. Go, See how he fares.
(didascalia)	Exit Servant
LEONTES	Fie, fie, 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.
(didascalia)	Enter Paulina, carrying a babe, with Antigonus,
LEONTES	Lords, and the Servant, trying to restrain her A LORD You must not enter.
PAULINA	Nay rather, good my lords, be second to me. Fear you his tyrannous passion more, alas, Than the Queen’s life?—a gracious, innocent soul, More free than he is jealous.
ANTIGONUS	That’s enough.
SERVANT	Madam, he hath not slept tonight, commanded None should come at him.
PAULINA	Not so hot, good sir. I come to bring him sleep. ’Tis such as you, That creep like shadows by him, and do sigh At each his needless heavings, such as you Nourish the cause of his awaking. I Do come with words as medicinal as true, Honest as either, to purge him of that humour That presses him from sleep.
LEONTES	What noise there, ho?
PAULINA	No noise, my lord, but needful conference About some gossips for your highness.
LEONTES	How? Away with that audacious lady! Antigonus, I charged thee that she should not come about me. I knew she would.
ANTIGONUS	I told her so, my lord, On your displeasure’s peril and on mine, She should not visit you.
LEONTES	What, canst not rule her?
PAULINA	From all dishonesty he can. In this, Unless he take the course that you have done— Commit me for committing honour—trust it, He shall not rule me.
ANTIGONUS	La you now, you hear. When she will take the rein I let her run, But she’ll not stumble.
PAULINA	(to Leontes) Good my liege, I come— And I beseech you hear me, who professes Myself your loyal servant, your physician, Your most obedient counsellor; yet that dares Less appear so in comforting your evils Than such as most seem yours—I say, I come From your good queen.
LEONTES	Good queen?
PAULINA	Good queen, my lord, good queen, I say good queen, And would by combat make her good, so were I A man, the worst about you.
LEONTES	(to Lords) Force her hence.
PAULINA	Let him that makes but trifles of his eyes First hand me. On mine own accord, I’ll off. But first I’ll do my errand. The good Queen— For she is good—hath brought you forth a daughter— Here ’tis—commends it to your blessing. She lays down the babe
LEONTES	Out! A mankind witch! Hence with her, out o’door— A most intelligencing bawd.
PAULINA	Not so. I am as ignorant in that as you In so entitling me, and no less honest Than you are mad, which is enough, I’ll warrant, As this world goes, to pass for honest.
LEONTES	(to Lords) Traitors, Will you not push her out? (To Antigonus) Give her the bastard. Thou dotard, thou art woman-tired, unroosted By thy Dame Partlet here. Take up the bastard, Take’t up, I say. Give’t to thy crone.
PAULINA	(to Antigonus) For ever Unvenerable be thy hands if thou Tak’st up the princess by that forced baseness Which he has put upon’t.
LEONTES	He dreads his wife.
PAULINA	So I would you did. Then ’twere past all doubt You’d call your children yours.
LEONTES	A nest of traitors.
ANTIGONUS	I am none, by this good light.
PAULINA	Nor I, nor any But one that’s here, and that’s himself, for he The sacred honour of himself, his queen’s, His hopeful son’s, his babe‘s, betrays to slander, Whose sting is sharper than the sword’s; and will not— For as the case now stands, it is a curse He cannot be compelled to’t—once remove The root of his opinion, which is rotten As ever oak or stone was sound.
LEONTES	(to Lords) A callat Of boundless tongue, who late hath beat her husband, And now baits me! This brat is none of mine. It is the issue of Polixenes. Hence with it, and together with the dam Commit them to the fire.
PAULINA	It is yours, And might we lay th‘old proverb to your charge, So like you ’tis the worse. Behold, my lords, Although the print be little, the whole matter And copy of the father: eye, nose, lip, The trick of’s frown, his forehead, nay, the valley, The pretty dimples of his chin and cheek, his smiles, The very mould and frame of hand, nail, finger. And thou good goddess Nature, which hast made it So like to him that got it, if thou hast The ordering of the mind too, ‘mongst all colours No yellow in’t, lest she suspect, as he does, Her children not her husband’s.
LEONTES	(to Antigonus) A gross hag!— And lozel, thou art worthy to be hanged, That wilt not stay her tongue.
ANTIGONUS	Hang all the husbands That cannot do that feat, you’ll leave yourself Hardly one subject.
LEONTES	Once more, take her hence.
PAULINA	A most unworthy and unnatural lord Can do no more.
LEONTES	I’ll ha’ thee burnt.
PAULINA	I care not. It is an heretic that makes the fire, Not she which burns in’t. I’ll not call you tyrant; But this most cruel usage of your queen— Not able to produce more accusation Than your own weak-hinged fancy—something savours Of tyranny, and will ignoble make you, Yea, scandalous to the world.
LEONTES	(to Antigonus) On your allegiance, Out of the chamber with her! Were I a tyrant, Where were her life? She durst not call me so If she did know me one. Away with her!
PAULINA	I pray you do not push me, I’ll be gone. Look to your babe, my lord; ‘tis yours. Jove send her A better guiding spirit. What needs these hands? You that are thus so tender o’er his follies Will never do him good, not one of you. So, so. Farewell, we are gone. Exit
LEONTES	(to Antigonus) Thou, traitor, hast set on thy wife to this. My child? Away with‘t! Even thou, that hast A heart so tender o’er it, take it hence And see it instantly consumed with fire. Even thou, and none but thou. Take it up straight.
(didascalia)	Within this hour bring me word ‘tis done,
LEONTES	And by good testimony, or I’ll seize thy life, With what thou else call’st thine. If thou refuse And wilt encounter with my wrath, say so. The bastard brains with these my proper hands Shall I dash out. Go, take it to the fire; For thou set’st on thy wife.
ANTIGONUS	I did not, sir. These lords, my noble fellows, if they please Can clear me in’t.
LORDS	We can. My royal liege, He is not guilty of her coming hither.
LEONTES	You’re liars all. A LORD Beseech your highness, give us better credit. We have always truly served you, and beseech So to esteem of us. And on our knees we beg, As recompense of our dear services Past and to come, that you do change this purpose Which, being so horrible, so bloody, must Lead on to some foul issue. We all kneel.
LEONTES	I am a feather for each wind that blows. Shall I live on, to see this bastard kneel And call me father? Better burn it now Than curse it then. But be it. Let it live. It shall not neither. (To Antigonus) You, sir, come you hither, You that have been so tenderly officious With Lady Margery your midwife there, To save this bastard’s life—for ’tis a bastard, So sure as this beard’s grey. What will you adventure To save this brat’s life?
ANTIGONUS	Anything, my lord, That my ability may undergo, And nobleness impose. At least thus much, I’ll pawn the little blood which I have left To save the innocent; anything possible.
LEONTES	It shall be possible. Swear by this sword Thou wilt perform my bidding.
ANTIGONUS	I will, my lord.
LEONTES	Mark, and perform it. Seest thou? For the fail Of any point in’t shall not only be Death to thyself but to thy lewd-tongued wife, Whom for this time we pardon. We enjoin thee, As thou art liegeman to us, that thou carry This female bastard hence, and that thou bear it To some remote and desert place, quite out Of our dominions; and that there thou leave it, Without more mercy, to it own protection And favour of the climate. As by strange fortune It came to us, I do in justice charge thee, On thy soul’s peril and thy body’s torture, That thou commend it strangely to some place Where chance may nurse or end it. Take it up.
ANTIGONUS	I swear to do this, though a present death Had been more merciful. Come on, poor babe, Some powerful spirit instruct the kites and ravens To be thy nurses. Wolves and bears, they say, Casting their savageness aside, have done Like offices of pity. Sir, be prosperous In more than this deed does require; (to the babe) and blessing Against this cruelty, fight on thy side, Poor thing, condemned to loss.
(didascalia)	Exit with the babe
LEONTES	No, I’ll not rear Another’s issue.
(didascalia)	Enter a Servant
SERVANT	Please your highness, posts From those you sent to th’oracle are come An hour since. Cleomenes and Dion, Being well arrived from Delphos, are both landed, Hasting to th’ court. A LORD (to Leontes) So please you, sir, their speed Hath been. beyond account.
LEONTES	Twenty-three days They have been absent. ’Tis good speed, foretells The great Apollo suddenly will have The truth of this appear. Prepare you, lords. Summon a session, that we may arraign Our most disloyal lady; for as she hath Been publicly accused, so shall she have A just and open trial. While she lives My heart will be a burden to me. Leave me, And think upon my bidding.
(didascalia)	Exeunt severally

Atto 3, Scena 1

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Cleomenes and Dion
CLEOMENES	The climate’s delicate, the air most sweet; Fertile the isle, the temple much surpassing The common praise it bears.
DION	I shall report, For most it caught me, the celestial habits— Methinks I so should term them—and the reverence Of the grave wearers. O, the sacrifice- How ceremonious, solemn, and unearthly It was i‘th’ off’ring!
CLEOMENES	But of all, the burst And the ear-deaf‘ning voice o’th’ oracle, Kin to Jove’s thunder, so surprised 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, The time is worth the use on’t.
CLEOMENES	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 sealed up, Shall the contents discover, something rare Even then will rush to knowledge. Go. Fresh horses! And gracious be the issue.
(didascalia)	Exeunt

Atto 3, Scena 2

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Leontes, Lords, and Officers
LEONTES	This sessions, to our great grief we pronounce, Even pushes ’gainst our heart: the party tried The daughter of a king, our wife, and one Of us too much beloved. Let us be cleared 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.
OFFICER	It is his highness’ pleasure That the Queen appear in person here in court.
(didascalia)	Enter Hermione guarded, with Paulina and Ladies
OFFICER	Silence.
LEONTES	Read the indictment.
OFFICER	(reads) 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.
HERMIONE	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 falsehood shall, as I express it, Be so received. But thus: if powers divine Behold our human actions—as they do— I doubt not then but innocence shall make False accusation blush, and tyranny Tremble at patience. 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, though devised And played 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 strained t’appear thus. If one jot beyond The bound of honour, or in act or will That way inclining, hardened be the hearts Of all that hear me, and my near‘st of kin Cry ‘Fie’ upon my grave.
LEONTES	I ne’er heard yet That any of these bolder vices wanted Less impudence to gainsay what they did Than to perform it first.
HERMIONE	That’s true enough, Though ’tis a saying, sir, not due to me.
LEONTES	You will not own it.
HERMIONE	More than mistress of Which comes to me in name of fault, I must not At all acknowledge. For Polixenes, With whom I am accused, I do confess I loved him as in honour he required; With such a kind of love as might become A lady like me; with a love, even such, So, and no other, as yourself commanded; Which not to have done I think had been in me Both disobedience and ingratitude To you and toward 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, though it be dished 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.
LEONTES	You knew of his departure, as you know What you have underta’en to do in’s absence.
HERMIONE	Sir, You speak a language that I understand not. My life stands in the level of your dreams, Which I’ll lay down.
LEONTES	Your actions are my ‘dreams’. You had a bastard by Polixenes, And I but dreamed 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 itself, 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.
HERMIONE	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, And first fruits of my body, from his presence I am barred, like one infectious. My third comfort, Starred most unluckily, is from my breast, The innocent milk in it most innocent mouth, Haled out to murder; myself on every post Proclaimed a strumpet, with immodest hatred The childbed privilege denied, 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 condemned 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. A LORD This your request Is altogether just. Therefore bring forth, And in Apollo’s name, his oracle. [Exeunt certain Officers]
HERMIONE	The Emperor of Russia was my father. O that he were alive, and here beholding His daughter’s trial; that he did but see The flatness of my misery—yet with eyes Of pity, not revenge. [Enter Officers with Cleomenes and Dion]
OFFICER	You here shall swear upon this sword of justice That you, Cleomenes and Dion, have Been both at Delphos, and from thence have brought This sealed-up oracle, by the hand delivered Of great Apollo’s priest; and that since then You have not dared to break the holy seal, Nor read the secrets in’t.
CLEOMENES	and DION All this we swear. LEONTES Break up the seals, and read.
OFFICER	(reads) 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 blessèd be the great Apollo!
HERMIONE	Praised!
LEONTES	Hast thou read truth?
OFFICER	Ay, my lord, even so as it is here set down.
LEONTES	There is no truth at all i’th’ oracle. The sessions shall proceed. This is mere falsehood.
(didascalia)	Enter a Servant
SERVANT	My lord the King! The King!
LEONTES	What is the business?
SERVANT	O sir, I shall be hated to report it. The prince your son, with mere conceit and fear Of the Queen’s speed, is gone.
LEONTES	How, ‘gone’?
SERVANT	Is dead.
LEONTES	Apollo’s angry, and the heavens themselves Do strike at my injustice. Hermione falls to the ground How now there?
PAULINA	This news is mortal to the Queen. Look down And see what death is doing.
LEONTES	Take her hence. Her heart is but o’ercharged. She will recover. I have too much believed mine own suspicion. Beseech you, tenderly apply to her Some remedies for life.
(didascalia)	Exeunt Paulina and Ladies, carrying Hermione
LEONTES	Apollo, pardon My great profaneness ’gainst thine oracle. I’ll reconcile me to Polixenes, New woo my queen, recall 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. Though I with death and with Reward did threaten and encourage him, Not doing it, and being done, he, most humane And filled with honour, to my kingly guest Unclasped 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 rust! And how his piety Does my deeds make the blacker!
(didascalia)	Enter Paulina
PAULINA	Woe the while! O cut my lace, lest my heart, cracking it, Break too. A LORD What fit is this, good lady?
PAULINA	(to Leontes) What studied torments, tyrant, hast for me? What wheels, racks, fires? What flaying, boiling 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 bygone fooleries were but spices of it. That thou betrayed‘st Polixenes, ’twas nothing. That did but show thee, of a fool, inconstant, And damnable ingrateful. Nor was’t much Thou wouldst have poisoned 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, 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 honourable thoughts— Thoughts high for one so tender—cleft the heart That could conceive a gross and foolish sire Blemished 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 sweet‘st, dear’st creature’s dead, and vengeance for’t Not dropped down yet. A LORD The higher powers forbid!
PAULINA	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.
LEONTES	Go on, go on. Thou canst not speak too much. I have deserved All tongues to talk their bitt’rest. A LORD (to Paulina) Say no more. Howe‘er the business goes, you have made fault I’th’ boldness of your speech.
PAULINA	I am sorry for’t. All faults I make, when I shall come to know them I do repent. Alas, I have showed too much The rashness of a woman. He is touched To th’ noble heart. What’s gone and what’s past help Should be past grief. (To Leontes) Do not receive affliction At my petition. I beseech you, rather Let me be punished, 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 your patience to you, And I’ll say nothing.
LEONTES	Thou didst speak but well When most the truth, which I receive much better Than to be pitied of thee. Prithee 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.
(didascalia)	Exeunt

Atto 3, Scena 3

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Antigonus, carrying the babe, with a Mariner ANTIGONUS
(didascalia)	Thou art perfect then our ship hath touched upon The deserts of Bohemia?
MARINER	Ay, 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’s.
ANTIGONUS	Their sacred wills be done. Go get aboard. Look to thy barque. I’ll not be long before I call upon thee.
MARINER	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.
ANTIGONUS	Go thou away. I’ll follow instantly.
MARINER	I am glad at heart To be so rid o’th’ business. Exit
ANTIGONUS	Come, poor babe. I have heard, but not believed, the spirits o‘th’ dead May walk again. If such thing be, thy mother Appeared 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 filled and so becoming. In pure white robes Like very sanctity she did approach My cabin where I lay, thrice bowed 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 prithee 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, Yet for this once, yea superstitiously, I will be squared by this. I do believe Hermione hath suffered 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! He lays down the babe and a scroll There lie, and there thy character. He lays down a box There these, Which may, if fortune please, both breed thee, pretty, And still rest thine.
(didascalia)	Thunder
ANTIGONUS	The storm begins. Poor wretch, That for thy mother’s fault art thus exposed To loss and what may follow! Weep I cannot, But my heart bleeds, and most accursed am I To be by oath enjoined to this. Farewell. The day frowns more and more. Thou’rt like to have A lullaby too rough. I never saw The heavens so dim by day. A savage clamour! Well may I get aboard. This is the chase. I am gone for ever!
(didascalia)	Exit, pursued by a bear
(didascalia)	Enter an Old Shepherd
OLD SHEPHERD	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 boiled-brains of nineteen and two-and-twenty hunt this weather? They have scared away two of my best sheep, which I fear the wolf will sooner find than the master. If anywhere I have them, ’tis by the seaside, browsing of ivy. Good luck, an’t be thy will! He sees the babe What have we here? Mercy on‘s, a bairn! A very pretty bairn. A boy or a child, I wonder? A pretty one, a very pretty one. Sure some scape. Though 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. 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 hallooed but even now. Whoa-ho-hoa!
(didascalia)	Enter Clown
CLOWN	Hilloa, loa!
OLD SHEPHERD	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?
CLOWN	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.
OLD SHEPHERD	Why, boy, how is it?
CLOWN	I would you did but see how it chafes, how it rages, how it takes up the shore. But that’s not to the point. O, 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 mainmast, and anon swallowed with yeast and froth, as you’d thrust a cork into a hogshead. And then for the land-service, to see how the bear tore out his shoulder-bone, how he cried 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-dragoned it! But first, how the poor souls roared, and the sea mocked them, and how the poor gentleman roared, and the bear mocked him, both roaring louder than the sea or weather.
OLD SHEPHERD	Name of mercy, when was this, boy?
CLOWN	Now, now. I have not winked since I saw these sights. The men are not yet cold under water, nor the bear half dined on the gentleman. He’s at it now.
OLD SHEPHERD	Would I had been by to have helped the old man!
CLOWN	I would you had been by the ship side, to have helped her. There your charity would have lacked footing.
OLD SHEPHERD	Heavy matters, heavy matters. But look thee here, boy. Now bless thyself. Thou metst with things dying, I with things new-born. Here’s a sight for thee. Look thee, a bearing-cloth for a squire’s child. He points to the box 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 changeling. Open’t. What’s within, boy?
CLOWN	(opening the box) You’re a made old man. If the sins of your youth are forgiven you, you’re well to live. Gold, all gold!
OLD SHEPHERD	This is fairy gold, boy, and ‘twill prove so. Up with’t, keep it close. Home, home, the next way. We are lucky, boy, and to be so still requires nothing but secrecy. Let my sheep go. Come, good boy, the next way home.
CLOWN	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.
OLD SHEPHERD	That’s a good deed. If thou mayst discern by that which is left of him what he is, fetch me to th’ sight of him.
CLOWN	Marry will I; and you shall help to put him i’th’ ground.
OLD SHEPHERD	’Tis a lucky day, boy, and we’ll do good deeds on’t.
(didascalia)	Exeunt

Atto 4, Scena 1

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Time, the Chorus
TIME	I that please some, try all; both joy and terror Of good and bad; that makes and unfolds 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 and leave the growth untried Of that wide gap, since it is in my power To o’erthrow law, and in one self-born hour To plant and o‘erwhelm custom. Let me pass The same I am ere ancient’st order was Or what is now received. I witness to The times that brought them in; so shall I do To th’ freshest things now reigning, and make stale The glistering of this present as my tale Now seems to it. Your patience this allowing, I turn my glass, and give my scene such growing As you had slept between. Leontes leaving Th‘effects of his fond jealousies, so grieving That he shuts up himself, imagine me, Gentle spectators, that I now may be In fair Bohemia, and remember well I mentioned a son o’th’ King‘s, which Florizel I now name to you; and with speed so pace To speak of Perdita, now grown in grace Equal with wond’ring. What of her ensues I list not prophesy, 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.
(didascalia)	Exit

Atto 4, Scena 2

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Polixenes and Camillo
POLIXENES	I pray thee, good Camillo, be no more importunate. ’Tis a sickness denying thee anything, a death to grant this.
CAMILLO	It is sixteen years since I saw my country. Though I have for the most part been aired abroad, I desire to lay my bones there. Besides, the penitent King, my master, hath sent for me, to whose feeling sorrows I might be some allay—or I o’erween to think so—which is another spur to my departure.
POLIXENES	As thou lov’st me, Camillo, wipe not out the rest of thy services by leaving me now. The need I have of thee thine own goodness hath made. Better not to have had thee than thus to want thee. Thou, having made me businesses which none without thee can sufficiently manage, must either stay to execute them thyself or take away with thee the very services thou hast done; which if I have not enough considered—as too much I cannot—to be more thankful to thee shall be my study, and my profit therein, the heaping friendships. Of that fatal country Sicilia, prithee speak no more, whose very naming punishes me with the remembrance of that penitent—as thou callest him—and reconciled King my brother, whose loss of his most precious queen and children are even now to be afresh lamented. Say to me, when sawest thou the Prince Florizel, my son? Kings are no less unhappy, their issue not being gracious, than they are in losing them when they have approved their virtues.
CAMILLO	Sir, it is three days since I saw the Prince. What his happier affairs may be are to me unknown; but I have missingly noted he is of late much retired from court, and is less frequent to his princely exercises than formerly he hath appeared.
POLIXENES	I have considered so much, Camillo, and with some care, so far that I have eyes under my service which look upon his removedness, from whom I have this intelligence: that he is seldom from the house of a most homely shepherd, a man, they say, that from very nothing, and beyond the imagination of his neighbours, is grown into an unspeakable estate.
CAMILLO	I have heard, sir, of such a man, who hath a daughter of most rare note. The report of her is extended more than can be thought to begin from such a cottage.
POLIXENES	That’s likewise part of my intelligence; but, I fear, the angle that plucks our son thither. Thou shalt accompany us to the place, where we will, not appearing what we are, have some question with the shepherd; from whose simplicity I think it not uneasy to get the cause of my son’s resort thither. Prithee, be my present partner in this business, and lay aside the thoughts of Sicilia.
CAMILLO	I willingly obey your command.
POLIXENES	My best Camillo! We must disguise ourselves.
(didascalia)	Exeunt

Atto 4, Scena 3

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Autolycus singing
AUTOLYCUS	When daffodils begin to peer, With heigh, the doxy over the dale, Why then comes in the sweet o’the year, For the red blood reigns in the winter’s pale. The white sheet bleaching on the hedge, With heigh, the sweet birds, O how they sing! Doth set my pugging tooth on edge, For a quart of ale is a dish for a king. The lark, that tirra-lirra chants, With heigh, with heigh, the thrush and the jay, Are summer songs for me and my aunts While we lie tumbling in the hay. I have served Prince Florizel, and in my time wore three-pile, but now I am out of service. But shall I go mourn for that, my dear? The pale moon shines by night, And when I wander here and there I then do most go right. If tinkers may have leave to live, And bear the sow-skin budget, Then my account I well may give, And in the stocks avouch it. My traffic is sheets. When the kite builds, look to lesser linen. My father named me Autolycus, who being, as I am, littered under Mercury, was likewise a snapperup of unconsidered trifles. With die and drab I purchased this caparison, and my revenue is the silly cheat. Gallows and knock are too powerful on the highway. Beating and hanging are terrors to me. For the life to come, I sleep out the thought of it. A prize, a prize!
(didascalia)	Enter Clown
CLOWN	Let me see. Every ’leven wether tods, every tod yields pound and odd shilling. Fifteen hundred shorn, what comes the wool to?
AUTOLYCUS	(aside) If the springe hold, the cock’s mine.
CLOWN	I cannot do’t without counters. Let me see, what am I to buy for our sheep-shearing feast? Three pound of sugar, five pound of currants, rice—what will this sister of mine do with rice? But my father hath made her mistress of the feast, and she lays it on. She hath made me four-and-twenty nosegays for the shearers—three-man-song-men, all, and very good ones—but they are most of them means and basses, but one Puritan amongst them, and he sings psalms to hornpipes. I must have saffron to colour the warden pies; mace; dates, none—that’s out of my note; nutmegs, seven; a race or two of ginger—but that I may beg; four pound of prunes, and as many of raisins o’th’ sun.
AUTOLYCUS	(grovelling on the ground) O, that ever I was born!
CLOWN	I’th’ name of me!
AUTOLYCUS	O help me, help me! Pluck but off these rags, and then death, death!
CLOWN	Alack, poor soul, thou hast need of more rags to lay on thee rather than have these off.
AUTOLYCUS	O sir, the loathsomeness of them offend me more than the stripes I have received, which are mighty ones and millions.
CLOWN	Alas, poor man, a million of beating may come to a great matter.
AUTOLYCUS	I am robbed, sir, and beaten; my money and apparel ta’en from me, and these detestable things put upon me.
CLOWN	What, by a horseman, or a footman?
AUTOLYCUS	A footman, sweet sir, a footman.
CLOWN	Indeed, he should be a footman, by the garments he has left with thee. If this be a horseman’s coat it hath seen very hot service. Lend me thy hand, I’ll help thee. Come, lend me thy hand. He helps Autolycus up
AUTOLYCUS	O, good sir, tenderly. O!
CLOWN	Alas, poor soul!
AUTOLYCUS	O, good sir, softly, good sir! I fear, sir, my shoulder-blade is out.
CLOWN	How now? Canst stand?
AUTOLYCUS	Softly, dear sir. Good sir, softly.
(didascalia)	He picks the Clown’s pocket
AUTOLYCUS	You ha’ done me a charitable office.
CLOWN	(reaching for his purse) Dost lack any money? I have a little money for thee.
AUTOLYCUS	No, good sweet sir, no, I beseech you, sir. I have a kinsman not past three-quarters of a mile hence, unto whom I was going. I shall there have money, or anything I want. Offer me no money, I pray you. That kills my heart.
CLOWN	What manner of fellow was he that robbed you?
AUTOLYCUS	A fellow, sir, that I have known to go about with troll-madams. I knew him once a servant of the Prince. I cannot tell, good sir, for which of his virtues it was, but he was certainly whipped out of the court.
CLOWN	His vices, you would say. There’s no virtue whipped out of the court. They cherish it to make it stay there; and yet it will no more but abide.
AUTOLYCUS	Vices, I would say, sir. I know this man well. He hath been since an ape-bearer, then a process-server—a bailiff—then he compassed a motion of the Prodigal Son, and married a tinker’s wife within a mile where my land and living lies, and having flown over many knavish professions, he settled only in rogue. Some call him Autolycus.
CLOWN	Out upon him! Prig, for my life, prig! He haunts wakes, fairs, and bear-baitings.
AUTOLYCUS	Very true, sir. He, sir, he. That’s the rogue that put me into this apparel.
CLOWN	Not a more cowardly rogue in all Bohemia. If you had but looked big and spit at him, he’d have run.
AUTOLYCUS	I must confess to you, sir, I am no fighter. I am false of heart that way, and that he knew, I warrant him.
CLOWN	How do you now?
AUTOLYCUS	Sweet sir, much better than I was. I can stand, and walk. I will even take my leave of you, and pace softly towards my kinsman’s.
CLOWN	Shall I bring thee on the way?
AUTOLYCUS	No, good-faced sir, no, sweet sir.
CLOWN	Then fare thee well. I must go buy spices for our sheep-shearing.
AUTOLYCUS	Prosper you, sweet sir. Exit the Clown Your purse is not hot enough to purchase your spice. I’ll be with you at your sheep-shearing, too. If I make not this cheat bring out another, and the shearers prove sheep, let me be unrolled and my name put in the book of virtue. (Sings) Jog on, jog on, the footpath way, And merrily hent the stile-a. A merry heart goes all the day, Your sad tires in a mile-a.
(didascalia)	Exit

Atto 4, Scena 4

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Florizel dressed as Doricles a countryman, and Perdita as Queen of the Feast
FLORIZEL	These your unusual weeds to each part of you Does give a life; no shepherdess, but Flora Peering in April’s front. This your sheep-shearing Is as a meeting of the petty gods, And you the queen on’t.
PERDITA	Sir, my gracious lord, To chide at your extremes it not becomes me— O, pardon that I name them! Your high self, The gracious mark o’th’ land, you have obscured With a swain’s wearing, and me, poor lowly maid, Most goddess-like pranked up. But that our feasts In every mess have folly, and the feeders Digest it with a custom, I should blush To see you so attired; swoon, I think, To show myself a glass.
FLORIZEL	I bless the time When my good falcon made her flight across Thy father’s ground.
PERDITA	Now Jove afford you cause! To me the difference forges dread; your greatness Hath not been used to fear. Even now I tremble To think your father by some accident Should pass this way, as you did. O, the fates! How would he look to see his work, so noble, Vilely bound up? What would he say? Or how Should I, in these my borrowed flaunts, behold The sternness of his presence?
FLORIZEL	Apprehend Nothing but jollity. The gods themselves, Humbling their deities to love, have taken The shapes of beasts upon them. Jupiter Became a bull, and bellowed; the green Neptune A ram, and bleated; and the fire-robed god, Golden Apollo, a poor humble swain, As I seem now. Their transformations Were never for a piece of beauty rarer, Nor in a way so chaste, since my desires Run not before mine honour, nor my lusts Burn hotter than my faith.
PERDITA	O, but sir, Your resolution cannot hold when ’tis Opposed, as it must be, by th’ power of the King. One of these two must be necessities, Which then will speak that you must change this purpose, Or I my life.
FLORIZEL	Thou dearest Perdita, With these forced thoughts I prithee darken not The mirth o’th’ feast. Or I’ll be thine, my fair, Or not my father’s. For I cannot be Mine own, nor anything to any, if I be not thine. To this I am most constant, Though destiny say no. Be merry, gentle; Strangle such thoughts as these with anything That you behold the while. Your guests are coming. Lift up your countenance as it were the day Of celebration of that nuptial which We two have sworn shall come.
PERDITA	O Lady Fortune, Stand you auspicious!
FLORIZEL	See, your guests approach. Address yourself to entertain them sprightly, And let’s be red with mirth.
(didascalia)	Enter the Old Shepherd, with Polixenes and Camillo,
FLORIZEL	disguised, the Clown, Mopsa, Dorcas, and others
OLD SHEPHERD	(to Perdita) Fie, daughter, when my old wife lived, upon This day she was both pantler, butler, cook, Both dame and servant, welcomed all, served all, Would sing her song and dance her turn, now here At upper end o‘th’ table, now i’th’ middle, On his shoulder, and his, her face afire With labour, and the thing she took to quench it She would to each one sip. You are retired As if you were a feasted one and not The hostess of the meeting. Pray you bid These unknown friends to’s welcome, for it is A way to make us better friends, more known. Come, quench your blushes, and present yourself That which you are, mistress o’th’ feast. Come on, And bid us welcome to your sheep-shearing, As your good flock shall prosper.
PERDITA	(to Polixenes) Sir, welcome. It is my father’s will I should take on me The hostess-ship o’th’ day. (To Camillo) You’re welcome, sir. Give me those flowers there, Dorcas. Reverend sirs, For you there’s rosemary and rue. These keep Seeming and savour all the winter long. Grace and remembrance be to you both, And welcome to our shearing.
POLIXENES	Shepherdess, A fair one are you. Well you fit our ages With flowers of winter.
PERDITA	Sir, the year growing ancient, Not yet on summer’s death, nor on the birth Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o’th’ season Are our carnations and streaked gillyvors, Which some call nature’s bastards. Of that kind Our rustic garden’s barren, and I care not To get slips of them.
POLIXENES	Wherefore, gentle maiden, Do you neglect them?
PERDITA	For I have heard it said There is an art which in their piedness shares With great creating nature.
POLIXENES	Say there be, Yet nature is made better by no mean But nature makes that mean. So over that art Which you say adds to nature is an art That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry A gentler scion to the wildest stock, And make conceive a bark of baser kind By bud of nobler race. This is an art Which does mend nature—change it rather; but The art itself is nature.
PERDITA	So it is.
POLIXENES	Then make your garden rich in gillyvors, And do not call them bastards.
PERDITA	I’ll not put The dibble in earth to set one slip of them, No more than, were I painted, I would wish This youth should say ‘twere well, and only therefore Desire to breed by me. Here’s flowers for you: Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram, The marigold, that goes to bed wi’th’ sun, And with him rises, weeping. These are flowers Of middle summer, and I think they are given To men of middle age. You’re very welcome. She gives them flowers
CAMILLO	I should leave grazing were I of your flock, And only live by gazing.
PERDITA	Out, alas, You’d be so lean that blasts of January Would blow you through and through. (To Florizel) Now, my fair‘st friend, I would I had some flowers o’th’ spring that might Become your time of day; (to Mopsa and Dorcas) and yours, and yours, That wear upon your virgin branches yet Your maidenheads growing. O Proserpina, For the flowers now that, frighted, thou letst fall From Dis’s wagon!-daffodils, That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty; violets, dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes Or Cytherea’s breath; pale primroses, That die unmarried ere they can behold Bright Phoebus in his strength—a malady Most incident to maids; bold oxlips, and The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds, The flower-de-luce being one. O, these I lack, To make you garlands of, and my sweet friend, To strew him o‘er and o’er.
FLORIZEL	What, like a corpse?
PERDITA	No, like a bank, for love to lie and play on, Not like a corpse—or if, not to be buried, But quick and in mine arms. Come, take your flowers. Methinks I play as I have seen them do In Whitsun pastorals. Sure this robe of mine Does change my disposition.
FLORIZEL	What you do Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet, I’d have you do it ever; when you sing, I’d have you buy and sell so, so give alms, Pray so; and for the ord‘ring your affairs, To sing them too. When you do dance, I wish you A wave o’th’ sea, that you might ever do Nothing but that, move still, still so, And own no other function. Each your doing, So singular in each particular, Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds, That all your acts are queens.
PERDITA	O Doricles, Your praises are too large. But that your youth And the true blood which peeps so fairly through’t Do plainly give you out an unstained shepherd, With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles, You wooed me the false way.
FLORIZEL	I think you have As little skill to fear as I have purpose To put you to’t. But come, our dance, I pray; Your hand, my Perdita. So turtles pair, That never mean to part.
PERDITA	I’ll swear for ’em.
POLIXENES	(to Camillo) This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever Ran on the greensward. Nothing she does or seems But smacks of something greater than herself, Too noble for this place.
CAMILLO	He tells her something That makes her blood look out. Good sooth, she is The queen of curds and cream.
CLOWN	Come on, strike up!
DORCAS	Mopsa must be your mistress. Marry, garlic to mend her kissing with!
MOPSA	Now, in good time!
CLOWN	Not a word, a word, we stand upon our manners. Come, strike up!
(didascalia)	Music. Here a dance of shepherds and shepherdesses
POLIXENES	Pray, good shepherd, what fair swain is this Which dances with your daughter?
OLD SHEPHERD	They call him Doricles, and boasts himself To have a worthy feeding; but I have it Upon his own report, and I believe it. He looks like sooth. He says he loves my daughter. I think so, too, for never gazed the moon Upon the water as he’ll stand and read, As ’twere, my daughter’s eyes; and to be plain, I think there is not half a kiss to choose Who loves another best.
POLIXENES	She dances featly.
OLD SHEPHERD	So she does anything, though I report it That should be silent. If young Doricles Do light upon her, she shall bring him that Which he not dreams of.
(didascalia)	Enter a Servant
SERVANT	O, master, if you did but hear the pedlar at the door, you would never dance again after a tabor and pipe. No, the bagpipe could not move you. He sings several tunes faster than you’ll tell money. He utters them as he had eaten ballads, and all men’s ears grew to his tunes.
CLOWN	He could never come better. He shall come in. I love a ballad but even too well, if it be doleful matter merrily set down, or a very pleasant thing indeed, and sung lamentably.
SERVANT	He hath songs for man or woman, of all sizes. No milliner can so fit his customers with gloves. He has the prettiest love songs for maids, so without bawdry, which is strange, with such delicate burdens of dildos and fadings, ‘Jump her, and thump her’; and where some stretch-mouthed rascal would, as it were, mean mischief and break a foul gap into the matter, he makes the maid to answer, ‘Whoop, do me no harm, good man’; puts him off, slights him, with ‘Whoop, do me no harm, good man!’
POLIXENES	This is a brave fellow.
CLOWN	Believe me, thou talkest of an admirable conceited fellow. Has he any unbraided wares?
SERVANT	He hath ribbons of all the colours i‘th’ rainbow; points more than all the lawyers in Bohemia can learnedly handle, though they come to him by th’ gross; inkles, caddises, cambrics, lawns—why, he sings ’em over as they were gods or goddesses. You would think a smock were a she-angel, he so chants to the sleeve-hand and the work about the square on’t.
CLOWN	Prithee bring him in, and let him approach singing.
PERDITA	Forewarn him that he use no scurrilous words in’s tunes.
(didascalia)	Exit Servant
CLOWN	You have of these pedlars that have more in them than you’d think, sister.
PERDITA	Ay, good brother, or go about to think.
(didascalia)	Enter Autolycus, wearing a false beard, carrying his pack, and singing
AUTOLYCUS	Lawn as white as driven snow, Cypress black as e’er was crow, Gloves as sweet as damask roses, Masks for faces, and for noses; Bugle-bracelet, necklace amber, Perfume for a lady’s chamber; Golden coifs, and stomachers For my lads to give their dears; Pins and poking-sticks of steel, What maids lack from head to heel Come buy of me, come, come buy, come buy, Buy, lads, or else your lasses cry. Come buy!
CLOWN	If I were not in love with Mopsa thou shouldst take no money of me, but being enthralled as I am, it will also be the bondage of certain ribbons and gloves.
MOPSA	I was promised them against the feast, but they come not too late now.
DORCAS	He hath promised you more than that, or there be liars.
MOPSA	He hath paid you all he promised you. Maybe he has paid you more, which will shame you to give him again.
CLOWN	Is there no manners left among maids? Will they wear their plackets where they should bear their faces? Is there not milking-time, when you are going to bed, or kiln-hole, to whistle of these secrets, but you must be tittle-tattling before all our guests? ’Tis well they are whispering. Clammer your tongues, and not a word more.
MOPSA	I have done. Come, you promised me a tawdry-lace and a pair of sweet gloves.
CLOWN	Have I not told thee how I was cozened by the way, and lost all my money?
AUTOLYCUS	And indeed, sir, there are cozeners abroad, therefore it behoves men to be wary.
CLOWN	Fear not thou, man, thou shalt lose nothing here.
AUTOLYCUS	I hope so, sir, for I have about me many parcels of charge.
CLOWN	What hast here? Ballads?
MOPSA	Pray now, buy some. I love a ballad in print, alife, for then we are sure they are true.
AUTOLYCUS	Here’s one to a very doleful tune, how a usurer’s wife was brought to bed of twenty money-bags at a burden, and how she longed to eat adders’ heads and toads carbonadoed.
MOPSA	Is it true, think you?
AUTOLYCUS	Very true, and but a month old.
DORCAS	Bless me from marrying a usurer!
AUTOLYCUS	Here’s the midwife’s name to’t, one Mistress Tail-Porter, and five or six honest wives’ that were present. Why should I carry lies abroad?
MOPSA	(to Clown) Pray you now, buy it.
CLOWN	Come on, lay it by, and let’s first see more ballads. We’ll buy the other things anon.
AUTOLYCUS	Here’s another ballad, of a fish that appeared upon the coast on Wednesday the fourscore of April, forty thousand fathom above water, and sung this ballad against the hard hearts of maids. It was thought she was a woman, and was turned into a cold fish for she would not exchange flesh with one that loved her. The ballad is very pitiful, and as true.
DORCAS	Is it true too, think you?
AUTOLYCUS	Five justices’ hands at it, and witnesses more than my pack will hold.
CLOWN	Lay it by, too. Another.
AUTOLYCUS	This is a merry ballad, but a very pretty one. MOPSA Let’s have some merry ones.
AUTOLYCUS	Why, this is a passing merry one, and goes to the tune of ‘Two Maids Wooing a Man’. There’s scarce a maid westward but she sings it. ’Tis in request, I can tell you.
MOPSA	We can both sing it. If thou‘lt bear a part thou shalt hear; ’tis in three parts.
DORCAS	We had the tune on’t a month ago.
AUTOLYCUS	I can bear my part, you must know, ’tis my occupation. Have at it with you.
CLOWN	We’ll have this song out anon by ourselves. My father and the gentlemen are in sad talk, and we’ll not trouble them. Come, bring away thy pack after me. Wenches, I’ll buy for you both. Pedlar, let’s have the first choice. Follow me, girls.
(didascalia)	Exit with Dorcas and Mopsa
AUTOLYCUS	And you shall pay well for ’em.
(didascalia)	Enter Servant
SERVANT	Master, there is three carters, three shepherds, three neatherds, three swineherds that have made themselves all men of hair. They call themselves saultiers, and they have a dance which the wenches say is a gallimaufry of gambols, because they are not in’t. But they themselves are o’th’ mind, if it be not too rough for some that know little but bowling, it will please plentifully.
OLD SHEPHERD	Away. We’ll none on’t. Here has been too much homely foolery already. (To Polixenes) I know, sir, we weary you.
POLIXENES	You weary those that refresh us. Pray, let’s see these four threes of herdsmen.
SERVANT	One three of them, by their own report, sir, hath danced before the King, and not the worst of the three but jumps twelve foot and a half by th’ square.
OLD SHEPHERD	Leave your prating. Since these good men are pleased, let them come in—but quickly, now.
SERVANT	Why, they stay at door, sir. Here a dance of twelve satyrs
POLIXENES	(to the Old Shepherd) O, father, you’ll know more of that hereafter. (To Camillo) Is it not too far gone? ’Tis time to part them. He’s simple, and tells much. (To Florizel) How now, fair shepherd, Your heart is full of something that does take Your mind from feasting. Sooth, when I was young And handed love as you do, I was wont To load my she with knacks. I would have ransacked The pedlar’s silken treasury, and have poured it To her acceptance. You have let him go, And nothing marted with him. If your lass Interpretation should abuse, and call this Your lack of love or bounty, you were straited For a reply, at least if you make a care Of happy holding her.
FLORIZEL	Old sir, I know She prizes not such trifles as these are. The gifts she looks from me are packed and locked Up in my heart, which I have given already, But not delivered. (To Perdita) O, hear me breathe my life Before this ancient sir, who, it should seem, Hath sometime loved. I take thy hand, this hand As soft as dove’s down, and as white as it, Or Ethiopian’s tooth, or the fanned snow that’s bolted By th’ northern blasts twice o’er.
POLIXENES	What follows this? How prettily the young swain seems to wash The hand was fair before! I have put you out. But to your protestation. Let me hear What you profess.
FLORIZEL	Do, and be witness to’t.
POLIXENES	And this my neighbour too?
FLORIZEL	And he, and more Than he; and men, the earth, the heavens, and all, That were I crowned the most imperial monarch, Thereof most worthy, were I the fairest youth That ever made eye swerve, had force and knowledge More than was ever man’s, I would not prize them Without her love; for her employ them all, Commend them and condemn them to her service Or to their own perdition.
POLIXENES	Fairly offered.
CAMILLO	This shows a sound affection.
OLD SHEPHERD	But, my daughter, Say you the like to him?
PERDITA	I cannot speak So well, nothing so well, no, nor mean better. By th’ pattern of mine own thoughts I cut out The purity of his.
OLD SHEPHERD	Take hands, a bargain; And, friends unknown, you shall bear witness to’t. I give my daughter to him, and will make Her portion equal his.
FLORIZEL	O, that must be I’th’ virtue of your daughter. One being dead, I shall have more than you can dream of yet, Enough then for your wonder. But come on, Contract us fore these witnesses.
OLD SHEPHERD	Come, your hand; And, daughter, yours.
POLIXENES	Soft, swain, a while, beseech you. Have you a father?
FLORIZEL	I have. But what of him?
POLIXENES	Knows he of this?
FLORIZEL	He neither does nor shall.
POLIXENES	Methinks a father Is at the nuptial of his son a guest That best becomes the table. Pray you once more, Is not your father grown incapable Of reasonable affairs? Is he not stupid With age and alt’ring rheums? Can he speak, hear, Know man from man? Dispute his own estate? Lies he not bed-rid, and again does nothing But what he did being childish?
FLORIZEL	No, good sir. He has his health, and ampler strength indeed Than most have of his age.
POLIXENES	By my white beard, You offer him, if this be so, a wrong Something unfilial. Reason my son Should choose himself a wife, but as good reason The father, all whose joy is nothing else But fair posterity, should hold some counsel In such a business.
FLORIZEL	I yield all this; But for some other reasons, my grave sir, Which ’tis not fit you know, I not acquaint My father of this business.
POLIXENES	Let him know’t.
FLORIZEL	He shall not.
POLIXENES	Prithee let him.
FLORIZEL	No, he must not.
OLD SHEPHERD	Let him, my son. He shall not need to grieve At knowing of thy choice.
FLORIZEL	Come, come, he must not. Mark our contract.
POLIXENES	(removing his disguise) Mark your divorce, young sir, Whom son I dare not call. Thou art too base To be acknowledged. Thou a sceptre’s heir, That thus affects a sheep-hook? (To the Old Shepherd) Thou, old traitor, I am sorry that by hanging thee I can but Shorten thy life one week. (To Perdita) And thou, fresh piece Of excellent witchcraft, who of force must know The royal fool thou cop’st with—
OLD SHEPHERD	O, my heart!
POLIXENES	I’ll have thy beauty scratched with briers and made More homely than thy state. (To Florizel) For thee, fond boy, If I may ever know thou dost but sigh That thou no more shalt see this knack, as never I mean thou shalt, we’ll bar thee from succession, Not hold thee of our blood, no, not our kin, Farre than Deucalion off. Mark thou my words. Follow us to the court. (To the Old Shepherd) Thou churl, for this time, Though full of our displeasure, yet we free thee From the dead blow of it. (To Perdita) And you, enchantment, Worthy enough a herdsman—yea, him too, That makes himself, but for our honour therein, Unworthy thee—if ever henceforth thou These rural latches to his entrance open, Or hoop his body more with thy embraces, I will devise a death as cruel for thee As thou art tender to’t.
(didascalia)	Exit
PERDITA	Even here undone. I was not much afeard, for once or twice I was about to speak, and tell him plainly The selfsame sun that shines upon his court Hides not his visage from our cottage, but Looks on alike. Will’t please you, sir, be gone? I told you what would come of this. Beseech you, Of your own state take care. This dream of mine Being now awake, I’ll queen it no inch farther, But milk my ewes and weep.
CAMILLO	(to the Old Shepherd) Why, how now, father? Speak ere thou diest.
OLD SHEPHERD	I cannot speak, nor think, Nor dare to know that which I know. (To Florizel) O sir, You have undone a man of fourscore-three, That thought to fill his grave in quiet, yea, To die upon the bed my father died, To lie close by his honest bones. But now Some hangman must put on my shroud, and lay me Where no priest shovels in dust. (To Perdita) O cursed wretch, That knew’st this was the Prince, and wouldst adventure To mingle faith with him. Undone, undone! If I might die within this hour, I have lived To die when I desire. Exit
FLORIZEL	(to Perdita) Why look you so upon me? I am but sorry, not afeard; delayed, But nothing altered. What I was, I am, More straining on for plucking back, not following My leash unwillingly.
CAMILLO	Gracious my lord, You know your father’s temper. At this time He will allow no speech—which I do guess You do not purpose to him; and as hardly Will he endure your sight as yet, I fear. Then till the fury of his highness settle, Come not before him.
FLORIZEL	I not purpose it. I think, Camillo?
CAMILLO	Even he, my lord.
PERDITA	(to Florizel) How often have I told you ‘twould be thus? How often said my dignity would last But till ’twere known?
FLORIZEL	It cannot fail but by The violation of my faith, and then Let nature crush the sides o’th’ earth together And mar the seeds within. Lift up thy looks. From my succession wipe me, father! I Am heir to my affection.
CAMILLO	Be advised.
FLORIZEL	I am, and by my fancy. If my reason Will thereto be obedient, I have reason. If not, my senses, better pleased with madness, Do bid it welcome.
CAMILLO	This is desperate, sir.
FLORIZEL	So call it. But it does fulfil my vow. I needs must think it honesty. Camillo, Not for Bohemia, nor the pomp that may Be thereat gleaned; for all the sun sees, or The close earth wombs, or the profound seas hides In unknown fathoms, will I break my oath To this my fair beloved. Therefore, I pray you, As you have ever been my father’s honoured friend, When he shall miss me—as, in faith, I mean not To see him any more—cast your good counsels Upon his passion. Let myself and fortune Tug for the time to come. This you may know, And so deliver: I am put to sea With her who here I cannot hold on shore; And most opportune to her need, I have A vessel rides fast by, but not prepared For this design. What course I mean to hold Shall nothing benefit your knowledge, nor Concern me the reporting.
CAMILLO	O my lord, I would your spirit were easier for advice, Or stronger for your need.
FLORIZEL	Hark, Perdita— (To Camillo) I’ll hear you by and by.
CAMILLO	(aside) He’s irremovable, Resolved for flight. Now were I happy if His going I could frame to serve my turn, Save him from danger, do him love and honour, Purchase the sight again of dear Sicilia And that unhappy king, my master, whom I so much thirst to see.
FLORIZEL	Now, good Camillo, I am so fraught with curious business that I leave out ceremony.
CAMILLO	Sir, I think You have heard of my poor services i’th’ love That I have borne your father?
FLORIZEL	Very nobly Have you deserved. It is my father’s music To speak your deeds, not little of his care To have them recompensed as thought on.
CAMILLO	Well, my lord, If you may please to think I love the King, And through him what’s nearest to him, which is Your gracious self, embrace but my direction, If your more ponderous and settled project May suffer alteration. On mine honour, I’ll point you where you shall have such receiving As shall become your highness, where you may Enjoy your mistress—from the whom I see There’s no disjunction to be made but by, As heavens forfend, your ruin—marry her, And with my best endeavours in your absence Your discontenting father strive to qualify And bring him up to liking.
FLORIZEL	How, Camillo, May this, almost a miracle, be done?— That I may call thee something more than man, And after that trust to thee.
CAMILLO	Have you thought on A place whereto you’ll go?
FLORIZEL	Not any yet. But as th’unthought-on accident is guilty To what we wildly do, so we profess Ourselves to be the slaves of chance, and flies Of every wind that blows.
CAMILLO	Then list to me. This follows, if you will not change your purpose But undergo this flight: make for Sicilia, And there present yourself and your fair princess, For so I see she must be, fore Leontes. She shall be habited as it becomes The partner of your bed. Methinks I see Leontes opening his free arms and weeping His welcomes forth; asks thee there ‘Son, forgiveness!’ As ‘twere i’th’ father’s person, kisses the hands Of your fresh princess; o‘er and o’er divides him ‘Twixt his unkindness and his kindness. Th’one He chides to hell, and bids the other grow Faster than thought or time.
FLORIZEL	Worthy Camillo, What colour for my visitation shall I Hold up before him?
CAMILLO	Sent by the King your father To greet him, and to give him comforts. Sir, The manner of your bearing towards him, with What you, as from your father, shall deliver— Things known betwixt us three—I’ll write you down, The which shall point you forth at every sitting What you must say, that he shall not perceive But that you have your father’s bosom there, And speak his very heart.
FLORIZEL	I am bound to you. There is some sap in this.
CAMILLO	A course more promising Than a wild dedication of yourselves To unpathed waters, undreamed shores; most certain, To miseries enough—no hope to help you, But as you shake off one, to take another; Nothing so certain as your anchors, who Do their best office if they can but stay you Where you’ll be loath to be. Besides, you know, Prosperity’s the very bond of love, Whose fresh complexion and whose heart together Affliction alters.
PERDITA	One of these is true. I think affliction may subdue the cheek But not take in the mind.
CAMILLO	Yea, say you so? There shall not at your father’s house these seven years Be born another such.
FLORIZEL	My good Camillo, She’s as forward of her breeding as She is i’th’ rear our birth.
CAMILLO	I cannot say ’tis pity She lacks instructions, for she seems a mistress To most that teach.
PERDITA	Your pardon, sir. For this I’ll blush you thanks.
FLORIZEL	My prettiest Perdita! But O, the thorns we stand upon! Camillo, Preserver of my father, now of me, The medicine of our house, how shall we do? We are not furnished like Bohemia’s son, Nor shall appear so in Sicilia.
CAMILLO	My lord, Fear none of this. I think you know my fortunes Do all lie there. It shall be so my care To have you royally appointed as if The scene you play were mine. For instance, sir, That you may know you shall not want—one word. They speak apart.
(didascalia)	Enter Autolycus
AUTOLYCUS	Ha, ha! What a fool honesty is, and trust—his sworn brother—a very simple gentleman! I have sold all my trumpery; not a counterfeit stone, not a ribbon, glass, pomander, brooch, table-book, ballad, knife, tape, glove, shoe-tie, bracelet, horn-ring to keep my pack from fasting. They throng who should buy first, as if my trinkets had been hallowed, and brought a benediction to the buyer; by which means I saw whose purse was best in picture; and what I saw, to my good use I remembered. My clown, who wants but something to be a reasonable man, grew so in love with the wenches’ song that he would not stir his pettitoes till he had both tune and words, which so drew the rest of the herd to me that all their other senses stuck in ears. You might have pinched a placket, it was senseless. ’Twas nothing to geld a codpiece of a purse. I could have filed keys off that hung in chains. No hearing, no feeling but my sir’s song, and admiring the nothing of it. So that in this time of lethargy I picked and cut most of their festival purses, and had not the old man come in with a hubbub against his daughter and the King’s son, and scared my choughs from the chaff, I had not left a purse alive in the whole army. Camillo, Florizel, and Perdita come forward
CAMILLO	Nay, but my letters by this means being there So soon as you arrive shall clear that doubt.
FLORIZEL	And those that you’ll procure from King Leontes—
CAMILLO	Shall satisfy your father.
PERDITA	Happy be you! All that you speak shows fair.
CAMILLO	(seeing Autolycus) Who have we here? We’ll make an instrument of this, omit Nothing may give us aid.
AUTOLYCUS	(aside) If they have overheard me now—why, hanging!
CAMILLO	How now, good fellow? Why shakest thou so? Fear not, man. Here’s no harm intended to thee.
AUTOLYCUS	I am a poor fellow, sir.
CAMILLO	Why, be so still. Here’s nobody will steal that from thee. Yet for the outside of thy poverty, we must make an exchange. Therefore discase thee instantty—thou must think there’s a necessity in’t-and change garments with this gentleman. Though the pennyworth on his side be the worst, yet hold thee, (giving him money) there’s some boot.
AUTOLYCUS	I am a poor fellow, sir. (Aside) I know ye well enough.
CAMILLO	Nay prithee, dispatch—the gentleman is half flayed already.
AUTOLYCUS	Are you in earnest, sir? (Aside) I smell the trick on’t.
FLORIZEL	Dispatch, I prithee.
AUTOLYCUS	Indeed, I have had earnest, but I cannot with conscience take it.
CAMILLO	Unbuckle, unbuckle. Florizel and Autolycus exchange clothes (To Perdita) Fortunate mistress—let my prophecy Come home to ye!—you must retire yourself Into some covert, take your sweetheart’s hat And pluck it o’er your brows, muffle your face, Dismantle you, and, as you can, disliken The truth of your own seeming, that you may— For I do fear eyes—over to shipboard Get undescried.
PERDITA	I see the play so lies That I must bear a part.
CAMILLO	No remedy. (To Florizel) Have you done there?
FLORIZEL	Should I now meet my father He would not call me son.
CAMILLO	Nay, you shall have no hat. He gives the hat to Perdita Come, lady, come. Farewell, my friend.
AUTOLYCUS	Adieu, sir.
FLORIZEL	O Perdita, what have we twain forgot! Pray you, a word. They speak aside
CAMILLO	(aside) What I do next shall be to tell the King Of this escape, and whither they are bound; Wherein my hope is I shall so prevail To force him after, in whose company I shall re-view Sicilia, for whose sight I have a woman’s longing.
FLORIZEL	Fortune speed us! Thus we set on, Camillo, to th’ seaside.
CAMILLO	The swifter speed the better.
(didascalia)	Exeunt Florizel, Perdita, and Camillo
AUTOLYCUS	I understand the business, I hear it. To have an open ear, a quick eye, and a nimble hand is necessary for a cutpurse. A good nose is requisite also, to smell out work for th’other senses. I see this is the time that the unjust man doth thrive. What an exchange had this been without boot! What a boot is here with this exchange! Sure the gods do this year connive at us, and we may do anything extempore. The Prince himself is about a piece of iniquity, stealing away from his father with his clog at his heels. If I thought it were a piece of honesty to acquaint the King withal, I would not do’t. I hold it the more knavery to conceal it, and therein am I constant to my profession.
(didascalia)	Enter the Clown and the Old Shepherd, carrying a fardel and a box
(didascalia)	Aside, aside! Here is more matter for a hot brain. Every lane’s end, every shop, church, session, hanging, yields a careful man work.
CLOWN	See, see, what a man you are now! There is no other way but to tell the King she’s a changeling, and none of your flesh and blood.
OLD SHEPHERD	Nay, but hear me.
CLOWN	Nay, but hear me.
OLD SHEPHERD	Go to, then.
CLOWN	She being none of your flesh and blood, your flesh and blood has not offended the King, and so your flesh and blood is not to be punished by him. Show those things you found about her, those secret things, all but what she has with her. This being done, let the law go whistle, I warrant you.
OLD SHEPHERD	I will tell the King all, every word, yea, and his son’s pranks, too, who, I may say, is no honest man, neither to his father nor to me, to go about to make me the King’s brother-in-law.
CLOWN	Indeed, brother-in-law was the farthest off you could have been to him, and then your blood had been the dearer by I know not how much an ounce. AUTOLYCUS (aside) Very wisely, puppies.
OLD SHEPHERD	Well, let us to the King. There is that in this fardel will make him scratch his beard.
AUTOLYCUS	(aside) I know not what impediment this complaint may be to the flight of my master.
CLOWN	Pray heartily he be at’ palace.
AUTOLYCUS	(aside) Though I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes by chance. Let me pocket up my pedlar’s excrement. He removes his false beard —How now, rustics, whither are you bound?
OLD SHEPHERD	To th’ palace, an it like your worship.
AUTOLYCUS	Your affairs there? What? With whom? The condition of that fardel? The place of your dwelling? Your names? Your ages? Of what having, breeding, and anything that is fitting to be known, discover.
CLOWN	We are but plain fellows, sir.
AUTOLYCUS	A lie, you are rough and hairy. Let me have no lying. It becomes none but tradesmen, and they often give us soldiers the lie, but we pay them for it with stamped coin, not stabbing steel, therefore they do not give us the lie.
CLOWN	Your worship had like to have given us one if you had not taken yourself with the manner.
OLD SHEPHERD	Are you a courtier, an’t like you, sir?
AUTOLYCUS	Whether it like me or no, I am a courtier. Seest thou not the air of the court in these enfoldings? Hath not my gait in it the measure of the court? Receives not thy nose court-odour from me? Reflect I not on thy baseness court-contempt? Thinkest thou, for that I insinuate to toze from thee thy business, I am therefore no courtier? I am courtier cap-à-pie, and one that will either push on or pluck back thy business there. Whereupon I command thee to open thy affair.
OLD SHEPHERD	My business, sir, is to the King.
AUTOLYCUS	What advocate hast thou to him?
OLD SHEPHERD	I know not, an’t like you.
CLOWN	(aside to the Old Shepherd) ’Advocate’ ’s the court word for a pheasant. Say you have none.
OLD SHEPHERD	None, sir. I have no pheasant, cock nor hen.
AUTOLYCUS	(aside) How blessed are we that are not simple men! Yet nature might have made me as these are, Therefore I will not disdain.
CLOWN	This cannot be but a great courtier.
OLD SHEPHERD	His garments are rich, but he wears them not handsomely.
CLOWN	He seems to be the more noble in being fantastical. A great man, I’ll warrant. I know by the picking on’s teeth.
AUTOLYCUS	The fardel there, what’s i’th’ fardel? Wherefore that box?
OLD SHEPHERD	Sir, there lies such secrets in this fardel and box which none must know but the King, and which he shall know within this hour, if I may come to th’ speech of him.
AUTOLYCUS	Age, thou hast lost thy labour. OLD SHEPHERD Why, sir?
AUTOLYCUS	The King is not at the palace, he is gone aboard a new ship to purge melancholy and air himself; for if thou beest capable of things serious, thou must know the King is full of grief.
OLD SHEPHERD	So ’tis said, sir; about his son, that should have married a shepherd’s daughter.
AUTOLYCUS	If that shepherd be not in handfast, let him fly. The curses he shall have, the tortures he shall feel, will break the back of man, the heart of monster.
CLOWN	Think you so, sir?
AUTOLYCUS	Not he alone shall suffer what wit can make heavy and vengeance bitter, but those that are germane to him, though removed fifty times, shall all come under the hangman, which, though it be great pity, yet it is necessary. An old sheep-whistling rogue, a ram-tender, to offer to have his daughter come into grace! Some say he shall be stoned; but that death is too soft for him, say I. Draw our throne into a sheepcote? All deaths are too few, the sharpest too easy.
CLOWN	Has the old man e’er a son, sir, do you hear, an’t like you, sir?
AUTOLYCUS	He has a son, who shall be flayed alive, then ’nointed over with honey, set on the head of a wasps’ nest, then stand till he be three-quarters-and-a-dram dead, then recovered again with aqua-vitae, or some other hot infusion, then, raw as he is, and in the hottest day prognostication proclaims, shall he be set against a brick wall, the sun looking with a southward eye upon him, where he is to behold him with flies blown to death. But what talk we of these traitorly rascals, whose miseries are to be smiled at, their offences being so capital? Tell me, for you seem to be honest plain men, what you have to the King. Being something gently considered, I’ll bring you where he is aboard, tender your persons to his presence, whisper him in your behalfs, and if it be in man, besides the King, to effect your suits, here is man shall do it.
CLOWN	(to the Old Shepherd) He seems to be of great authority. Close with him, give him gold; and though authority be a stubborn bear, yet he is oft led by the nose with gold. Show the inside of your purse to the outside of his hand, and no more ado. Remember—‘stoned’, and ‘flayed alive’.
OLD SHEPHERD	An’t please you, sir, to undertake the business for us, here is that gold I have. I’ll make it as much more, and leave this young man in pawn till I bring it you.
AUTOLYCUS	After I have done what I promised?
OLD SHEPHERD	Ay, sir.
AUTOLYCUS	Well, give me the moiety. (To the Clown) Are you a party in this business?
CLOWN	In some sort, sir. But though my case be a pitiful one, I hope I shall not be flayed out of it.
AUTOLYCUS	O, that’s the case of the shepherd’s son. Hang him, he’ll be made an example.
CLOWN	(to the Old Shepherd) Comfort, good comfort. We must to the King, and show our strange sights. He must know ’tis none of your daughter, nor my sister. We are gone else. (To Autolycus) Sir, I will give you as much as this old man does when the business is performed, and remain, as he says, your pawn till it be brought you.
AUTOLYCUS	I will trust you. Walk before toward the seaside. Go on the right hand. I will but look upon the hedge, and follow you.
CLOWN	(to the Old Shepherd) We are blessed in this man, as I may say, even blessed.
OLD SHEPHERD	Let’s before, as he bids us. He was provided to do us good. Exit with the Clown
AUTOLYCUS	If I had a mind to be honest, I see fortune would not suffer me. She drops booties in my mouth. I am courted now with a double occasion: gold, and a means to do the Prince my master good, which who knows how that may turn back to my advancement? I will bring these two moles, these blind ones, aboard him. If he think it fit to shore them again, and that the complaint they have to the King concerns him nothing, let him call me rogue for being so far officious, for I am proof against that title, and what shame else belongs to’t. To him will I present them. There may be matter in it.
(didascalia)	Exit

Atto 5, Scena 1

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Leontes, Cleomenes, Dion, and Paulina
CLEOMENES	(to Leontes) Sir, you have done enough, and have performed A saint-like sorrow. No fault could you make Which you have not redeemed, indeed, paid down More penitence than done trespass. At the last Do as the heavens have done, forget your evil. With them, forgive yourself.
LEONTES	Whilst I remember Her and her virtues I cannot forget My blemishes in them, and so still think of The wrong I did myself, which was so much That heirless it hath made my kingdom, and Destroyed the sweet‘st companion that e’er man Bred his hopes out of. True?
PAULINA	Too true, my lord. If one by one you wedded all the world, Or from the all that are took something good To make a perfect woman, she you killed Would be unparalleled.
LEONTES	I think so. Killed? She I killed? I did so. But thou strik’st me Sorely to say I did; it is as bitter Upon thy tongue as in my thought. Now, good now, Say so but seldom.
CLEOMENES	Not at all, good lady. You might have spoke a thousand things that would Have done the time more benefit, and graced Your kindness better.
PAULINA	You are one of those Would have him wed again.
DION	If you would not so You pity not the state, nor the remembrance Of his most sovereign name, consider little What dangers, by his highness’ fail of issue, May drop upon his kingdom and devour Incertain lookers-on. What were more holy Than to rejoice the former queen is well? What holier, than for royalty’s repair, For present comfort and for future good, To bless the bed of majesty again With a sweet fellow to’t?
PAULINA	There is none worthy Respecting her that’s gone. Besides, the gods Will have fulfilled their secret purposes. For has not the divine Apollo said? Is’t not the tenor of his oracle That King Leontes shall not have an heir Till his lost child be found? Which that it shall Is all as monstrous to our human reason As my Antigonus to break his grave And come again to me, who, on my life, Did perish with the infant. ’Tis your counsel My lord should to the heavens be contrary, Oppose against their wills. (To Leontes) Care not for issue. The crown will find an heir. Great Alexander Left his to th’ worthiest, so his successor Was like to be the best.
LEONTES	Good Paulina, Who hast the memory of Hermione, I know, in honour—O, that ever I Had squared me to thy counsel! Then even now I might have looked upon my queen’s full eyes, Have taken treasure from her lips.
PAULINA	And left them More rich for what they yielded.
LEONTES	Thou speak’st truth. No more such wives, therefore no wife. One worse, And better used, would make her sainted spirit Again possess her corpse, and on this stage, Where we offenders mourn, appear soul-vexed, And begin, ‘Why to me?’
PAULINA	Had she such power She had just cause.
LEONTES	She had, and would incense me To murder her I married.
PAULINA	I should SO. Were I the ghost that walked I’d bid you mark Her eye, and tell me for what dull part in’t You chose her. Then I’d shriek that even your ears Should rift to hear me, and the words that followed Should be, ‘Remember mine’.
LEONTES	Stars, stars, And all eyes else, dead coals! Fear thou no wife. I’ll have no wife, Paulina.
PAULINA	Will you swear Never to marry but by my free leave?
LEONTES	Never, Paulina, so be blest my spirit.
PAULINA	Then, good my lords, bear witness to his oath.
CLEOMENES	You tempt him over-much.
PAULINA	Unless another As like Hermione as is her picture Affront his eye—
CLEOMENES	Good madam, I have done.
PAULINA	Yet if my lord will marry—if you will, sir; No remedy but you will—give me the office To choose your queen. She shall not be so young As was your former, but she shall be such As, walked your first queen’s ghost, it should take joy To see her in your arms.
LEONTES	My true Paulina, We shall not marry till thou bidd’st us.
PAULINA	That Shall be when your first queen’s again in breath. Never till then.
(didascalia)	Enter a Servant
SERVANT	One that gives out himself Prince Florizel, Son of Polixenes, with his princess—she The fairest I have yet beheld—desires access To your high presence.
LEONTES	What with him? He comes not Like to his father’s greatness. His approach, So out of circumstance and sudden, tells us ’Tis not a visitation framed, but forced By need and accident. What train?
SERVANT	But few, And those but mean.
LEONTES	His princess, say you, with him?
SERVANT	Ay, the most peerless piece of earth, I think, That e’er the sun shone bright on.
PAULINA	O, Hermione, As every present time doth boast itself Above a better, gone, so must thy grave Give way to what’s seen now! (To the Servant) Sir, you yourself Have said and writ so; but your writing now Is colder than that theme. She had not been Nor was not to be equalled—thus your verse Flowed with her beauty once. ’Tis shrewdly ebbed To say you have seen a better.
SERVANT	Pardon, madam. The one I have almost forgot—your pardon! The other, when she has obtained your eye, Will have your tongue too. This is a creature, Would she begin a sect, might quench the zeal Of all professors else; make proselytes Of who she but bid follow.
PAULINA	How? Not women!
SERVANT	Women will love her that she is a woman More worth than any man; men, that she is The rarest of all women.
LEONTES	Go, Cleomenes. Yourself, assisted with your honoured friends, Bring them to our embracement.
(didascalia)	Exit Cleomenes
LEONTES	Still ’tis strange He thus should steal upon us.
PAULINA	Had our prince, Jewel of children, seen this hour, he had paired Well with this lord. There was not full a month Between their births.
LEONTES	Prithee no more, cease. Thou know’st He dies to me again when talked of. Sure, When I shall see this gentleman thy speeches Will bring me to consider that which may Unfurnish me of reason. They are come.
(didascalia)	Enter Florizel, Perdita, Cleomenes, and others
LEONTES	Your mother was most true to wedlock, Prince, For she did print your royal father off, Conceiving you. Were I but twenty-one, Your father’s image is so hit in you, His very air, that I should call you brother, As I did him, and speak of something wildly By us performed before. Most dearly welcome, And your fair princess—goddess! O, alas, I lost a couple that ’twixt heaven and earth Might thus have stood, begetting wonder, as You, gracious couple, do; and then I lost— All mine own folly—the society, Amity too, of your brave father, whom, Though bearing misery, I desire my life Once more to look on him.
FLORIZEL	By his command Have I here touched Sicilia, and from him Give you all greetings that a king at friend Can send his brother; and but infirmity, Which waits upon worn times, hath something seized His wished ability, he had himself The lands and waters ’twixt your throne and his Measured to look upon you, whom he loves— He bade me say so—more than all the sceptres, And those that bear them, living.
LEONTES	O, my brother! Good gentleman, the wrongs I have done thee stir Afresh within me, and these thy offices, So rarely kind, are as interpreters Of my behindhand slackness. Welcome hither, As is the spring to th‘earth! And hath he too Exposed this paragon to th’ fearful usage— At least ungentle—of the dreadful Neptune To greet a man not worth her pains, much less Th’adventure of her person?
FLORIZEL	Good my lord, She came from Libya.
LEONTES	Where the warlike Smalus, That noble honoured lord, is feared and loved?
FLORIZEL	Most royal sir, from thence; from him whose daughter His tears proclaimed his, parting with her. Thence, A prosperous south wind friendly, we have crossed, To execute the charge my father gave me For visiting your highness. My best train I have from your Sicilian shores dismissed; Who for Bohemia bend, to signify Not only my success in Libya, sir, But my arrival, and my wife’s, in safety Here where we are.
LEONTES	The blessed gods Purge all infection from our air whilst you Do climate here! You have a holy father, A graceful gentleman, against whose person, So sacred as it is, I have done sin, For which the heavens, taking angry note, Have left me issueless; and your father’s blessed, As he from heaven merits it, with you, Worthy his goodness. What might I have been, Might I a son and daughter now have looked on, Such goodly things as you?
(didascalia)	Enter a Lord
LORD	Most noble sir, That which I shall report will bear no credit Were not the proof so nigh. Please you, great sir, Bohemia greets you from himself by me; Desires you to attach his son, who has, His dignity and duty both cast off, Fled from his father, from his hopes, and with A shepherd’s daughter.
LEONTES	Where’s Bohemia? Speak.
LORD	Here in your city. I now came from him. I speak amazedly, and it becomes My marvel and my message. To your court Whiles he was hast’ning—in the chase, it seems, Of this fair couple—meets he on the way The father of this seeming lady and Her brother, having both their country quitted With this young prince.
FLORIZEL	Camillo has betrayed me, Whose honour and whose honesty till now Endured all weathers.
LORD	Lay’t so to his charge. He’s with the King your father.
LEONTES	Who, Camillo?
LORD	Camillo, sir. I spake with him, who now Has these poor men in question. Never saw I Wretches so quake. They kneel, they kiss the earth, Forswear themselves as often as they speak. Bohemia stops his ears, and threatens them With divers deaths in death.
PERDITA	O, my poor father! The heaven sets spies upon us, will not have Our contract celebrated.
LEONTES	You are married?
FLORIZEL	We are not, sir, nor are we like to be. The stars, I see, will kiss the valleys first. The odds for high and low’s alike.
LEONTES	My lord, Is this the daughter of a king?
FLORIZEL	She is, When once she is my wife.
LEONTES	That ‘once’, I see, by your good father’s speed Will come on very slowly. I am sorry, Most sorry, you have broken from his liking Where you were tied in duty; and as sorry Your choice is not so rich in worth as beauty, That you might well enjoy her.
FLORIZEL	(to Perdita) Dear, look up. Though fortune, visible an enemy, Should chase us with my father, power no jot Hath she to change our loves.—Beseech you, sir, Remember since you owed no more to time Than I do now. With thought of such affections, Step forth mine advocate. At your request My father will grant precious things as trifles.
LEONTES	Would he do so, I’d beg your precious mistress, Which he counts but a trifle.
PAULINA	Sir, my liege, Your eye hath too much youth in’t. Not a month Fore your queen died she was more worth such gazes Than what you look on now.
LEONTES	I thought of her Even in these looks I made. (To Florizel) But your petition Is yet unanswered. I will to your father. Your honour not o’erthrown by your desires, I am friend to them and you. Upon which errand I now go toward him. Therefore follow me, And mark what way I make. Come, good my lord.
(didascalia)	Exeunt

Atto 5, Scena 2

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Autolycus and a Gentleman
AUTOLYCUS	Beseech you, sir, were you present at this relation?
FIRST GENTLEMAN	I was by at the opening of the fardel, heard the old shepherd deliver the manner how he found it; whereupon, after a little amazedness, we were all commanded out of the chamber. Only this, methought I heard the shepherd say he found the child.
AUTOLYCUS	I would most gladly know the issue of it.
FIRST GENTLEMAN	I make a broken delivery of the business, but the changes I perceived in the King and Camillo were very notes of admiration. They seemed almost, with staring on one another, to tear the cases of their eyes. There was speech in their dumbness, language in their very gesture. They looked as they had heard of a world ransomed, or one destroyed. A notable passion of wonder appeared in them, but the wisest beholder, that knew no more but seeing, could not say if th’importance were joy or sorrow. But in the extremity of the one, it must needs be.
(didascalia)	Enter another Gentleman
FIRST GENTLEMAN	Here comes a gentleman that happily knows more. The news, Ruggiero!
SECOND GENTLEMAN	Nothing but bonfires. The oracle is fulfilled. The King’s daughter is found. Such a deal of wonder is broken out within this hour, that ballad-makers cannot be able to express it.
(didascalia)	Enter another Gentleman
SECOND GENTLEMAN	Here comes the Lady Paulina’s steward. He can deliver you more.—How goes it now, sir? This news which is called true is so like an old tale that the verity of it is in strong suspicion. Has the King found his heir?
THIRD GENTLEMAN	Most true, if ever truth were pregnant by circumstance. That which you hear you’ll swear you see, there is such unity in the proofs. The mantle of Queen Hermione’s, her jewel about the neck of it, the letters of Antigonus found with it, which they know to be his character; the majesty of the creature, in resemblance of the mother; the affection of nobleness which nature shows above her breeding, and many other evidences proclaim her with all certainty to be the King’s daughter. Did you see the meeting of the two kings?
SECOND GENTLEMAN	No.
THIRD GENTLEMAN	Then have you lost a sight which was to be seen, cannot be spoken of. There might you have beheld one joy crown another, so and in such manner that it seemed sorrow wept to take leave of them, for their joy waded in tears. There was casting up of eyes, holding up of hands, with countenance of such distraction that they were to be known by garment, not by favour. Our king being ready to leap out of himself for joy of his found daughter, as if that joy were now become a loss cries, ‘O, thy mother, thy mother!’, then asks Bohemia forgiveness, then embraces his son-in-law, then again worries he his daughter with clipping her. Now he thanks the old shepherd, which stands by like a weather-bitten conduit of many kings’ reigns. I never heard of such another encounter, which lames report to follow it, and undoes description to do it.
SECOND GENTLEMAN	What, pray you, became of Antigonus, that carried hence the child?
THIRD GENTLEMAN	Like an old tale still, which will have matter to rehearse though credit be asleep and not an ear open. He was torn to pieces with a bear. This avouches the shepherd’s son, who has not only his innocence, which seems much, to justify him, but a handkerchief and rings of his, that Paulina knows.
FIRST GENTLEMAN	What became of his barque and his followers?
THIRD GENTLEMAN	Wrecked the same instant of their master’s death, and in the view of the shepherd; so that all the instruments which aided to expose the child were even then lost when it was found. But O, the noble combat that ’twixt joy and sorrow was fought in Paulinal She had one eye declined for the loss of her husband, another elevated that the oracle was fulfilled. She lifted the Princess from the earth, and so locks her in embracing as if she would pin her to her heart, that she might no more be in danger of losing.
FIRST GENTLEMAN	The dignity of this act was worth the audience of kings and princes, for by such was it acted.
THIRD GENTLEMAN	One of the prettiest touches of all, and that which angled for mine eyes—caught the water, though not the fish—was when at the relation of the Queen’s death, with the manner how she came to’t bravely confessed and lamented by the King, how attentiveness wounded his daughter till from one sign of dolour to another she did, with an ‘Alas’, I would fain say bleed tears; for I am sure my heart wept blood. Who was most marble there changed colour. Some swooned, all sorrowed. If all the world could have seen’t, the woe had been universal.
FIRST GENTLEMAN	Are they returned to the court?
THIRD GENTLEMAN	No. The Princess, hearing of her mother’s statue, which is in the keeping of Paulina, a piece many years in doing, and now newly performed by that rare Italian master Giulio Romano, who, had he himself eternity and could put breath into his work, would beguile nature of her custom, so perfectly he is her ape. He so near to Hermione hath done Hermione that they say one would speak to her and stand in hope of answer. Thither with all greediness of affection are they gone, and there they intend to sup.
SECOND GENTLEMAN	I thought she had some great matter there in hand, for she hath privately twice or thrice a day, ever since the death of Hermione, visited that removed house. Shall we thither, and with our company piece the rejoicing?
FIRST GENTLEMAN	Who would be thence, that has the benefit of access? Every wink of an eye some new grace will be born. Our absence makes us unthrifty to our knowledge. Let’s along. Exeunt Gentlemen
AUTOLYCUS	Now, had I not the dash of my former life in me, would preferment drop on my head. I brought the old man and his son aboard the Prince; told him I heard them talk of a fardel, and I know not what. But he at that time over-fond of the shepherd’s daughter—so he then took her to be—who began to be much sea-sick, and himself little better, extremity of weather continuing, this mystery remained undiscovered. But ’tis all one to me, for had I been the finder-out of this secret it would not have relished among my other discredits.
(didascalia)	Enter the Old Shepherd and the Clown, dressed as gentlemen
AUTOLYCUS	Here come those I have done good to against my will, and already appearing in the blossoms of their fortune.
OLD SHEPHERD	Come, boy; I am past more children, but thy sons and daughters will be all gentlemen born.
CLOWN	(to Autolycus) You are well met, sir. You denied to fight with me this other day because I was no gentleman born. See you these clothes? Say you see them not, and think me still no gentleman born. You were best say these robes are not gentlemen born. Give me the lie, do, and try whether I am not now a gentleman born.
AUTOLYCUS	I know you are now, sir, a gentleman born.
CLOWN	Ay, and have been so any time these four hours. OLD SHEPHERD And so have I, boy.
CLOWN	So you have; but I was a gentleman born before my father, for the King’s son took me by the hand and called me brother; and then the two kings called my father brother; and then the Prince my brother and the Princess my sister called my father father; and so we wept; and there was the first gentleman-like tears that ever we shed.
OLD SHEPHERD	We may live, son, to shed many more.
CLOWN	Ay, or else ’twere hard luck, being in so preposterous estate as we are.
AUTOLYCUS	I humbly beseech you, sir, to pardon me all the faults I have committed to your worship, and to give me your good report to the Prince my master.
OLD SHEPHERD	Prithee, son, do, for we must be gentle now we are gentlemen.
CLOWN	Thou wilt amend thy life?
AUTOLYCUS	Ay, an it like your good worship.
CLOWN	Give me thy hand. I will swear to the Prince thou art as honest a true fellow as any is in Bohemia.
OLD SHEPHERD	You may say it, but not swear it.
CLOWN	Not swear it now I am a gentleman? Let boors and franklins say it; I’ll swear it.
OLD SHEPHERD	How if it be false, son?
CLOWN	If it be ne’er so false, a true gentleman may swear it in the behalf of his friend, (to Autolycus) and I’ll swear to the Prince thou art a tall fellow of thy hands and that thou wilt not be drunk; but I know thou art no tall fellow of thy hands and that thou wilt be drunk; but I’ll swear it, and I would thou wouldst be a tall fellow of thy hands.
AUTOLYCUS	I will prove so, sir, to my power.
CLOWN	Ay, by any means prove a tall fellow. If I do not wonder how thou dar’st venture to be drunk, not being a tall fellow, trust me not.
(didascalia)	Flourishwithin
CLOWN	Hark, the kings and princes, our kindred, are going to see the Queen’s picture. Come, follow us. We’ll be thy good masters.
(didascalia)	Exeunt

Atto 5, Scena 3

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Leontes, Polixenes, Florizel, Perdita, Camillo, Paulina, Lords, and attendants
LEONTES	O grave and good Paulina, the great comfort That I have had of thee!
PAULINA	What, sovereign sir, I did not well, I meant well. All my services You have paid home, but that you have vouchsafed With your crowned brother and these young contracted Heirs of your kingdoms my poor house to visit, It is a surplus of your grace which never My life may last to answer.
LEONTES	O Paulina, We honour you with trouble. But we came To see the statue of our queen. Your gallery Have we passed through, not without much content In many singularities; but we saw not That which my daughter came to look upon, The statue of her mother.
PAULINA	As she lived peerless, So her dead likeness I do well believe Excels what ever yet you looked upon, Or hand of man hath done. Therefore I keep it Lonely, apart. But here it is. Prepare To see the life as lively mocked as ever Still sleep mocked death. Behold, and say ’tis well. She draws a curtain and reveals the figure of Hermione, standing like a statue I like your silence; it the more shows off Your wonder. But yet speak; first you, my liege. Comes it not something near?
LEONTES	Her natural posture. Chide me, dear stone, that I may say indeed Thou art Hermione; or rather, thou art she In thy not chiding, for she was as tender As infancy and grace. But yet, Paulina, Hermione was not so much wrinkled, nothing So aged as this seems.
POLIXENES	O, not by much.
PAULINA	So much the more our carver’s excellence, Which lets go by some sixteen years, and makes her As she lived now.
LEONTES	As now she might have done, So much to my good comfort as it is Now piercing to my soul. O, thus she stood, Even with such life of majesty—warm life, As now it coldly stands—when first I wooed her. I am ashamed. Does not the stone rebuke me For being more stone than it? O royal piece! There’s magic in thy majesty, which has My evils conjured to remembrance, and From thy admiring daughter took the spirits, Standing like stone with thee.
PERDITA	And give me leave, And do not say ’tis superstition, that I kneel and then implore her blessing. Lady, Dear Queen, that ended when I but began, Give me that hand of yours to kiss.
PAULINA	O, patience! The statue is but newly fixed; the colour’s Not dry.
CAMILLO	(to Leontes) My lord, your sorrow was too sore laid on, Which sixteen winters cannot blow away, So many summers dry. Scarce any joy Did ever so long live; no sorrow But killed itself much sooner.
POLIXENES	(to Leontes) Dear my brother, Let him that was the cause of this have power To take off so much grief from you as he Will piece up in himself.
PAULINA	(to Leontes) Indeed, my lord, If I had thought the sight of my poor image Would thus have wrought you—for the stone is mine— I’d not have showed it. She makes to draw the curtain
LEONTES	Do not draw the curtain.
PAULINA	No longer shall you gaze on’t, lest your fancy May think anon it moves.
LEONTES	Let be, let be! Would I were dead but that methinks already. What was he that did make it? See, my lord, Would you not deem it breathed, and that those veins Did verily bear blood?
POLIXENES	Masterly done. The very life seems warm upon her lip.
LEONTES	The fixture of her eye has motion in’t, As we are mocked with art.
PAULINA	I’ll draw the curtain. My lord’s almost so far transported that He’ll think anon it lives.
LEONTES	O sweet Paulina, Make me to think so twenty years together. No settled senses of the world can match The pleasure of that madness. Let’t alone.
PAULINA	I am sorry, sir, I have thus far stirred you; but I could afflict you farther.
LEONTES	Do, Paulina, For this affliction has a taste as sweet As any cordial comfort. Still methinks There is an air comes from her. What fine chisel Could ever yet cut breath? Let no man mock me, For I will kiss her.
PAULINA	Good my lord, forbear. The ruddiness upon her lip is wet. You’ll mar it if you kiss it, stain your own With oily painting. Shall I draw the curtain?
LEONTES	No, not these twenty years.
PERDITA	So long could I Stand by, a looker-on.
PAULINA	Either forbear, Quit presently the chapel, or resolve you For more amazement. If you can behold it, I’ll make the statue move indeed, descend, And take you by the hand. But then you’ll think— Which I protest against—I am assisted By wicked powers.
LEONTES	What you can make her do I am content to look on; what to speak, I am content to hear; for ’tis as easy To make her speak as move.
PAULINA	It is required You do awake your faith. Then, all stand still. Or those that think it is unlawful business I am about, let them depart.
LEONTES	Proceed. No foot shall stir.
(didascalia)	Music; awake her; strike!
(didascalia)	Music
PAULINA	(To Hermione) ’Tis time. Descend. Be stone no more. Approach. Strike all that look upon with marvel. Come, I’ll fill your grave up. Stir. Nay, come away. Bequeath to death your numbness, for from him Dear life redeems you. (To Leontes) You perceive she stirs. Hermione slowly descends Start not. Her actions shall be holy as You hear my spell is lawful. Do not shun her Until you see her die again, for then You kill her double. Nay, present your hand. When she was young, you wooed her. Now, in age, Is she become the suitor?
LEONTES	O, she’s warm! If this be magic, let it be an art Lawful as eating.
POLIXENES	She embraces him.
CAMILLO	She hangs about his neck. If she pertain to life, let her speak too.
POLIXENES	Ay, and make it manifest where she has lived, Or how stol’n from the dead.
PAULINA	That she is living, Were it but told you, should be hooted at Like an old tale. But it appears she lives, Though yet she speak not. Mark a little while. (To Perdita) Please you to interpose, fair madam. Kneel, And pray your mother’s blessing.—Turn, good lady, Our Perdita is found.
HERMIONE	You gods, look down, And from your sacred vials pour your graces Upon my daughter’s head.—Tell me, mine own, Where hast thou been preserved? Where lived? How found Thy father’s court? For thou shalt hear that I, Knowing by Paulina that the oracle Gave hope thou wast in being, have preserved Myself to see the issue.
PAULINA	There’s time enough for that, Lest they desire upon this push to trouble Your joys with like relation. Go together, You precious winners all; your exultation Partake to everyone. I, an old turtle, Will wing me to some withered bough, and there My mate, that’s never to be found again, Lament till I am lost.
LEONTES	O peace, Paulina! Thou shouldst a husband take by my consent, As I by thine a wife. This is a match, And made between’s by vows. Thou hast found mine, But how is to be questioned, for I saw her, As I thought, dead, and have in vain said many A prayer upon her grave. I’ll not seek far— For him, I partly know his mind—to find thee An honourable husband. Come, Camillo, And take her by the hand, whose worth and honesty Is richly noted, and here justified By us, a pair of kings. Let’s from this place. (To Hermione) What, look upon my brother. Both your pardons, That e’er I put between your holy looks My ill suspicion. This’ your son-in-law And son unto the King, whom heavens directing Is troth-plight to your daughter. Good Paulina, Lead us from hence, where we may leisurely Each one demand and answer to his part Performed in this wide gap of time since first We were dissevered. Hastily lead away.
(didascalia)	Exeunt
THE TRAGEDY OF KING	LEAR
THE	text of King Lear given here represents the revision made probably three or four years after the first version had been written and performed; it is based on the text printed in the 1623 Folio. This is the more obviously theatrical text. It makes a number of significant cuts, amounting to some 300 lines. The most conspicuous ones are the dialogue in which Lear’s Fool implicitly calls his master a fool (Quarto Sc. 4, 136―51); Kent’s account of the French invasion of England (Quarto Sc. 8, 21―33); Lear’s mock-trial, in his madness, of his daughters (Quarto Sc. 13, 13―52); Edgar’s generalizing couplets at the end of that scene (Quarto Sc. 13, 97―110); the brief, compassionate dialogue of two of Gloucester’s servants after his blinding (Quarto Sc. 14, 97―106); parts of Albany’s protest to Goneril about the sisters’ treatment of Lear (in Quarto Sc. 16); the entire scene (Quarto Sc. 17) in which a Gentleman tells Kent of Cordelia’s grief on hearing of her father’s condition; the presence of the Doctor and the musical accompaniment to the reunion of Lear and Cordelia (Quarto Sc. 21); and Edgar’s account of his meeting with Kent in which Kent’s ’strings of life | Began to crack’ (Quarto Sc. 24, 201―18). The Folio also adds about 100 lines that are not in the Quarto—mostly in short passages, including Kent’s statement that Albany and Cornwall have servants who are in the pay of France (3.1.13―20), Merlin’s prophecy spoken by the Fool at the end of 3.2, and the last lines of both the Fool and Lear. In addition, several speeches are differently assigned, and there are many variations in wording. The reasons for these variations, and their effect on the play, are to some extent matters of speculation and of individual interpretation. Certainly they streamline the play’s action, removing some reflective passages, particularly at the ends of scenes. They affect the characterization of, especially, Edgar, Albany, and Kent, and there are significant differences in the play’s closing passages. Structurally the principal differences lie in the presentation of the military actions in the later part of the play; in the Folio-based text Cordelia is more clearly in charge of the forces that come to Lear’s assistance, and they are less clearly a French invasion force. The absence from this text of passages that appeared in the 1608 text implies no criticism of them in themselves. The play’s revision may have been dictated in whole or in part by theatrical exigencies, or it may have emerged from Shakespeare’s own dissatisfaction with what he had first written. Each version has its own integrity, which is distorted by the practice, traditional since the early eighteenth century, of conflation.
THE PERSONS OF THE	PLAY LEAR, King of Britain GONERIL, Lear’s eldest daughter Duke of ALBANY, her husband REGAN, Lear’s second daughter Duke of CORNWALL, her husband CORDELIA, Lear’s youngest daughter Earl of KENT, later disguised as Caius Earl of GLOUCESTER EDGAR, elder son of Gloucester, later disguised as Tom o’ Bedlam EDMOND, bastard son of Gloucester
OLD	MAN, Gloucester’s tenant CURAN, Gloucester’s retainer Lear’s FOOL OSWALD, Goneril’s steward A SERVANT of Cornwall A KNIGHT A HERALD A CAPTAIN Gentlemen, servants, soldiers, attendants, messengers

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Camillo and Archidamus
ARCHIDAMUS	If you shall chance, Camillo, to visit Bohemia on the like occasion whereon my services are now on foot, you shall see, as I have said, great difference betwixt our Bohemia and your Sicilia.
CAMILLO	I think this coming summer the King of Sicilia means to pay Bohemia the visitation which he justly owes him.
ARCHIDAMUS	Wherein our entertainment shall shame us, we will be justified in our loves; for indeed—
CAMILLO	Beseech you—
ARCHIDAMUS	Verily, I speak it in the freedom of my knowledge. We cannot with such magnificence—in so rare—I know not what to say.—We will give you sleepy drinks, that your senses, unintelligent of our insufficience, may, though they cannot praise us, as little accuse us.
CAMILLO	You pay a great deal too dear for what’s given freely.
ARCHIDAMUS	Believe me, I speak as my understanding instructs me, and as mine honesty puts it to utterance.
CAMILLO	Sicilia cannot show himself over-kind to Bohemia. They were trained together in their childhoods, and there rooted betwixt them then such an affection which cannot choose but branch now. Since their more mature dignities and royal necessities made separation of their society, their encounters—though not personal—hath been royally attorneyed with interchange of gifts, letters, loving embassies, that they have seemed to be together, though absent; shook hands as over a vast; and embraced as it were from the ends of opposed winds. The heavens continue their loves.
ARCHIDAMUS	I think there is not in the world either malice or matter to alter it. You have an unspeakable comfort of your young prince, Mamillius. It is a gentleman of the greatest promise that ever came into my note.
CAMILLO	I very well agree with you in the hopes of him. It is a gallant child; one that, indeed, physics the subject, makes old hearts fresh. They that went on crutches ere he was born desire yet their life to see him a man.
ARCHIDAMUS	Would they else be content to die?
CAMILLO	Yes—if there were no other excuse why they should desire to live.
ARCHIDAMUS	If the King had no son they would desire to live on crutches till he had one. Exeunt

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entrano Camillo e Archidamo
ARCHIDAMUS	Se vi accadrà, Camillo, di visitare la Boemia in un’occasione simile a quella per cui i miei servigi sono ora in cammino, vedrete, come ho detto, gran differenza fra la nostra Boemia e la vostra Sicilia.
CAMILLO	Credo che questa estate ventura il Re di Sicilia intenda rendere alla Boemia la visita che giustamente le deve.
ARCHIDAMUS	E là dove la nostra accoglienza ci farà vergognare, saremo giustificati dal nostro affetto; ché in verità—
CAMILLO	Vi prego—
ARCHIDAMUS	Davvero, lo dico nella libertà del mio sapere. Non possiamo con tale magnificenza—in così raro—non so che dire.—Vi daremo bevande sonnifere, sì che i vostri sensi, ignari della nostra insufficienza, possano, se pur non lodarci, altrettanto poco accusarci.
CAMILLO	Voi pagate assai troppo caro ciò che vi è dato liberamente.
ARCHIDAMUS	Credetemi, parlo come il mio intendimento mi istruisce, e come la mia onestà lo mette in parola.
CAMILLO	La Sicilia non potrà mai mostrarsi troppo affettuosa verso la Boemia. Furono allevati insieme nella loro fanciullezza, e allora si radicò fra loro un affetto tale che ora non può non ramificare. Poiché le dignità più mature e le necessità regali fecero separazione della loro compagnia, i loro incontri—benché non di persona—sono stati regalmente rappresentati con scambio di doni, lettere, amorose ambascerie, così che parvero essere insieme pur essendo assenti; si strinsero la mano come attraverso un abisso; e si abbracciarono come dalle estremità di venti opposti. Il cielo faccia durare il loro amore.
ARCHIDAMUS	Credo che non vi sia al mondo né malizia né materia che possa mutarlo. Voi avete un’indicibile consolazione nel vostro giovane principe, Mamillio. È un gentiluomo della più grande promessa che mai sia giunta alla mia osservazione.
CAMILLO	Concordo assai bene con voi nelle speranze che dà. È un fanciullo valoroso; uno che, in verità, risana i sudditi, e fa freschi i vecchi cuori. Quelli che andavano con le stampelle prima ch’egli nascesse desiderano ancora la vita per vederlo uomo.
ARCHIDAMUS	Altrimenti sarebbero contenti di morire?
CAMILLO	Sì—se non vi fosse altra scusa perché dovessero desiderare di vivere.
ARCHIDAMUS	Se il Re non avesse figlio, essi desidererebbero vivere sulle stampelle finché ne avesse uno. Escono

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Leontes, Hermione, Mamillius, Polixenes, and Camillo
POLIXENES	Nine changes of the wat‘ry star hath been The shepherd’s note since we have left our throne Without a burden. Time as long again Would be filled up, my brother, with our thanks, And yet we should for perpetuity Go hence in debt. And therefore, like a cipher, Yet standing in rich place, I multiply With one ‘We thank you’ many thousands more That go before it.
LEONTES	Stay your thanks a while, And pay them when you part.
POLIXENES	Sir, that’s tomorrow. I am questioned by my fears of what may chance Or breed upon our absence, that may blow No sneaping winds at home to make us say ‘This is put forth too truly.’ Besides, I have stayed To tire your royalty.
LEONTES	We are tougher, brother, Than you can put us to’t.
POLIXENES	No longer stay.
LEONTES	One sennight longer.
POLIXENES	Very sooth, tomorrow.
LEONTES	We’ll part the time between’s, then; and in that I’ll no gainsaying.
POLIXENES	Press me not, beseech you, so. There is no tongue that moves, none, none i‘th’ world So soon as yours, could win me. So it should now, Were there necessity in your request, although ’Twere needful I denied it. My affairs Do even drag me homeward; which to hinder Were, in your love, a whip to me; my stay To you a charge and trouble. To save both, Farewell, our brother.
LEONTES	Tongue-tied, our queen? Speak you.
HERMIONE	I had thought, sir, to have held my peace until You had drawn oaths from him not to stay. You, sir, Charge him too coldly. Tell him you are sure All in Bohemia’s well. This satisfaction The bygone day proclaimed. Say this to him, He’s beat from his best ward.
LEONTES	Well said, Hermione!
HERMIONE	To tell he longs to see his son were strong. But let him say so then, and let him go. But let him swear so and he shall not stay, We’ll thwack him hence with distaffs. (To Polixenes) Yet of your royal presence I’ll adventure The borrow of a week. When at Bohemia You take my lord, I’ll give him my commission To let him there a month behind the gest Prefixed for’s parting.—Yet, good deed, Leontes, I love thee not a jar o’th’ clock behind What lady she her lord.—You’ll stay?
POLIXENES	No, madam.
HERMIONE	Nay, but you will?
POLIXENES	I may not, verily.
HERMIONE	Verily? You put me off with limber vows. But I, Though you would seek t‘unsphere the stars with oaths, Should yet say ‘Sir, no going.’ Verily You shall not go. A lady’s ‘verily’ ’s As potent as a lord’s. Will you go yet? Force me to keep you as a prisoner, Not like a guest: so you shall pay your fees When you depart, and save your thanks. How say you? My prisoner? or my guest? By your dread ‘verily’, One of them you shall be.
POLIXENES	Your guest then, madam. To be your prisoner should import offending, Which is for me less easy to commit Than you to punish.
HERMIONE	Not your jailer then, But your kind hostess. Come, I’ll question you Of my lord’s tricks and yours when you were boys. You were pretty lordings then?
POLIXENES	We were, fair Queen, Two lads that thought there was no more behind But such a day tomorrow as today, And to be boy eternal.
HERMIONE	Was not my lord The verier wag o’th’ two?
POLIXENES	We were as twinned lambs that did frisk i‘th’ sun, And bleat the one at th’other. What we changed Was innocence for innocence. We knew not The doctrine of ill-doing, nor dreamed That any did. Had we pursued that life, And our weak spirits ne‘er been higher reared With stronger blood, we should have answered heaven Boldly, ‘Not guilty’, the imposition cleared Hereditary ours.
HERMIONE	By this we gather You have tripped since.
POLIXENES	O my most sacred lady, Temptations have since then been born to’s; for In those unfledged days was my wife a girl. Your precious self had then not crossed the eyes Of my young playfellow.
HERMIONE	Grace to boot! Of this make no conclusion, lest you say Your queen and I are devils. Yet go on. Th’offences we have made you do we’ll answer, If you first sinned with us, and that with us You did continue fault, and that you slipped not With any but with us.
LEONTES	Is he won yet?
HERMIONE	He’ll stay, my lord.
LEONTES	At my request he would not. Hermione, my dearest, thou never spok’st To better purpose.
HERMIONE	Never?
LEONTES	Never but once.
HERMIONE	What, have I twice said well? When was’t before? I prithee tell me. Cram’s with praise, and make’s As fat as tame things. One good deed dying tongueless Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that. Our praises are our wages. You may ride’s With one soft kiss a thousand furlongs ere With spur we heat an acre. But to th’ goal. My last good deed was to entreat his stay. What was my first? It has an elder sister, Or I mistake you. O, would her name were Gracel But once before I spoke to th’ purpose? When? Nay, let me have’t. I long.
LEONTES	Why, that was when Three crabbed months had soured themselves to death Ere I could make thee open thy white hand And clap thyself my love. Then didst thou utter, ‘I am yours for ever.’
HERMIONE	’Tis grace indeed. Why lo you now; I have spoke to th’ purpose twice. The one for ever earned a royal husband; Th’other, for some while a friend.
(didascalia)	She gives her hand to Polixenes.
HERMIONE	They stand aside
LEONTES	(aside) Too hot, too hot: To mingle friendship farre is mingling bloods. I have tremor cordis on me. My heart dances, But not for joy, not joy. This entertainment May a free face put on, derive a liberty From heartiness, from bounty, fertile bosom, And well become the agent. ’T may, I grant. But to be paddling palms and pinching fingers, As now they are, and making practised smiles As in a looking-glass; and then to sigh, as ‘twere The mort o’th’ deer—O, that is entertainment My bosom likes not, nor my brows.—Mamillius, Art thou my boy?
MAMILLIUS	Ay, my good lord.
LEONTES	I’fecks, Why, that’s my bawcock. What? Hast smutched thy nose? They say it is a copy out of mine. Come, captain, We must be neat—not neat, but cleanly, captain. And yet the steer, the heifer, and the calf Are all called neat.—Still virginalling Upon his palm?—How now, you wanton calf— Art thou my calf?
MAMILLIUS	Yes, if you will, my lord.
LEONTES	Thou want‘st a rough pash and the shoots that I have, To be full like me. Yet they say we are Almost as like as eggs. Women say so, That will say anything. But were they false As o’er-dyed blacks, as wind, as waters, false As dice are to be wished by one that fixes No bourn ‘twixt his and mine, yet were it true To say this boy were like me. Come, sir page, Look on me with your welkin eye. Sweet villain, Most dear’st, my collop! Can thy dam—may’t be?— Affection, thy intention stabs the centre. Thou dost make possible things not so held, Communicat‘st with dreams—how can this be?— With what’s unreal thou coactive art, And fellow’st nothing. Then ‘tis very credent Thou mayst co-join with something, and thou dost— And that beyond commission; and I find it— And that to the infection of my brains And hard’ning of my brows.
POLIXENES	What means Sicilia?
HERMIONE	He something seems unsettled.
POLIXENES	How, my lord!
LEONTES	What cheer? How is’t with you, best brother?
HERMIONE	You look As if you held a brow of much distraction. Are you moved, my lord?
LEONTES	No, in good earnest. How sometimes nature will betray its folly, Its tenderness, and make itself a pastime To harder bosoms! Looking on the lines Of my boy’s face, methoughts I did recoil Twenty-three years, and saw myself unbreeched, In my green velvet coat; my dagger muzzled, Lest it should bite its master, and so prove, As ornament oft does, too dangerous. How like, methought, I then was to this kernel, This squash, this gentleman.—Mine honest friend, Will you take eggs for money?
MAMILLIUS	No, my lord, I’ll fight.
LEONTES	You will? Why, happy man be’s dole!—My brother, Are you so fond of your young prince as we Do seem to be of ours?
POLIXENES	If at home, sir, He’s all my exercise, my mirth, my matter; Now my sworn friend, and then mine enemy; My parasite, my soldier, statesman, all. He makes a July’s day short as December, And with his varying childness cures in me Thoughts that would thick my blood.
LEONTES	So stands this squire Officed with me. We two will walk, my lord, And leave you to your graver steps. Hermione, How thou lov’st us show in our brother’s welcome. Let what is dear in Sicily be cheap. Next to thyself and my young rover, he’s Apparent to my heart.
HERMIONE	If you would seek us, We are yours i’th’ garden. Shall’s attend you there?
LEONTES	To your own bents dispose you. You’ll be found, Be you beneath the sky. (Aside) I am angling now, Though you perceive me not how I give line. Go to, go to! How she holds up the neb, the bill to him, And arms her with the boldness of a wife To her allowing husband!
(didascalia)	Exeunt Polixenes and Hermione Gone already.
LEONTES	Inch-thick, knee-deep, o‘er head and ears a forked one!— Go play, boy, play. Thy mother plays, and I Play too; but so disgraced a part, whose issue Will hiss me to my grave. Contempt and clamour Will be my knell. Go play, boy, play. There have been, Or I am much deceived, cuckolds ere now, And many a man there is, even at this present, Now, while I speak this, holds his wife by th’arm, That little thinks she has been sluiced in’s absence, And his pond fished by his next neighbour, by Sir Smile, his neighbour. Nay, there’s comfort in‘t, Whiles other men have gates, and those gates opened, As mine, against their will. Should all despair That have revolted wives, the tenth of mankind Would hang themselves. Physic for’t there’s none. It is a bawdy planet, that will strike Where ’tis predominant; and ‘tis powerful. Think it: From east, west, north, and south, be it concluded, No barricado for a belly. Know’t, It will let in and out the enemy With bag and baggage. Many thousand on’s Have the disease and feel’t not.—How now, boy?
MAMILLIUS	I am like you, they say.
LEONTES	Why, that’s some comfort. What, Camillo there!
CAMILLO	[coming forward] Ay, my good lord.
LEONTES	Go play, Mamillius, thou’rt an honest man.
(didascalia)	Exit Mamillius
LEONTES	Camillo, this great sir will yet stay longer.
CAMILLO	You had much ado to make his anchor hold. When you cast out, it still came home.
LEONTES	Didst note it?
CAMILLO	He would not stay at your petitions, made His business more material.
LEONTES	Didst perceive it? (Aside) They’re here with me already, whisp‘ring, rounding, ‘Sicilia is a so-forth’. ’Tis far gone When I shall gust it last.—How came’t, Camillo, That he did stay?
CAMILLO	At the good Queen’s entreaty.
LEONTES	‘At the Queen’s’ be’t. ‘Good’ should be pertinent, But so it is, it is not. Was this taken By any understanding pate but thine? For thy conceit is soaking, will draw in More than the common blocks. Not noted, is’t, But of the finer natures? By some severals Of head-piece extraordinary? Lower messes Perchance are to this business purblind? Say.
CAMILLO	Business, my lord? I think most understand Bohemia stays here longer.
LEONTES	Ha?
CAMILLO	Stays here longer.
LEONTES	Ay, but why?
CAMILLO	To satisfy your highness, and the entreaties Of our most gracious mistress.
LEONTES	Satisfy? Th‘entreaties of your mistress? Satisfy? Let that suffice. I have trusted thee, Camillo, With all the near’st things to my heart, as well My chamber-counsels, wherein, priest-like, thou Hast cleansed my bosom, I from thee departed Thy penitent reformed. But we have been Deceived in thy integrity, deceived In that which seems so.
CAMILLO	Be it forbid, my lord.
LEONTES	To bide upon’t: thou art not honest; or If thou inclin‘st that way, thou art a coward, Which hoxes honesty behind, restraining From course required. Or else thou must be counted A servant grafted in my serious trust And therein negligent, or else a fool That seest a game played home, the rich stake drawn, And tak’st it all for jest.
CAMILLO	My gracious lord, I may be negligent, foolish, and fearful. In every one of these no man is free, But that his negligence, his folly, fear, Among the infinite doings of the world Sometime puts forth. In your affairs, my lord, If ever I were wilful-negligent, It was my folly. If industriously I played the fool, it was my negligence, Not weighing well the end. If ever fearful To do a thing where I the issue doubted, Whereof the execution did cry out Against the non-performance, ‘twas a fear Which oft infects the wisest. These, my lord, Are such allowed infirmities that honesty Is never free of. But beseech your grace Be plainer with me, let me know my trespass By its own visage. If I then deny it, ’Tis none of mine.
LEONTES	Ha’ not you seen, Camillo— But that’s past doubt; you have, or your eye-glass Is thicker than a cuckold’s horn—or heard— For, to a vision so apparent, rumour Cannot be mute—or thought—for cogitation Resides not in that man that does not think— My wife is slippery? 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. Say’t, and justify’t.
CAMILLO	I would not be a stander-by to hear My sovereign mistress clouded so without My present vengeance taken. ’Shrew my heart, You never spoke what did become you less Than this, which to reiterate were sin As deep as that, though true.
LEONTES	Is whispering nothing? Is leaning cheek to cheek? Is meeting noses? Kissing with inside lip? Stopping the career Of laughter with a sigh?—a note infallible Of breaking honesty. Horsing foot on foot? Skulking in corners? Wishing clocks more swift, Hours minutes, noon midnight? And all eyes Blind with the pin and web but theirs, theirs only, That would unseen 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.
CAMILLO	Good my lord, be cured Of this diseased opinion, and betimes, For ’tis most dangerous.
LEONTES	Say it be, ’tis true.
CAMILLO	No, no, my lord.
LEONTES	It is. You lie, you lie. I say thou liest, Camillo, and I hate thee, Pronounce thee a gross lout, a mindless slave, Or else a hovering temporizer, that Canst with thine eyes at once see good and evil, Inclining to them both. Were my wife’s liver Infected as her life, she would not live The running of one glass.
CAMILLO	Who does infect her?
LEONTES	Why, he that wears her like her medal, hanging About his neck, Bohemia, who, if I Had servants true about me, that bare eyes To see alike mine honour as their profits, Their own particular thrifts, they would do that Which should undo more doing. Ay, and thou His cupbearer, whom I from meaner form Have benched, and reared to worship, who mayst see Plainly as heaven sees earth and earth sees heaven, How I am galled, mightst bespice a cup To give mine enemy a lasting wink, Which draught to me were cordial.
CAMILLO	Sir, my lord, I could do this, and that with no rash potion, But with a ling’ring dram, that should not work Maliciously, like poison. But I cannot Believe this crack to be in my dread mistress, So sovereignly being honourable. I have loved thee—
LEONTES	Make that thy question, and go rot! Dost think I am so muddy, so unsettled, To appoint myself in this vexation? Sully the purity and whiteness of my sheets— Which to preserve is sleep, which being spotted Is goads, thorns, nettles, tails of wasps-Give scandal to the blood o’th’ prince, my son— Who I do think is mine, and love as mine— Without ripe moving to’t? Would I do this? Could man so blench?
CAMILLO	I must believe you, sir. I do, and will fetch off Bohemia for’t, Provided that when he’s removed your highness Will take again your queen as yours at first, Even for your son’s sake, and thereby for sealing The injury of tongues in courts and kingdoms Known and allied to yours.
LEONTES	Thou dost advise me Even so as I mine own course have set down. I’ll give no blemish to her honour, none.
CAMILLO	My lord, go then, and with a countenance as clear As friendship wears at feasts, keep with Bohemia And with your queen. I am his cupbearer. If from me he have wholesome beverage, Account me not your servant.
LEONTES	This is all. Do‘t, and thou hast the one half of my heart; Do’t not, thou splitt’st thine own.
CAMILLO	I’ll do’t, my lord.
LEONTES	I will seem friendly, as thou hast advised me.
(didascalia)	Exit
CAMILLO	O miserable lady. But for me, What case stand I in? I must be the poisoner Of good Polixenes, and my ground to do’t Is the obedience to a master—one Who in rebellion with himself, will have All that are his so too. To do this deed, Promotion follows. If I could find example Of thousands that had struck anointed kings And flourished after, I’d not do’t. But since Nor brass, nor stone, nor parchment bears not one, Let villainy itself forswear’t. I must Forsake the court. To do’t, or no, is certain To me a break-neck.
(didascalia)	Enter Polixenes
CAMILLO	Happy star reign now! Here comes Bohemia.
POLIXENES	(aside) This is strange. Methinks My favour here begins to warp. Not speak?— Good day, Camillo.
CAMILLO	Hail, most royal sir.
POLIXENES	What is the news i’th’ court?
CAMILLO	None rare, my lord.
POLIXENES	The King hath on him such a countenance As he had lost some province, and a region Loved 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, speeds from me, and So leaves me to consider what is breeding That changes thus his manners.
CAMILLO	I dare not know, my lord.
POLIXENES	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 say you ‘dare not’. Good Camillo, Your changed complexions are to me a mirror Which shows me mine changed, too; for I must be A party in this alteration, finding Myself thus altered with’t.
CAMILLO	There is a sickness Which puts some of us in distemper, but I cannot name th’ disease, and it is caught Of you that yet are well.
POLIXENES	How caught of me? Make me not sighted like the basilisk. I have looked on thousands who have sped the better By my regard, but killed none so. Camillo, As you are certainly a gentleman, thereto Clerk-like experienced, which no less adorns Our gentry than our parents’ noble names, In whose success we are gentle: I beseech you, If you know aught which does behove my knowledge Thereof to be informed, imprison’t not In ignorant concealment.
CAMILLO	I may not answer.
POLIXENES	A sickness caught of me, and yet I well? I must be answered. Dost thou hear, Camillo, I conjure thee, by all the parts of man Which honour does acknowledge, whereof the least Is not this suit of mine, that thou declare What incidency thou dost guess of harm Is creeping toward me; how far off, how near, Which way to be prevented, if to be; If not, how best to bear it.
CAMILLO	Sir, I will tell you, Since I am charged in honour, and by him That I think honourable. Therefore mark my counsel, Which must be e’en as swiftly followed as I mean to utter it; or both yourself and me Cry lost, and so good night!
POLIXENES	On, good Camillo.
CAMILLO	I am appointed him to murder you.
POLIXENES	By whom, Camillo?
CAMILLO	By the King.
POLIXENES	For what?
CAMILLO	He thinks, nay, with all confidence he swears As he had seen‘t, or been an instrument To vice you to’t, that you have touched his queen Forbiddenly.
POLIXENES	O, then my best blood turn To an infected jelly, and my name Be yoked with his that did betray the Best! Turn then my freshest reputation to A savour that may strike the dullest nostril Where I arrive, and my approach be shunned, Nay hated, too, worse than the great‘st infection That e’er was heard or read.
CAMILLO	Swear his thought over By each particular star in heaven, and By all their influences, you may as well Forbid the sea for to obey the moon As or by oath remove or counsel shake The fabric of his folly, whose foundation Is piled upon his faith, and will continue The standing of his body.
POLIXENES	How should this grow?
CAMILLO	I know not, but I am sure ‘tis safer to Avoid what’s grown than question how ’tis born. If therefore you dare trust my honesty, That lies enclosed in this trunk which you Shall bear along impawned, away tonight! Your followers I will whisper to the business, And will by twos and threes at several posterns Clear them o’th’ city. For myself, I’ll put My fortunes to your service, which are here By this discovery lost. Be not uncertain, For by the honour of my parents, I Have uttered truth; which if you seek to prove, I dare not stand by; nor shall you be safer Than one condemned by the King’s own mouth, Thereon his execution sworn.
POLIXENES	I do believe thee, I saw his heart in’s face. Give me thy hand. Be pilot to me, and thy places shall Still neighbour mine. My ships are ready, and My people did expect my hence departure Two days ago. This jealousy Is for a precious creature. As she’s rare Must it be great; and as his person’s mighty Must it be violent; and as he does conceive He is dishonoured by a man which ever Professed to him, why, his revenges must In that be made more bitter. Fear o‘ershades me. Good expedition be my friend and comfort The gracious Queen, part of his theme, but nothing Of his ill-ta’en suspicion. Come, Camillo, I will respect thee as a father if Thou bear’st my life off hence. Let us avoid.
CAMILLO	It is in mine authority to command The keys of all the posterns. Please your highness To take the urgent hour. Come, sir, away.
(didascalia)	Exeunt

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entrano Leonte, Ermione, Mamillio, Polissene e Camillo
POLISSENE	Nove mutazioni dell’astro acquoso ha segnato il pastore da che lasciammo il nostro trono senza il suo peso. Altrettanto tempo si colmerebbe, fratello, dei nostri ringraziamenti, e tuttavia in perpetuo dovremmo partire di qui indebitati. E però, come uno zero che pure sta in ricco luogo, io moltiplico con un solo «Vi ringraziamo» molte migliaia che gli vanno innanzi.
LEONTE	Trattenete un poco i vostri grazie, e pagateli quando partirete.
POLISSENE	Signore, è domani. Sono interrogato dai miei timori di ciò che possa accadere o covare durante la nostra assenza, che non spirino venti pungenti a casa da farci dire «Questo fu predetto troppo veramente». Inoltre, mi son fermato fino a stancare la vostra regalità.
LEONTE	Siamo più tenaci, fratello, di quanto possiate metterci alla prova.
POLISSENE	Non più oltre.
LEONTE	Una settimana ancora.
POLISSENE	In verità, domani.
LEONTE	Ci divideremo il tempo fra noi, allora; e in questo non ammetto diniego.
POLISSENE	Non insistete, vi supplico, così. Non v’è lingua che si muova, nessuna, nessuna al mondo che tanto presto quanto la vostra potrebbe vincermi. Così sarebbe ora, se vi fosse necessità nella vostra richiesta, benché fosse necessario ch’io la negassi. I miei affari mi trascinano addirittura verso casa; impedirlo sarebbe, nel vostro amore, una sferza per me; il mio restare per voi un onere e un disturbo. Per risparmiare entrambi, addio, fratello nostro.
LEONTE	Muta la lingua, regina nostra? Parlate voi.
ERMIONE	Avevo pensato, signore, di tacere finché non gli aveste strappato giuramenti di non restare. Voi, signore, lo incalzate troppo freddamente. Ditegli che siete certo che tutto in Boemia va bene. Questa conferma l’ha proclamata il giorno trascorso. Ditegli questo, e sarà scacciato dalla sua miglior difesa.
LEONTE	Ben detto, Ermione!
ERMIONE	Dire che brama vedere suo figlio sarebbe forte argomento. Ma lo dica dunque, e allora vada. Ma lo giuri, e non resterà, lo cacceremo di qui a colpi di conocchia. (A Polissene) Pure della vostra regale presenza avventurerò il prestito d’una settimana. Quando in Boemia prenderete il mio signore, gli darò la mia licenza di lasciarvelo un mese oltre il termine fissato per la partenza.—Eppure, in buona fede, Leonte, io non ti amo d’un battito d’orologio meno di quanto qualunque dama ami il suo signore.—Restate?
POLISSENE	No, madama.
ERMIONE	Ma sì, resterete?
POLISSENE	Non posso, in verità.
ERMIONE	In verità? Mi respingete con voti fiacchi. Ma io, anche se voleste scardinare le stelle dalle loro sfere con giuramenti, direi pur sempre: «Signore, non si parte». In verità voi non andrete. Il «in verità» d’una dama è potente quanto quello d’un signore. Volete ancora andare? Costringetemi a trattenervi come prigioniero, non come ospite: così pagherete il vostro conto quando partirete, e risparmierete i ringraziamenti. Che dite voi? Mio prigioniero? o mio ospite? Per il vostro temuto «in verità», uno dei due sarete.
POLISSENE	Vostro ospite, allora, madama. Esser vostro prigioniero implicherebbe un’offesa, che m’è meno facile commettere di quanto a voi punire.
ERMIONE	Non vostra carceriera, dunque, ma vostra gentile ospite. Venite, vi interrogherò sulle birbanterie del mio signore e vostre quando eravate ragazzi. Eravate graziosi signorotti allora?
POLISSENE	Lo eravamo, bella Regina, due fanciulli che credevano non vi fosse altro dietro se non un domani uguale all’oggi, e d’esser fanciulli in eterno.
ERMIONE	Non era il mio signore il più burlone dei due?
POLISSENE	Eravamo come agnelli gemelli che saltellavano al sole e belavano l’uno all’altro. Ciò che scambiavamo era innocenza per innocenza. Non conoscevamo la dottrina del mal fare, né sognavamo che alcuno la conoscesse. Se avessimo seguito quella vita, e i nostri deboli spiriti non fossero mai stati innalzati da sangue più forte, avremmo risposto al cielo arditamente: «Non colpevoli», assolti dalla colpa ereditaria che è nostra.
ERMIONE	Da ciò arguiamo che avete inciampato da allora.
POLISSENE	O mia sacratissima signora, tentazioni ci son nate da allora; ché in quei giorni implumi mia moglie era una fanciulla. Il vostro prezioso essere non aveva ancora incrociato gli occhi del mio giovane compagno di giochi.
ERMIONE	Il cielo ci aiuti! Non traetene conclusione, ché non abbiate a dire che la vostra regina ed io siamo diavoli. Pure, proseguite. Delle colpe che v’abbiamo fatto commettere risponderemo, se peccaste prima con noi, e se con noi continuaste a fallire, e se non scivolaste con altre che con noi.
LEONTE	È vinto ormai?
ERMIONE	Resterà, mio signore.
LEONTE	Alla mia richiesta non volle. Ermione, carissima, non hai mai parlato a miglior fine.
ERMIONE	Mai?
LEONTE	Mai se non una volta.
ERMIONE	Come, ho detto due volte bene? Quando fu la prima? Ti prego, dimmelo. Rimpinzaci di lodi, e facci grassi come bestie domestiche. Una buona azione che muoia senza voce ne uccide mille che le andrebbero dietro. Le nostre lodi sono il nostro salario. Potete cavalcarci con un solo bacio soave per mille stadi, prima che collo sprone ne scaldiamo un acro. Ma veniamo alla meta. La mia ultima buona azione fu supplicarlo di restare. Quale fu la prima? Ha una sorella maggiore, o vi fraintendo. Oh, si chiamasse Grazia! Ma una sola volta prima parlai a proposito? Quando? Su, ch’io lo sappia. Ne ho gran voglia.
LEONTE	Ebbene, fu quando tre mesi arcigni si furono inaspriti fino alla morte prima ch’io potessi farti aprire la bianca mano e sancire d’esser il mio amore. Allora tu proferisti: «Sono vostra per sempre».
ERMIONE	È grazia davvero. Ecco dunque; ho parlato a proposito due volte. L’una mi guadagnò per sempre un regale marito; l’altra, per qualche tempo, un amico.
(didascalia)	Ella porge la mano a Polissene.
ERMIONE	Si traggono in disparte
LEONTE	(a parte) Troppo caldo, troppo caldo: mescolare amicizia tanto oltre è mescolare sangui. Ho il tremor cordis addosso. Il mio cuore danza, ma non di gioia, non gioia. Questa accoglienza può assumere volto innocente, trarre licenza da cordialità, da generosità, da petto fertile, e ben convenire a chi la porge. Può darsi, lo concedo. Ma questo palpeggiarsi le palme e pizzicarsi le dita, come or fanno, e fabbricare sorrisi studiati come dentro uno specchio; e poi sospirare, come fosse il corno della morte del cervo—oh, quella è accoglienza che al mio petto non piace, né alla mia fronte.—Mamillio, sei tu il mio ragazzo?
MAMILLIUS	Sì, mio buon signore.
LEONTE	In fede mia, ecco il mio bel galletto. Come? Ti sei imbrattato il naso? Dicono sia copia del mio. Vieni, capitano, dobbiamo esser netti—non netti come bestie, ma puliti, capitano. Eppure il torello, la giovenca e il vitello si chiaman tutti bestiame.—Ancora a pizzicare come sopra un virginale la sua palma?—Ebbene, vitello lascivo— sei tu il mio vitello?
MAMILLIUS	Sì, se voi volete, mio signore.
LEONTE	Ti manca la testa ruvida e i germogli che ho io, per esser del tutto simile a me. Pure dicono che siamo simili quasi come due uova. Lo dicono le donne, che dicono ogni cosa. Ma fossero false come panni ritinti di nero, come il vento, come le acque, false come i dadi si vorrebbero da chi non pone confine tra il suo e il mio, pure sarebbe vero dire che questo ragazzo mi somiglia. Vieni, signor paggio, guardami col tuo occhio di cielo. Dolce birbante, carissimo, carne della mia carne! Può tua madre—può essere?— Passione, la tua intenzione trafigge il centro. Tu rendi possibili cose non ritenute tali, comunichi coi sogni—come può accadere?— con ciò ch’è irreale tu sei coattiva, e t’accompagni col nulla. Dunque è ben credibile che tu possa congiungerti con qualcosa, e lo fai— e oltre ogni mandato; e io lo scopro— e ciò a infezione del mio cervello e a indurimento della mia fronte.
POLISSENE	Che vuol dire il re di Sicilia?
ERMIONE	Sembra alquanto turbato.
POLISSENE	Come, mio signore!
LEONTE	Che c’è? Come state, ottimo fratello?
ERMIONE	Voi guardate come se aveste la fronte carica di gran turbamento. Siete commosso, mio signore?
LEONTE	No, davvero. Come talvolta la natura tradisce la sua follia, la sua tenerezza, e fa di sé un passatempo per petti più duri! Guardando i lineamenti del volto del mio ragazzo, mi parve d’arretrare ventitré anni, e di vedermi ancora in gonnella, nella mia giubba di velluto verde; il pugnale imbozzato, perché non mordesse il suo padrone, e non si mostrasse, come spesso fa l’ornamento, troppo pericoloso. Quanto simile, mi parve, ero allora a questo nòcciolo, a questa zucchetta, a questo gentiluomo.—Mio onesto amico, prenderesti uova in cambio di denaro?
MAMILLIUS	No, mio signore, io combatterò.
LEONTE	Davvero? Ebbene, buona sorte a lui!—Fratello mio, siete voi tanto tenero del vostro giovane principe quanto noi sembriamo esserlo del nostro?
POLISSENE	Se sono a casa, signore, egli è tutto il mio esercizio, la mia allegria, la mia materia; ora amico giurato, e poi mio nemico; mio parassita, mio soldato, uomo di stato, tutto. Fa breve come dicembre un giorno di luglio, e col suo mutevole fanciullesco guarisce in me pensieri che ispessirebbero il mio sangue.
LEONTE	Così sta questo scudiero nel suo ufficio con me. Noi due passeggeremo, mio signore, e vi lasceremo ai vostri passi più gravi. Ermione, quanto ci ami mostralo nell’accoglienza al nostro fratello. Ciò ch’è caro in Sicilia sia a buon mercato. Dopo te stessa e il mio giovane vagabondo, egli è l’erede manifesto del mio cuore.
ERMIONE	Se voleste cercarci, siamo vostri nel giardino. Ci raggiungerete là?
LEONTE	Disponetevi ai vostri gusti. Sarete trovati, purché siate sotto il cielo. (A parte) Sto pescando ora, benché non v’accorgiate come io dia lenza. Andate, andate pure! Come gli protende il becco, il rostro, e s’arma dell’audacia d’una moglie verso un marito compiacente!
(didascalia)	Escono Polissene ed Ermione Già andati.
LEONTE	Un pollice di spessore, fino al ginocchio, sopra il capo e le orecchie un cornuto bell’e fatto!— Va’ a giocare, ragazzo, gioca. Tua madre gioca, e anch’io gioco; ma una parte tanto ignominiosa, il cui esito mi fischierà fino alla tomba. Disprezzo e clamore saranno la mia campana a morto. Va’ a giocare, ragazzo, gioca. Vi sono stati, o assai m’inganno, becchi anche prima d’ora, e più d’un uomo v’è, anche in questo momento, ora, mentre parlo, che tiene la moglie a braccetto, e poco pensa ch’ella è stata irrigata in sua assenza, e il suo stagno pescato dal vicino di casa, da Ser Sorriso, il suo vicino. Anzi, v’è conforto in ciò, ché altri uomini hanno cancelli, e quei cancelli aperti, come i miei, contro il loro volere. Se tutti disperassero quelli che han mogli ribelli, un decimo del genere umano s’impiccherebbe. Rimedio non ve n’è. È un pianeta osceno, che colpisce dove predomina; ed è potente. Pensalo: da est, ovest, nord e sud, sia concluso: non v’è barricata per un ventre. Sappilo, lascerà entrare e uscire il nemico con armi e bagagli. Molte migliaia di noi hanno il male e non lo sentono.—Ebbene, ragazzo?
MAMILLIUS	Vi somiglio, dicono.
LEONTE	Ecco, questo è qualche conforto. Ehi, Camillo, siete là!
CAMILLO	[facendosi avanti] Sì, mio buon signore.
LEONTE	Va’ a giocare, Mamillio, tu sei un uomo onesto.
(didascalia)	Esce Mamillio
LEONTE	Camillo, questo gran signore resterà ancora.
CAMILLO	Avete faticato molto a far tenere la sua àncora. Quando la gettavate, tornava sempre a casa.
LEONTE	L’hai notato?
CAMILLO	Non voleva restare alle vostre petizioni, rendeva i suoi affari più urgenti.
LEONTE	L’hai percepito? (A parte) Ci sono già dentro con me, bisbigliando, mormorando, «Il re di Sicilia è un tale e quale». Le cose son già lontane quando io ne avrò per ultimo il sapore.—Come avvenne, Camillo, ch’egli sia rimasto?
CAMILLO	Alla preghiera della buona Regina.
LEONTE	«Alla preghiera della Regina» sia. «Buona» dovrebbe esser pertinente, ma per come stanno le cose, non lo è. Fu ciò còlto da qualche testa intendente oltre la tua? Ché il tuo ingegno è assorbente, tira dentro più dei ceppi comuni. Non è notato, forse, se non dalle nature più fini? Da qualcuno di cervello straordinario? Le tavole più basse forse a questa faccenda son cieche? Parla.
CAMILLO	Faccenda, mio signore? Credo che i più intendano che il re di Boemia resta qui più a lungo.
LEONTE	Ah?
CAMILLO	Resta qui più a lungo.
LEONTE	Sì, ma perché?
CAMILLO	Per soddisfare vostra altezza, e per le preghiere della nostra graziosissima signora.
LEONTE	Soddisfare? Le preghiere della vostra signora? Soddisfare? Basti così. Ti ho affidato, Camillo, tutte le cose più vicine al mio cuore, e del pari i consigli della mia camera, ove tu, come un prete, hai mondato il mio petto, e io da te partii tuo penitente riformato. Ma siamo stati ingannati nella tua integrità, ingannati in ciò che tale sembra.
CAMILLO	Non sia mai, mio signore.
LEONTE	Insistendovi sopra: tu non sei onesto; o se inclini in quel senso, sei un codardo, che azzoppa l’onestà da tergo, trattenendola dal corso richiesto. O altrimenti devi esser tenuto un servo innestato nella mia grave fiducia e in essa negligente, oppure un folle che vede un gioco giocato fino in fondo, la ricca posta tirata, e prende tutto per scherzo.
CAMILLO	Mio grazioso signore, posso essere negligente, sciocco e timoroso. In ognuna di queste cose nessun uomo è libero, ché la sua negligenza, la sua follia, la paura, tra le infinite azioni del mondo talvolta si manifestano. Nei vostri affari, mio signore, se mai fui volutamente negligente, fu mia follia. Se industriosamente feci il folle, fu mia negligenza, non pesando bene il fine. Se mai fui timoroso di fare una cosa di cui dubitavo l’esito, la cui esecuzione poi gridava contro la non-esecuzione, fu una paura che spesso infetta i più saggi. Queste, mio signore, son tali concesse infermità di cui l’onestà non è mai libera. Ma supplico vostra grazia d’esser più chiaro con me, fatemi conoscere il mio fallo nel suo proprio volto. Se allora lo negherò, non è mio.
LEONTE	Non hai veduto, Camillo— ma questo è fuor di dubbio; l’hai veduto, o la tua lente è più spessa d’un corno di becco—o udito— ché, a una visione così manifesta, la voce non può tacere—o pensato—ché la cogitazione non risiede in quell’uomo che non pensa— che mia moglie è scivolosa? Se vuoi confessarlo— o altrimenti negare impudentemente d’aver occhi, orecchi o pensiero—allora di’ che mia moglie è una cavallina da giostra, che merita un nome rancido quanto quello d’una filatrice che si concede prima delle promesse. Dillo, e giustificalo.
CAMILLO	Non vorrei star lì presente a udire la mia sovrana signora così offuscata senza prender subito vendetta. Maledetto il mio cuore, non avete mai detto cosa che meno vi convenisse di questa, che ripetere sarebbe peccato profondo quanto quello, ancorché vero.
LEONTE	È nulla il bisbigliare? È nulla appoggiare guancia a guancia? Incontrare i nasi? Baciarsi col labbro di dentro? Fermare la corsa del riso con un sospiro?—segno infallibile d’onestà che si spezza. Accavallare piede su piede? Appartarsi negli angoli? Voler gli orologi più veloci, le ore minuti, il mezzodì mezzanotte? E tutti gli occhi ciechi di cateratta tranne i loro, i loro soltanto, che vorrebbero peccare non visti? È nulla questo? Se sì, allora il mondo e quanto contiene è nulla, il cielo che ci copre è nulla, la Boemia nulla, mia moglie è nulla, né alcun che hanno questi nulla, se questo è nulla.
CAMILLO	Mio buon signore, guaritevi di questa malata opinione, e per tempo, ché è pericolosissima.
LEONTE	Sia pure, ma è vera.
CAMILLO	No, no, mio signore.
LEONTE	Lo è. Tu menti, tu menti. Ti dico che menti, Camillo, e ti odio, ti proclamo un rozzo villano, uno schiavo senza mente, o altrimenti un tergiversante ondeggiante, che coi tuoi occhi puoi al tempo stesso vedere il bene e il male, inclinando a entrambi. Se il fegato di mia moglie fosse infetto come la sua vita, ella non vivrebbe il corso d’una clessidra.
CAMILLO	Chi la infetta?
LEONTE	Ebbene, colui che la porta come un suo medaglione, appeso al collo, il re di Boemia, il quale, se io avessi servi fedeli intorno, che avessero occhi per vedere il mio onore come i loro profitti, i loro particolari risparmi, farebbero ciò che disfarebbe altre azioni. Sì, e tu, suo coppiere, che io da più umile rango ho elevato in seggio, e innalzato a onore, che puoi vedere chiaramente come il cielo vede la terra e la terra il cielo, quanto io sia scorticato, potresti aromatizzare una coppa per dare al mio nemico un sonno durevole, bevanda che a me sarebbe cordiale.
CAMILLO	Signore, mio signore, potrei far questo, e non con rapida pozione, ma con una dose lenta, che non operasse malignamente, come veleno. Ma non posso credere che questa incrinatura sia nella mia temuta signora, essendo così sovranamente onorevole. Io ti ho amato—
LEONTE	Fanne pure la tua questione, e va’ a marcire! Credi ch’io sia tanto torbido, tanto instabile da destinarmi a questo tormento? Insozzare la purezza e il candore delle mie lenzuola— preservarle è sonno, e macchiate sono pungoli, spine, ortiche, code di vespe—dare scandalo al sangue del principe, mio figlio— che io credo sia mio, e amo come mio— senza matura ragione? Farei io questo? Potrebbe un uomo tanto sviarsi?
CAMILLO	Devo credervi, signore. Vi credo, e leverò di mezzo il re di Boemia per questo, purché, quando sia rimosso, vostra altezza riprenda la vostra regina come vostra da principio, anche per amor di vostro figlio, e per sigillare così la ferita delle lingue in corti e regni noti e alleati al vostro.
LEONTE	Tu mi consigli proprio come io stesso ho fissato il mio corso. Non darò macchia al suo onore, nessuna.
CAMILLO	Mio signore, andate dunque, e con volto sereno come l’amicizia lo porta ai banchetti, state col re di Boemia e con la vostra regina. Io sono il suo coppiere. Se da me avrà bevanda salubre, non tenetemi vostro servo.
LEONTE	Questo è tutto. Fallo, e avrai una metà del mio cuore; non farlo, e spezzerai il tuo.
CAMILLO	Lo farò, mio signore.
LEONTE	Mi mostrerò amichevole, come m’hai consigliato.
(didascalia)	Esce
CAMILLO	O misera signora. Ma quanto a me, in che caso mi trovo? Devo essere l’avvelenatore del buon Polissene, e il mio motivo per farlo è l’obbedienza a un padrone—uno che, in ribellione con se stesso, vuole che tutti i suoi lo siano del pari. A compiere quest’atto segue la promozione. Se potessi trovare esempio di migliaia che colpirono re consacrati e prosperarono dopo, non lo farei. Ma poiché né bronzo, né pietra, né pergamena ne reca uno, che la scelleratezza stessa vi rinunci. Devo abbandonare la corte. Farlo, o non farlo, è certo per me rompicollo.
(didascalia)	Entra Polissene
CAMILLO	Regni ora stella propizia! Ecco venire il re di Boemia.
POLISSENE	(a parte) Questo è strano. Mi pare Che il mio favore qui cominci a piegare. Non parlare?— Buon giorno, Camillo.
CAMILLO	Salve, regalissimo signore.
POLISSENE	Che notizie vi sono a corte?
CAMILLO	Nessuna rara, mio signore.
POLISSENE	Il Re ha addosso un tal volto come avesse perduto qualche provincia, e una regione amata quanto ama se stesso. Or ora l’ho incontrato con consueto saluto, quand’egli, volgendo gli occhi altrove, e abbassando un labbro di gran disprezzo, s’affretta via da me, e così mi lascia a considerare che cosa covi da mutargli così le maniere.
CAMILLO	Non ardisco saperlo, mio signore.
POLISSENE	Come, «non ardisco»? Non lo sapete? Lo sapete, e non ardite? Siate intelligibile con me. È press’a poco così. Ché a voi stesso ciò che sapete dovete saperlo, e non potete dire «non ardisco». Buon Camillo, i vostri mutati colori sono per me uno specchio che mostra mutati anche i miei; ché devo essere parte in questa alterazione, trovandomi così alterato con essa.
CAMILLO	V’è una malattia che mette alcuni di noi in disordine, ma non posso nominare il morbo, ed è contratto da voi che pure state bene.
POLISSENE	Come contratto da me? Non fatemi lo sguardo del basilisco. Ho guardato migliaia di persone che ne son state meglio per il mio sguardo, ma non ne ho ucciso nessuna. Camillo, poiché siete certamente un gentiluomo, e inoltre esperto come un dotto, il che non meno adorna la nostra nobiltà che i nobili nomi dei nostri padri, nel cui successo siamo gentiluomini: vi supplico, se sapete alcunché che convenga alla mia conoscenza d’esserne informato, non imprigionatelo in ignorante occultamento.
CAMILLO	Non posso rispondere.
POLISSENE	Un male contratto da me, e io pur bene? Devo aver risposta. Odi tu, Camillo, ti scongiuro, per tutte le parti dell’uomo che l’onore riconosce, delle quali non è l’ultima questa mia supplica, che tu dichiari quale accidente tu congetturi di male strisci verso di me; quanto lontano, quanto vicino, in che modo prevenirlo, se è possibile; se no, come meglio sopportarlo.
CAMILLO	Signore, ve lo dirò, Poiché son scongiurato sull’onore, e da colui che ritengo onorevole. Perciò notate il mio consiglio, che dev’essere seguito con la stessa rapidità con cui intendo proferirlo; o entrambi, voi e me, gridate perduti, e allora buona notte!
POLISSENE	Avanti, buon Camillo.
CAMILLO	Sono designato da lui a uccidervi.
POLISSENE	Da chi, Camillo?
CAMILLO	Dal Re.
POLISSENE	Per che cosa?
CAMILLO	Egli pensa, anzi, con ogni sicurezza giura come l’avesse veduto, o fosse stato strumento per spingervi a ciò, che voi abbiate toccato la sua regina illecitamente.
POLISSENE	Oh, allora il mio miglior sangue si muti in gelatina infetta, e il mio nome sia aggiogato a quello di chi tradì il Migliore! Si muti allora la mia più fresca reputazione in un fetore che colpisca la narice più ottusa ovunque io giunga, e il mio avvicinarmi sia fuggito, anzi odiato, peggio del più grande contagio che mai si udì o si lesse.
CAMILLO	Giurate pure contro il suo pensiero Per ogni singola stella del cielo, e per tutti i loro influssi: potreste altrettanto bene proibire al mare d’obbedire alla luna quanto con giuramento rimuovere o con consiglio scuotere l’edificio della sua follia, la cui fondazione è ammassata sulla sua fede, e durerà quanto sta in piedi il suo corpo.
POLISSENE	Come può esser nato questo?
CAMILLO	Non so, ma son certo ch’è più sicuro evitare ciò ch’è cresciuto che chiedere come sia nato. Se dunque osate fidarvi della mia onestà, che sta rinchiusa in questo tronco che voi porterete via come pegno, via stanotte! Ai vostri seguaci bisbiglierò della faccenda, e a due a due e a tre a tre per diverse porte segrete li farò uscire dalla città. Quanto a me, porrò le mie fortune al vostro servizio, ché qui sono perdute per questa rivelazione. Non siate incerto, ché per l’onore dei miei genitori, io ho detto la verità; e se cercate di provarlo, non oso restare presente; né sareste più sicuro d’uno condannato dalla bocca stessa del Re, e sopra ciò giurata la sua esecuzione.
POLISSENE	Ti credo, ho visto il suo cuore nel suo volto. Dammi la tua mano. Sii mio pilota, e i tuoi posti saranno sempre vicini ai miei. Le mie navi son pronte, e la mia gente aspettava la mia partenza di qui due giorni fa. Questa gelosia è per una creatura preziosa. Com’ella è rara così dev’esser grande; e come la sua persona è possente così dev’esser violenta; e poiché egli concepisce d’esser disonorato da un uomo che sempre gli professò amicizia, ecco, le sue vendette devono in ciò farsi più amare. La Paura mi adombra. Buona sollecitudine mi sia amica, e conforti la graziosa Regina, parte del suo tema, ma per nulla del suo mal concepito sospetto. Vieni, Camillo, ti rispetterò come un padre se porterai via di qui la mia vita. Fuggiamo.
CAMILLO	È nella mia autorità comandare le chiavi di tutte le porte segrete. Piaccia a vostra altezza cogliere l’ora urgente. Venite, signore, via.
(didascalia)	Escono

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Hermione, Mamillius, and Ladies
HERMIONE	Take the boy to you. He so troubles me ’Tis past enduring.
FIRST LADY	Come, my gracious lord, Shall I be your play-fellow?
MAMILLIUS	No, I’ll none of you.
FIRST LADY	Why, my sweet lord?
MAMILLIUS	You’ll kiss me hard, and speak to me as if I were a baby still. (To Second Lady) I love you better.
SECOND LADY	And why so, my lord?
MAMILLIUS	Not for because Your brows are blacker—yet black brows they say Become some women best, so that there be not Too much hair there, but in a semicircle, Or a half-moon made with a pen.
SECOND LADY	Who taught ’this?
MAMILLIUS	I learned it out of women’s faces. Pray now, What colour are your eyebrows?
FIRST LADY	Blue, my lord.
MAMILLIUS	Nay, that’s a mock. I have seen a lady’s nose That has been blue, but not her eyebrows.
FIRST LADY	Hark ye, The Queen your mother rounds apace. We shall Present our services to a fine new prince One of these days, and then you’d wanton with us, If we would have you.
SECOND LADY	She is spread of late Into a goodly bulk, good time encounter her.
HERMIONE	What wisdom stirs amongst you? Come sir, now I am for you again. Pray you sit by us, And tell’s a tale.
MAMILLIUS	Merry or sad shall’t be?
HERMIONE	As merry as you will.
MAMILLIUS	A sad tale’s best for winter. I have one Of sprites and goblins.
HERMIONE	Let’s have that, good sir. Come on, sit down, come on, and do your best To fright me with your sprites. You’re powerful at it.
MAMILLIUS	There was a man—
HERMIONE	Nay, come sit down, then on.
MAMILLIUS	(sitting) Dwelt by a churchyard.—I will tell it softly, Yon crickets shall not hear it.
HERMIONE	Come on then, and give’t me in mine ear.
(didascalia)	Enter apart Leontes, Antigonus, and Lords
LEONTES	Was he met there? His train? Camillo with him? A LORD Behind the tuft of pines I met them. Never Saw I men scour so on their way. I eyed them Even to their ships.
LEONTES	How blest am I In my just censure, in my true opinion! Alack, for lesser knowledge—how accursed In being so blest! There may be in the cup A spider steeped, and one may drink, depart, And yet partake no venom, for his knowledge Is not infected; but if one present Th’abhorred ingredient to his eye, make known How he hath drunk, he cracks his gorge, his sides, With violent hefts. I have drunk, and seen the spider. Camillo was his help in this, his pander. There is a plot against my life, my crown. All’s true that is mistrusted. That false villain Whom I employed was pre-employed by him. He has discovered my design, and I Remain a pinched thing, yea, a very trick For them to play at will. How came the posterns So easily open? A LORD By his great authority, Which often hath no less prevailed than so On your command.
LEONTES	I know’t too well. (To Hermione) Give me the boy. I am glad you did not nurse him. Though he does bear some signs of me, yet you Have too much blood in him.
HERMIONE	What is this? Sport?
LEONTES	(to a Lord) Bear the boy hence. He shall not come about her. Away with him, and let her sport herself With that she’s big with, (to Hermione) for ’tis Polixenes Has made thee swell thus. Exit one with Mamillius
HERMIONE	But I’d say he had not, And I’ll be sworn you would believe my saying, Howe’er you lean to th’ nayward.
LEONTES	You, my lords, Look on her, mark her well. Be but about To say she is a goodly lady, and The justice of your hearts will thereto add “Tis pity she’s not honest, honourable.’ Praise her but for this her without-door form— Which on my faith deserves high speech—and straight The shrug, the ‘hum’ or ‘ha’, these petty brands That calumny doth use—O, I am out, That mercy does, for calumny will sear Virtue itself—these shrugs, these ‘hum’s’ and ‘ha’s’, When you have said she’s goodly, come between Ere you can say she’s honest. But be’t known From him that has most cause to grieve it should be, She’s an adultress.
HERMIONE	Should a villain say so, The most replenished villain in the world, He were as much more villain. You, my lord, Do but mistake.
LEONTES	You have mistook, my lady— Polixenes for Leontes. O, thou thing, Which I’ll not call a creature of thy place Lest barbarism, making me the precedent, Should a like language use to all degrees, And mannerly distinguishment leave out Betwixt the prince and beggar. I have said She’s an adultress, I have said with whom. More, she’s a traitor, and Camillo is A federary with her, and one that knows What she should shame to know herself, But with her most vile principal: that she’s A bed-swerver, even as bad as those That vulgars give bold’st titles; ay, and privy To this their late escape.
HERMIONE	No, by my life, Privy to none of this. How will this grieve you When you shall come to clearer knowledge, that You thus have published me? Gentle my lord, You scarce can right me throughly then to say You did mistake.
LEONTES	No. If I mistake In those foundations which I build upon, The centre is not big enough to bear A schoolboy’s top.—Away with her to prison! He who shall speak for her is afar-off guilty, But that he speaks.
HERMIONE	There’s some ill planet reigns. I must be patient till the heavens look With an aspect more favourable. Good my lords, I am not prone to weeping, as our sex no Commonly are; the want of which vain dew Perchance shall dry your pities. But I have That honourable grief lodged here which burns Worse than tears drown. Beseech you all, my lords, With thoughts so qualified as your charities Shall best instruct you, measure me; and so The King’s will be performed.
LEONTES	Shall I be heard?
HERMIONE	Who is’t that goes with me? Beseech your highness My women may be with me, for you see My plight requires it.—Do not weep, good fools, There is no cause. When you shall know your mistress Has deserved prison, then abound in tears As I come out. This action I now go on Is for my better grace.—Adieu, my lord. I never wished to see you sorry; now I trust I shall. My women, come, you have leave.
LEONTES	Go, do our bidding. Hence!
(didascalia)	Exit Hermione, guarded, with Ladies
LEONTES	A LORD Beseech your highness, call the Queen again.
ANTIGONUS	(to Leontes) Be certain what you do, sir, lest your justice Prove violence, in the which three great ones suffer— Yourself, your queen, your son. A LORD (to Leontes) For her, my lord, I dare my life lay down, and will do‘t, sir, Please you t’accept it, that the Queen is spotless I’th’ eyes of heaven and to you—I mean In this which you accuse her.
ANTIGONUS	(to Leontes) If it prove She’s otherwise, I’ll keep my stables where I lodge my wife, I’ll go in couples with her; Than when I feel and see her, no farther trust her. For every inch of woman in the world, Ay, every dram of woman’s flesh is false If she be.
LEONTES	Hold your peaces. A LORD Good my lord—
ANTIGONUS	(to Leontes) It is for you we speak, not for ourselves. You are abused, and by some putter-on That will be damned for’t. Would I knew the villain— I would land-damn him. Be she honour-flawed— I have three daughters: the eldest is eleven; The second and the third nine and some five; If this prove true, they’ll pay for’t. By mine honour, I’ll geld ’em all. Fourteen they shall not see, To bring false generations. They are co-heirs, And I had rather glib myself than they Should not produce fair issue.
LEONTES	Cease, no more! You smell this business with a sense as cold As is a dead man’s nose. But I do see’t and feel’t As you feel doing thus; and see withal The instruments that feel.
ANTIGONUS	If it be so, We need no grave to bury honesty; There’s not a grain of it the face to sweeten Of the whole dungy earth.
LEONTES	What? Lack I credit? A LORD I had rather you did lack than I, my lord, Upon this ground; and more it would content me To have her honour true than your suspicion, Be blamed for’t how you might.
LEONTES	Why, what need we Commune with you of this, but rather follow Our forceful instigation? Our prerogative Calls not your counsels, but our natural goodness Imparts this; which, if you—or stupefied Or seeming so in skill—cannot or will not Relish a truth like us, inform yourselves We need no more of your advice. The matter, The loss, the gain, the ord‘ring on’t, is all Properly ours.
ANTIGONUS	And I wish, my liege, You had only in your silent judgement tried it Without more overture.
LEONTES	How could that be? Either thou art most ignorant by age Or thou wert born a fool. Camillo’s flight Added to their familiarity, Which was as gross as ever touched conjecture That lacked sight only, naught for approbation But only seeing, all other circumstances Made up to th’ deed—doth push on this proceeding. Yet for a greater confirmation— For in an act of this importance ’twere Most piteous to be wild—I have dispatched in post To sacred Delphos, to Apollo’s temple, Cleomenes and Dion, whom you know Of stuffed sufficiency. Now from the oracle They will bring all, whose spiritual counsel had Shall stop or spur me. Have I done well? A LORD Well done, my lord.
LEONTES	Though I am satisfied, and need no more Than what I know, yet shall the oracle Give rest to th’ minds of others such as he, Whose ignorant credulity will not Come up to th’ truth. So have we thought it good From our free person she should be confined, Lest that the treachery of the two fled hence Be left her to perform. Come, follow us. We are to speak in public; for this business Will raise us all.
ANTIGONUS	(aside) To laughter, as I take it, If the good truth were known. Exeunt

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entrano Ermione, Mamillio e Dame
ERMIONE	Prendete voi il ragazzo. Mi dà tal fastidio che non si può più sopportare.
PRIMA DAMA	Venite, mio grazioso signore, volete ch’io sia la vostra compagna di giochi?
MAMILLIUS	No, non voglio nessuna di voi.
PRIMA DAMA	Perché, mio dolce signore?
MAMILLIUS	Voi mi baciate forte, e mi parlate come se fossi ancora un poppante. (Alla Seconda Dama) Io amo più voi.
SECONDA DAMA	E perché, mio signore?
MAMILLIUS	Non già perché le vostre sopracciglia siano più nere—eppure nere sopracciglia dicono convengano meglio ad alcune donne, purché non vi sia troppo pelo, ma in un semicerchio, o una mezza luna tracciata con la penna.
SECONDA DAMA	Chi v’ha insegnato questo?
MAMILLIUS	L’ho imparato dai volti delle donne. Dite ora, di che colore sono le vostre sopracciglia?
PRIMA DAMA	Azzurre, mio signore.
MAMILLIUS	No, questa è una burla. Ho veduto il naso d’una dama che era azzurro, ma non le sue sopracciglia.
PRIMA DAMA	Udite, La Regina vostra madre si arrotonda in fretta. Noi presenteremo i nostri servigi a un bel principe nuovo uno di questi giorni, e allora scherzereste volentieri con noi, se vi volessimo.
SECONDA DAMA	Ella s’è dilatata di recente in una bella mole; buon tempo le venga incontro.
ERMIONE	Che saggezza s’agita fra voi? Venite, signore, ora sono di nuovo per voi. Vi prego, sedete accanto a noi, e narrateci una favola.
MAMILLIUS	Allegra o mesta la volete?
ERMIONE	Allegra quanto vorrete.
MAMILLIUS	Una favola mesta è la migliore per l’inverno. Ne so una di spiriti e di folletti.
ERMIONE	Sentiamo quella, buon signore. Su, sedete, su, e fate del vostro meglio per spaventarmi coi vostri spiriti. Siete potente in questo.
MAMILLIUS	C’era una volta un uomo—
ERMIONE	Su, sedete, e poi avanti.
MAMILLIUS	(sedendosi) Abitava presso un cimitero.—Lo dirò piano, quei grilli laggiù non l’udranno.
ERMIONE	Avanti dunque, e dimmelo all’orecchio.
(didascalia)	Entrano in disparte Leonte, Antigono e Signori
LEONTE	Fu incontrato là? Il suo seguito? Camillo con lui? UN SIGNORE Dietro il ciuffo di pini li ho incontrati. Mai vidi uomini correre così per la loro via. Li ho seguiti con l’occhio fino alle loro navi.
LEONTE	Quanto son benedetto nella mia giusta censura, nella mia vera opinione! Ahimè, per la minor conoscenza—quanto maledetto nell’esser tanto benedetto! Può esservi nella coppa un ragno immerso, e uno può bere, partire, e pure non prendere veleno, perché la sua conoscenza non è infetta; ma se qualcuno presenta l’aborrito ingrediente al suo occhio, e gli fa noto com’egli abbia bevuto, gli si spacca la gola, i fianchi, con violenti conati. Io ho bevuto, e ho visto il ragno. Camillo fu il suo aiuto in questo, il suo ruffiano. V’è una congiura contro la mia vita, la mia corona. Tutto è vero ciò che si sospetta. Quel falso scellerato ch’io impiegai era già impiegato da lui. Ha scoperto il mio disegno, e io resto una cosa pizzicata, anzi, un vero trastullo per loro da giocarci a piacere. Come mai le porte segrete si aprirono così facilmente? UN SIGNORE Per la sua grande autorità, che spesso non meno ha prevalso di quanto il vostro comando.
LEONTE	Lo so troppo bene. (A Ermione) Datemi il ragazzo. Son lieto che non l’abbiate allattato. Benché rechi qualche segno di me, pure voi avete troppo sangue in lui.
ERMIONE	Che cos’è questo? Un gioco?
LEONTE	(a un Signore) Portate via di qui il ragazzo. Non le si accosti. Via con lui, e ch’ella si trastulli con ciò di cui è gravida, (a Ermione) ché è Polissene che t’ha fatto gonfiare così. Esce uno con Mamillio
ERMIONE	Ma io direi che non l’ha fatto, E giurerei che voi credereste al mio dire, per quanto propendiate al contrario.
LEONTE	Voi, miei signori, guardatela, osservatela bene. Siate solo sul punto di dire ch’ella è una bella dama, e la giustizia dei vostri cuori vi aggiungerà «è un peccato ch’ella non sia onesta, onorevole». Lodatela pure per questa sua forma esteriore— che sulla mia fede merita alto discorso—e subito la scrollata di spalle, l’«hum» o l’«ah», questi piccoli marchi di cui usa la calunnia—oh, sbaglio, di cui usa la misericordia, ché la calunnia arderà la virtù stessa—queste scrollate, questi «hum» e «ah», quando avete detto ch’è bella, s’interpongono prima che possiate dire ch’è onesta. Ma sia noto, da colui che ha più ragione di dolersi che sia così, ch’ella è un’adultera.
ERMIONE	Se un scellerato lo dicesse, il più compiuto scellerato del mondo, sarebbe altrettanto più scellerato. Voi, mio signore, solamente v’ingannate.
LEONTE	Vi siete ingannata voi, mia signora— Polissene per Leonte. Oh, tu cosa, che non chiamerò creatura del tuo rango perché la barbarie, facendo di me il precedente, non usi un simile linguaggio a tutti i gradi, e tralasci il civile distinguere fra il principe e il mendico. Ho detto ch’è un’adultera, ho detto con chi. Di più, è una traditrice, e Camillo è suo confederato, e uno che sa ciò che ella dovrebbe vergognarsi di sapere di sé, se non col suo vilissimo complice: ch’ella è una che tradisce il letto, tanto malvagia quanto quelle a cui il volgo dà i più arditi titoli; sì, e a parte di questa loro recente fuga.
ERMIONE	No, per la mia vita, a parte di nulla di questo. Come vi dorrà quando giungerete a più chiara conoscenza, d’avermi così pubblicamente esposta? Mio gentile signore, a stento potrete allora rendermi piena giustizia col dire che v’ingannaste.
LEONTE	No. Se m’inganno in quelle fondamenta su cui costruisco, il centro della terra non è grande abbastanza da reggere la trottola d’uno scolaro.—Via con lei in prigione! Chi parlerà per lei è colpevole di lontano, per il solo fatto che parla.
ERMIONE	Regna qualche malo pianeta. Devo esser paziente finché i cieli non guardino con aspetto più favorevole. Miei buoni signori, non sono incline al pianto, come il nostro sesso comunemente è; la mancanza di quella vana rugiada forse asciugherà le vostre pietà. Ma ho quell’onorevole dolore alloggiato qui che brucia peggio di quanto le lacrime anneghino. Vi supplico tutti, miei signori, con pensieri quali le vostre carità meglio v’istruiranno, misuratemi; e così sia adempiuta la volontà del Re.
LEONTE	Sarò io obbedito?
ERMIONE	Chi viene con me? Supplico vostra altezza che le mie donne possano stare con me, ché vedete che il mio stato lo richiede.—Non piangete, buone sciocche, non v’è ragione. Quando saprete che la vostra signora ha meritato la prigione, allora abbondate in lacrime quando ne uscirò. Questa azione su cui ora m’avvio è per la mia maggior grazia.—Addio, mio signore. Non ho mai desiderato di vedervi dolente; ora confido che lo vedrò. Mie donne, venite, ne avete licenza.
LEONTE	Andate, fate il nostro comando. Via!
(didascalia)	Esce Ermione, sotto scorta, con le Dame
LEONTE	UN SIGNORE Supplico vostra altezza, richiamate la Regina.
ANTIGONUS	(a Leonte) Siate certo di ciò che fate, signore, ché la vostra giustizia non si dimostri violenza, nella quale tre grandi soffrono— voi stesso, la vostra regina, vostro figlio. UN SIGNORE (a Leonte) Per lei, mio signore, oso deporre la mia vita, e lo farò, signore, se vi piace accettarla, che la Regina è senza macchia agli occhi del cielo e verso di voi—intendo in ciò di cui l’accusate.
ANTIGONUS	(a Leonte) Se si prova ch’ella è altrimenti, terrò le mie stalle dove alloggio mia moglie, andrò accoppiato con lei; e solo quando la sento e la vedo, non fidarmene oltre. Ché ogni pollice di donna al mondo, sì, ogni dramma di carne di donna è falsa se lo è lei.
LEONTE	Tacete. UN SIGNORE Mio buon signore—
ANTIGONUS	(a Leonte) È per voi che parliamo, non per noi. Voi siete ingannato, e da qualche istigatore che sarà dannato per questo. Conoscessi io il scellerato— lo bandirei dalla terra. Fosse ella macchiata nell’onore— ho tre figlie: la maggiore ha undici anni; la seconda e la terza nove e circa cinque; se questo si prova vero, ne pagheranno il fio. Sul mio onore, le castrerò tutte. I quattordici anni non li vedranno, per generare false progenie. Sono coeredi, e preferirei castrare me stesso che vederle produrre una discendenza non pura.
LEONTE	Cessa, non più! Voi fiutate questa faccenda con un senso così freddo com’è il naso d’un morto. Ma io la vedo e la sento come voi sentite facendo così; e vedo per giunta gli strumenti che sentono.
ANTIGONUS	Se è così, non ci occorre tomba per seppellire l’onestà; non ce n’è un granello per addolcire la faccia di tutta questa terra letamosa.
LEONTE	Che? Mi manca credito? UN SIGNORE Preferirei che mancasse a voi piuttosto che a me, mio signore, su questo punto; e più mi contenterebbe che il suo onore fosse vero piuttosto che il vostro sospetto, comunque ne foste biasimato.
LEONTE	Ebbene, che bisogno abbiamo di conferire con voi di questo, piuttosto che seguire la nostra vigorosa istigazione? La nostra prerogativa non chiama i vostri consigli, ma la nostra naturale bontà vi comunica ciò; il che, se voi—o stupefatti o tali sembrando per arte—non potete o non volete gustare una verità come noi, sappiate che non ci occorre altro del vostro consiglio. La materia, la perdita, il guadagno, il disporne, è tutto propriamente nostro.
ANTIGONUS	E vorrei, mio sovrano, che l’aveste solo nel vostro silenzioso giudizio provata senza maggiore apertura.
LEONTE	Come sarebbe stato possibile? O tu sei ignorantissimo per l’età o nascesti folle. La fuga di Camillo, aggiunta alla loro familiarità, che fu così grossolana quanto mai congettura toccò, a cui mancava solo la vista, nulla per conferma se non il vedere, tutte le altre circostanze concorrendo all’atto—spinge avanti questo procedimento. Pure per maggior conferma— ché in un atto di tale importanza sarebbe pietosissimo essere avventati—ho spedito in posta alla sacra Delfo, al tempio d’Apollo, Cleomene e Dione, che voi sapete di piena sufficienza. Ora dall’oracolo essi porteranno tutto; il cui spirituale consiglio, avuto, mi fermerà o mi spronerà. Ho fatto bene? UN SIGNORE Ben fatto, mio signore.
LEONTE	Benché io sia soddisfatto, e non abbia bisogno di più di ciò che so, pure l’oracolo darà riposo alle menti d’altri come lui, la cui ignorante credulità non vuole salire fino alla verità. Così abbiamo ritenuto bene ch’ella fosse confinata lontano dalla nostra libera persona, perché non le sia lasciato compiere il tradimento dei due fuggiti di qui. Venite, seguiteci. Dobbiamo parlare in pubblico; ché questa faccenda solleverà tutti noi.
ANTIGONUS	(a parte) A riso, per quanto ne intendo, se la buona verità fosse nota. Escono

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Paulina, a Gentleman, and attendants
PAULINA	The keeper of the prison, call to him. Let him have knowledge who I am.
(didascalia)	Exit Gentleman
PAULINA	Good lady, No court in Europe is too good for thee. What dost thou then in prison?
(didascalia)	Enter Jailer and Gentleman
PAULINA	Now, good sir, You know me, do you not?
JAILER	For a worthy lady, And one who much I honour.
PAULINA	Pray you then, Conduct me to the Queen.
JAILER	I may not, madam. To the contrary I have express commandment.
PAULINA	Here’s ado, To lock up honesty and honour from Th’access of gentle visitors. Is’t lawful, pray you, To see her women? Any of them? Emilia?
JAILER	So please you, madam, To put apart these your attendants, Shall bring Emilia forth.
PAULINA	I pray now call her.— Withdraw yourselves.
(didascalia)	Exeunt Gentleman and attendants
JAILER	And, madam, I must be present at your conference.
PAULINA	Well, be’t so, prithee.
(didascalia)	Exit Jailer
PAULINA	Here’s such ado, to make no stain a stain As passes colouring.
(didascalia)	Enter Jailer and Emilia
PAULINA	Dear gentlewoman, How fares our gracious lady?
EMILIA	As well as one so great and so forlorn May hold together. On her frights and griefs, Which never tender lady hath borne greater, She is, something before her time, delivered.
PAULINA	A boy?
EMILIA	A daughter, and a goodly babe, Lusty, and like to live. The Queen receives Much comfort in’t; says, ‘My poor prisoner, I am innocent as you.’
PAULINA	I dare be sworn. These dangerous, unsafe lunes i‘th’ King, beshrew them! He must be told on’t, and he shall. The office Becomes a woman best. I’ll take’t upon me. If I prove honey-mouthed, let my tongue blister, And never to my red-looked anger be The trumpet any more. Pray you, Emilia, Commend my best obedience to the Queen. If she dares trust me with her little babe I’ll show’t the King, and undertake to be Her advocate to th’ loud‘st. We do not know How he may soften at the sight o’th’ child. The silence often of pure innocence Persuades when speaking fails.
EMILIA	Most worthy madam, Your honour and your goodness is so evident That your free undertaking cannot miss A thriving issue. There is no lady living So meet for this great errand. Please your ladyship To visit the next room, I’ll presently Acquaint the Queen of your most noble offer, Who but today hammered of this design But durst not tempt a minister of honour Lest she should be denied.
PAULINA	Tell her, Emilia, I’ll use that tongue I have. If wit flow from’t As boldness from my bosom, let’t not be doubted I shall do good.
EMILIA	Now be you blest for it! I’ll to the Queen. Please you come something nearer.
JAILER	Madam, if’t please the Queen to send the babe I know not what I shall incur to pass it, Having no warrant.
PAULINA	You need not fear it, sir. This child was prisoner to the womb, and is By law and process of great nature thence Freed and enfranchised, not a party to The anger of the King, nor guilty of— If any be—the trespass of the Queen.
JAILER	I do believe it.
PAULINA	Do not you fear. Upon mine honour, I will stand twixt you and danger.
(didascalia)	Exeunt
PAULINA	2.3 Enter Leontes
LEONTES	Nor night nor day, no rest! It is but weakness To bear the matter thus, mere weakness. If The cause were not in being—part o‘th’ cause, She, th’adultress; for the harlot King Is quite beyond mine arm, out of the blank 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?
(didascalia)	Enter a Servant
SERVANT	My lord.
LEONTES	How does the boy?
SERVANT	He took good rest tonight. ’Tis hoped his sickness is discharged.
LEONTES	To see his nobleness! Conceiving the dishonour of his mother He straight declined, drooped, took it deeply, Fastened and fixed the shame on’t in himself; Threw off his spirit, his appetite, his sleep, And downright languished. Leave me solely. Go, See how he fares.
(didascalia)	Exit Servant
LEONTES	Fie, fie, 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.
(didascalia)	Enter Paulina, carrying a babe, with Antigonus,
LEONTES	Lords, and the Servant, trying to restrain her A LORD You must not enter.
PAULINA	Nay rather, good my lords, be second to me. Fear you his tyrannous passion more, alas, Than the Queen’s life?—a gracious, innocent soul, More free than he is jealous.
ANTIGONUS	That’s enough.
SERVANT	Madam, he hath not slept tonight, commanded None should come at him.
PAULINA	Not so hot, good sir. I come to bring him sleep. ’Tis such as you, That creep like shadows by him, and do sigh At each his needless heavings, such as you Nourish the cause of his awaking. I Do come with words as medicinal as true, Honest as either, to purge him of that humour That presses him from sleep.
LEONTES	What noise there, ho?
PAULINA	No noise, my lord, but needful conference About some gossips for your highness.
LEONTES	How? Away with that audacious lady! Antigonus, I charged thee that she should not come about me. I knew she would.
ANTIGONUS	I told her so, my lord, On your displeasure’s peril and on mine, She should not visit you.
LEONTES	What, canst not rule her?
PAULINA	From all dishonesty he can. In this, Unless he take the course that you have done— Commit me for committing honour—trust it, He shall not rule me.
ANTIGONUS	La you now, you hear. When she will take the rein I let her run, But she’ll not stumble.
PAULINA	(to Leontes) Good my liege, I come— And I beseech you hear me, who professes Myself your loyal servant, your physician, Your most obedient counsellor; yet that dares Less appear so in comforting your evils Than such as most seem yours—I say, I come From your good queen.
LEONTES	Good queen?
PAULINA	Good queen, my lord, good queen, I say good queen, And would by combat make her good, so were I A man, the worst about you.
LEONTES	(to Lords) Force her hence.
PAULINA	Let him that makes but trifles of his eyes First hand me. On mine own accord, I’ll off. But first I’ll do my errand. The good Queen— For she is good—hath brought you forth a daughter— Here ’tis—commends it to your blessing. She lays down the babe
LEONTES	Out! A mankind witch! Hence with her, out o’door— A most intelligencing bawd.
PAULINA	Not so. I am as ignorant in that as you In so entitling me, and no less honest Than you are mad, which is enough, I’ll warrant, As this world goes, to pass for honest.
LEONTES	(to Lords) Traitors, Will you not push her out? (To Antigonus) Give her the bastard. Thou dotard, thou art woman-tired, unroosted By thy Dame Partlet here. Take up the bastard, Take’t up, I say. Give’t to thy crone.
PAULINA	(to Antigonus) For ever Unvenerable be thy hands if thou Tak’st up the princess by that forced baseness Which he has put upon’t.
LEONTES	He dreads his wife.
PAULINA	So I would you did. Then ’twere past all doubt You’d call your children yours.
LEONTES	A nest of traitors.
ANTIGONUS	I am none, by this good light.
PAULINA	Nor I, nor any But one that’s here, and that’s himself, for he The sacred honour of himself, his queen’s, His hopeful son’s, his babe‘s, betrays to slander, Whose sting is sharper than the sword’s; and will not— For as the case now stands, it is a curse He cannot be compelled to’t—once remove The root of his opinion, which is rotten As ever oak or stone was sound.
LEONTES	(to Lords) A callat Of boundless tongue, who late hath beat her husband, And now baits me! This brat is none of mine. It is the issue of Polixenes. Hence with it, and together with the dam Commit them to the fire.
PAULINA	It is yours, And might we lay th‘old proverb to your charge, So like you ’tis the worse. Behold, my lords, Although the print be little, the whole matter And copy of the father: eye, nose, lip, The trick of’s frown, his forehead, nay, the valley, The pretty dimples of his chin and cheek, his smiles, The very mould and frame of hand, nail, finger. And thou good goddess Nature, which hast made it So like to him that got it, if thou hast The ordering of the mind too, ‘mongst all colours No yellow in’t, lest she suspect, as he does, Her children not her husband’s.
LEONTES	(to Antigonus) A gross hag!— And lozel, thou art worthy to be hanged, That wilt not stay her tongue.
ANTIGONUS	Hang all the husbands That cannot do that feat, you’ll leave yourself Hardly one subject.
LEONTES	Once more, take her hence.
PAULINA	A most unworthy and unnatural lord Can do no more.
LEONTES	I’ll ha’ thee burnt.
PAULINA	I care not. It is an heretic that makes the fire, Not she which burns in’t. I’ll not call you tyrant; But this most cruel usage of your queen— Not able to produce more accusation Than your own weak-hinged fancy—something savours Of tyranny, and will ignoble make you, Yea, scandalous to the world.
LEONTES	(to Antigonus) On your allegiance, Out of the chamber with her! Were I a tyrant, Where were her life? She durst not call me so If she did know me one. Away with her!
PAULINA	I pray you do not push me, I’ll be gone. Look to your babe, my lord; ‘tis yours. Jove send her A better guiding spirit. What needs these hands? You that are thus so tender o’er his follies Will never do him good, not one of you. So, so. Farewell, we are gone. Exit
LEONTES	(to Antigonus) Thou, traitor, hast set on thy wife to this. My child? Away with‘t! Even thou, that hast A heart so tender o’er it, take it hence And see it instantly consumed with fire. Even thou, and none but thou. Take it up straight.
(didascalia)	Within this hour bring me word ‘tis done,
LEONTES	And by good testimony, or I’ll seize thy life, With what thou else call’st thine. If thou refuse And wilt encounter with my wrath, say so. The bastard brains with these my proper hands Shall I dash out. Go, take it to the fire; For thou set’st on thy wife.
ANTIGONUS	I did not, sir. These lords, my noble fellows, if they please Can clear me in’t.
LORDS	We can. My royal liege, He is not guilty of her coming hither.
LEONTES	You’re liars all. A LORD Beseech your highness, give us better credit. We have always truly served you, and beseech So to esteem of us. And on our knees we beg, As recompense of our dear services Past and to come, that you do change this purpose Which, being so horrible, so bloody, must Lead on to some foul issue. We all kneel.
LEONTES	I am a feather for each wind that blows. Shall I live on, to see this bastard kneel And call me father? Better burn it now Than curse it then. But be it. Let it live. It shall not neither. (To Antigonus) You, sir, come you hither, You that have been so tenderly officious With Lady Margery your midwife there, To save this bastard’s life—for ’tis a bastard, So sure as this beard’s grey. What will you adventure To save this brat’s life?
ANTIGONUS	Anything, my lord, That my ability may undergo, And nobleness impose. At least thus much, I’ll pawn the little blood which I have left To save the innocent; anything possible.
LEONTES	It shall be possible. Swear by this sword Thou wilt perform my bidding.
ANTIGONUS	I will, my lord.
LEONTES	Mark, and perform it. Seest thou? For the fail Of any point in’t shall not only be Death to thyself but to thy lewd-tongued wife, Whom for this time we pardon. We enjoin thee, As thou art liegeman to us, that thou carry This female bastard hence, and that thou bear it To some remote and desert place, quite out Of our dominions; and that there thou leave it, Without more mercy, to it own protection And favour of the climate. As by strange fortune It came to us, I do in justice charge thee, On thy soul’s peril and thy body’s torture, That thou commend it strangely to some place Where chance may nurse or end it. Take it up.
ANTIGONUS	I swear to do this, though a present death Had been more merciful. Come on, poor babe, Some powerful spirit instruct the kites and ravens To be thy nurses. Wolves and bears, they say, Casting their savageness aside, have done Like offices of pity. Sir, be prosperous In more than this deed does require; (to the babe) and blessing Against this cruelty, fight on thy side, Poor thing, condemned to loss.
(didascalia)	Exit with the babe
LEONTES	No, I’ll not rear Another’s issue.
(didascalia)	Enter a Servant
SERVANT	Please your highness, posts From those you sent to th’oracle are come An hour since. Cleomenes and Dion, Being well arrived from Delphos, are both landed, Hasting to th’ court. A LORD (to Leontes) So please you, sir, their speed Hath been. beyond account.
LEONTES	Twenty-three days They have been absent. ’Tis good speed, foretells The great Apollo suddenly will have The truth of this appear. Prepare you, lords. Summon a session, that we may arraign Our most disloyal lady; for as she hath Been publicly accused, so shall she have A just and open trial. While she lives My heart will be a burden to me. Leave me, And think upon my bidding.
(didascalia)	Exeunt severally

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entrano Paulina, un Gentiluomo e servitori
PAULINA	Il custode della prigione, chiamatelo. Fategli sapere chi sono.
(didascalia)	Esce il Gentiluomo
PAULINA	Buona signora, nessuna corte d’Europa è troppo buona per te. Che fai dunque in prigione?
(didascalia)	Entrano il Carceriere e il Gentiluomo
PAULINA	Ora, buon signore, voi mi conoscete, non è vero?
JAILER	Come degna signora, e una ch’io molto onoro.
PAULINA	Vi prego dunque, conducetemi dalla Regina.
JAILER	Non posso, madama. In contrario ho espresso comandamento.
PAULINA	Ecco un bell’affare, rinchiudere l’onestà e l’onore lontano dall’accesso di gentili visitatori. È lecito, di grazia, vedere le sue donne? Una di loro? Emilia?
JAILER	Se vi piace, madama, di mettere da parte questi vostri servitori, farò venire Emilia.
PAULINA	Vi prego, chiamatela ora.— Ritiratevi voi.
(didascalia)	Escono il Gentiluomo e i servitori
JAILER	E, madama, devo essere presente al vostro colloquio.
PAULINA	Bene, sia così, ti prego.
(didascalia)	Esce il Carceriere
PAULINA	Ecco un tale affaccendarsi, per far d’una non-macchia una macchia che va oltre ogni tintura.
(didascalia)	Entrano il Carceriere ed Emilia
PAULINA	Cara gentildonna, come sta la nostra graziosa signora?
EMILIA	Tanto bene quanto una così grande e così derelitta può reggersi insieme. Per i suoi spaventi e dolori, di cui mai tenera dama ne portò di maggiori, ella ha, alquanto prima del suo tempo, partorito.
PAULINA	Un maschio?
EMILIA	Una figlia, e una bella bambina, vigorosa, e che par destinata a vivere. La Regina ne riceve molto conforto; dice: «Mia povera prigioniera, io sono innocente come te».
PAULINA	Oso giurarlo. Questi pericolosi, malsicuri deliri lunari nel Re, maledetti siano! Bisogna dirglielo, e glielo si dirà. L’ufficio si conviene meglio a una donna. Me lo assumo io. Se mi mostrerò di bocca melata, mi si copra di vesciche la lingua, e non sia mai più la tromba della mia collera dal volto rosso. Vi prego, Emilia, raccomandate la mia migliore obbedienza alla Regina. S’ella osa affidarmi la sua piccola bambina la mostrerò al Re, e mi impegno a essere sua avvocata a tutta voce. Noi non sappiamo come possa intenerirsi alla vista della bambina. Il silenzio della pura innocenza spesso persuade là dove il parlare fallisce.
EMILIA	Degnissima madama, il vostro onore e la vostra bontà sono così evidenti che la vostra generosa impresa non può mancare un esito felice. Non v’è dama vivente tanto adatta a questa grande ambasciata. Piaccia a vostra signoria di passare nella stanza accanto, io subito renderò nota alla Regina la vostra nobilissima offerta, ch’ella non più tardi d’oggi andava ruminando questo disegno ma non osava tentare un ministro d’onore per timore d’un rifiuto.
PAULINA	Ditele, Emilia, ch’io userò quella lingua che ho. Se ingegno ne fluirà come audacia dal mio petto, non si dubiti ch’io farò del bene.
EMILIA	Siate benedetta per questo! Vado dalla Regina. Vi prego, avvicinatevi un poco.
JAILER	Madama, se piace alla Regina mandare la bambina non so a che cosa andrò incontro nel lasciarla passare, non avendone mandato.
PAULINA	Non dovete temerlo, signore. Questa bambina fu prigioniera del grembo, e ne è per legge e processo della grande natura liberata e affrancata, non parte dell’ira del Re, né colpevole— se pure ve n’è—del fallo della Regina.
JAILER	Lo credo.
PAULINA	Non temete. Sul mio onore, starò fra voi e il pericolo.
(didascalia)	Escono

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Leontes
LEONTES	Nor night nor day, no rest! It is but weakness To bear the matter thus, mere weakness. If The cause were not in being—part o‘th’ cause, She, th’adultress; for the harlot King Is quite beyond mine arm, out of the blank 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?
(didascalia)	Enter a Servant
SERVANT	My lord.
LEONTES	How does the boy?
SERVANT	He took good rest tonight. ’Tis hoped his sickness is discharged.
LEONTES	To see his nobleness! Conceiving the dishonour of his mother He straight declined, drooped, took it deeply, Fastened and fixed the shame on’t in himself; Threw off his spirit, his appetite, his sleep, And downright languished. Leave me solely. Go, See how he fares.
(didascalia)	Exit Servant
LEONTES	Fie, fie, 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.
(didascalia)	Enter Paulina, carrying a babe, with Antigonus,
LEONTES	Lords, and the Servant, trying to restrain her A LORD You must not enter.
PAULINA	Nay rather, good my lords, be second to me. Fear you his tyrannous passion more, alas, Than the Queen’s life?—a gracious, innocent soul, More free than he is jealous.
ANTIGONUS	That’s enough.
SERVANT	Madam, he hath not slept tonight, commanded None should come at him.
PAULINA	Not so hot, good sir. I come to bring him sleep. ’Tis such as you, That creep like shadows by him, and do sigh At each his needless heavings, such as you Nourish the cause of his awaking. I Do come with words as medicinal as true, Honest as either, to purge him of that humour That presses him from sleep.
LEONTES	What noise there, ho?
PAULINA	No noise, my lord, but needful conference About some gossips for your highness.
LEONTES	How? Away with that audacious lady! Antigonus, I charged thee that she should not come about me. I knew she would.
ANTIGONUS	I told her so, my lord, On your displeasure’s peril and on mine, She should not visit you.
LEONTES	What, canst not rule her?
PAULINA	From all dishonesty he can. In this, Unless he take the course that you have done— Commit me for committing honour—trust it, He shall not rule me.
ANTIGONUS	La you now, you hear. When she will take the rein I let her run, But she’ll not stumble.
PAULINA	(to Leontes) Good my liege, I come— And I beseech you hear me, who professes Myself your loyal servant, your physician, Your most obedient counsellor; yet that dares Less appear so in comforting your evils Than such as most seem yours—I say, I come From your good queen.
LEONTES	Good queen?
PAULINA	Good queen, my lord, good queen, I say good queen, And would by combat make her good, so were I A man, the worst about you.
LEONTES	(to Lords) Force her hence.
PAULINA	Let him that makes but trifles of his eyes First hand me. On mine own accord, I’ll off. But first I’ll do my errand. The good Queen— For she is good—hath brought you forth a daughter— Here ’tis—commends it to your blessing. She lays down the babe
LEONTES	Out! A mankind witch! Hence with her, out o’door— A most intelligencing bawd.
PAULINA	Not so. I am as ignorant in that as you In so entitling me, and no less honest Than you are mad, which is enough, I’ll warrant, As this world goes, to pass for honest.
LEONTES	(to Lords) Traitors, Will you not push her out? (To Antigonus) Give her the bastard. Thou dotard, thou art woman-tired, unroosted By thy Dame Partlet here. Take up the bastard, Take’t up, I say. Give’t to thy crone.
PAULINA	(to Antigonus) For ever Unvenerable be thy hands if thou Tak’st up the princess by that forced baseness Which he has put upon’t.
LEONTES	He dreads his wife.
PAULINA	So I would you did. Then ’twere past all doubt You’d call your children yours.
LEONTES	A nest of traitors.
ANTIGONUS	I am none, by this good light.
PAULINA	Nor I, nor any But one that’s here, and that’s himself, for he The sacred honour of himself, his queen’s, His hopeful son’s, his babe‘s, betrays to slander, Whose sting is sharper than the sword’s; and will not— For as the case now stands, it is a curse He cannot be compelled to’t—once remove The root of his opinion, which is rotten As ever oak or stone was sound.
LEONTES	(to Lords) A callat Of boundless tongue, who late hath beat her husband, And now baits me! This brat is none of mine. It is the issue of Polixenes. Hence with it, and together with the dam Commit them to the fire.
PAULINA	It is yours, And might we lay th‘old proverb to your charge, So like you ’tis the worse. Behold, my lords, Although the print be little, the whole matter And copy of the father: eye, nose, lip, The trick of’s frown, his forehead, nay, the valley, The pretty dimples of his chin and cheek, his smiles, The very mould and frame of hand, nail, finger. And thou good goddess Nature, which hast made it So like to him that got it, if thou hast The ordering of the mind too, ‘mongst all colours No yellow in’t, lest she suspect, as he does, Her children not her husband’s.
LEONTES	(to Antigonus) A gross hag!— And lozel, thou art worthy to be hanged, That wilt not stay her tongue.
ANTIGONUS	Hang all the husbands That cannot do that feat, you’ll leave yourself Hardly one subject.
LEONTES	Once more, take her hence.
PAULINA	A most unworthy and unnatural lord Can do no more.
LEONTES	I’ll ha’ thee burnt.
PAULINA	I care not. It is an heretic that makes the fire, Not she which burns in’t. I’ll not call you tyrant; But this most cruel usage of your queen— Not able to produce more accusation Than your own weak-hinged fancy—something savours Of tyranny, and will ignoble make you, Yea, scandalous to the world.
LEONTES	(to Antigonus) On your allegiance, Out of the chamber with her! Were I a tyrant, Where were her life? She durst not call me so If she did know me one. Away with her!
PAULINA	I pray you do not push me, I’ll be gone. Look to your babe, my lord; ‘tis yours. Jove send her A better guiding spirit. What needs these hands? You that are thus so tender o’er his follies Will never do him good, not one of you. So, so. Farewell, we are gone. Exit
LEONTES	(to Antigonus) Thou, traitor, hast set on thy wife to this. My child? Away with‘t! Even thou, that hast A heart so tender o’er it, take it hence And see it instantly consumed with fire. Even thou, and none but thou. Take it up straight.
(didascalia)	Within this hour bring me word ‘tis done,
LEONTES	And by good testimony, or I’ll seize thy life, With what thou else call’st thine. If thou refuse And wilt encounter with my wrath, say so. The bastard brains with these my proper hands Shall I dash out. Go, take it to the fire; For thou set’st on thy wife.
ANTIGONUS	I did not, sir. These lords, my noble fellows, if they please Can clear me in’t.
LORDS	We can. My royal liege, He is not guilty of her coming hither.
LEONTES	You’re liars all. A LORD Beseech your highness, give us better credit. We have always truly served you, and beseech So to esteem of us. And on our knees we beg, As recompense of our dear services Past and to come, that you do change this purpose Which, being so horrible, so bloody, must Lead on to some foul issue. We all kneel.
LEONTES	I am a feather for each wind that blows. Shall I live on, to see this bastard kneel And call me father? Better burn it now Than curse it then. But be it. Let it live. It shall not neither. (To Antigonus) You, sir, come you hither, You that have been so tenderly officious With Lady Margery your midwife there, To save this bastard’s life—for ’tis a bastard, So sure as this beard’s grey. What will you adventure To save this brat’s life?
ANTIGONUS	Anything, my lord, That my ability may undergo, And nobleness impose. At least thus much, I’ll pawn the little blood which I have left To save the innocent; anything possible.
LEONTES	It shall be possible. Swear by this sword Thou wilt perform my bidding.
ANTIGONUS	I will, my lord.
LEONTES	Mark, and perform it. Seest thou? For the fail Of any point in’t shall not only be Death to thyself but to thy lewd-tongued wife, Whom for this time we pardon. We enjoin thee, As thou art liegeman to us, that thou carry This female bastard hence, and that thou bear it To some remote and desert place, quite out Of our dominions; and that there thou leave it, Without more mercy, to it own protection And favour of the climate. As by strange fortune It came to us, I do in justice charge thee, On thy soul’s peril and thy body’s torture, That thou commend it strangely to some place Where chance may nurse or end it. Take it up.
ANTIGONUS	I swear to do this, though a present death Had been more merciful. Come on, poor babe, Some powerful spirit instruct the kites and ravens To be thy nurses. Wolves and bears, they say, Casting their savageness aside, have done Like offices of pity. Sir, be prosperous In more than this deed does require; (to the babe) and blessing Against this cruelty, fight on thy side, Poor thing, condemned to loss.
(didascalia)	Exit with the babe
LEONTES	No, I’ll not rear Another’s issue.
(didascalia)	Enter a Servant
SERVANT	Please your highness, posts From those you sent to th’oracle are come An hour since. Cleomenes and Dion, Being well arrived from Delphos, are both landed, Hasting to th’ court. A LORD (to Leontes) So please you, sir, their speed Hath been. beyond account.
LEONTES	Twenty-three days They have been absent. ’Tis good speed, foretells The great Apollo suddenly will have The truth of this appear. Prepare you, lords. Summon a session, that we may arraign Our most disloyal lady; for as she hath Been publicly accused, so shall she have A just and open trial. While she lives My heart will be a burden to me. Leave me, And think upon my bidding.
(didascalia)	Exeunt severally

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entra Leonte
LEONTE	Né notte né giorno, nessun riposo! È solo debolezza sopportare così la cosa, mera debolezza. Se la causa non fosse in essere—parte della causa, lei, l’adultera; ché il Re libertino è del tutto fuori del mio braccio, fuori dal bersaglio e dalla mira del mio cervello, a prova di trama; ma lei posso uncinarla a me. Poniamo ch’ella sia tolta di mezzo, data al fuoco, una metà del mio riposo potrebbe tornare a me. Chi è là?
(didascalia)	Entra un Servo
SERVANT	Mio signore.
LEONTE	Come sta il ragazzo?
SERVANT	Ha riposato bene questa notte. Si spera che il suo male sia scacciato.
LEONTE	Che nobiltà la sua! Concependo il disonore di sua madre subito declinò, si afflosciò, lo prese profondamente, fissò e conficcò in sé quella vergogna; gettò via il suo spirito, il suo appetito, il suo sonno, e senz’altro languì. Lasciami solo. Va’, vedi come sta.
(didascalia)	Esce il Servo
LEONTE	Via, via, nessun pensiero di lui. Il solo pensiero delle mie vendette per quella via ricade su di me. In se stesso troppo possente, e nei suoi partigiani, nella sua alleanza. Lasciamolo stare fino a che un tempo serva. Per la presente vendetta, prendiamola su di lei. Camillo e Polissene ridono di me, fanno passatempo del mio dolore. Non riderebbero se potessi raggiungerli, né riderà lei, che è in mio potere.
(didascalia)	Entra Paulina, portando una neonata, con Antigono,
LEONTE	Signori, e il Servo, che tentano di trattenerla UN SIGNORE Non dovete entrare.
PAULINA	Anzi piuttosto, miei buoni signori, secondatemi. Temete voi la sua tirannica passione più, ahimè, della vita della Regina?—una graziosa, innocente anima, più libera di quanto egli sia geloso.
ANTIGONUS	Basta così.
SERVANT	Madama, non ha dormito questa notte, ha comandato che nessuno gli si accostasse.
PAULINA	Non tanto foga, buon signore. Io vengo a portargli il sonno. Son quelli come voi, che strisciano come ombre intorno a lui, e sospirano a ogni suo inutile sospiro, son quelli come voi che nutrono la causa della sua veglia. Io vengo con parole tanto medicinali quanto vere, oneste quanto l’una e l’altra, per purgarlo di quell’umore che lo tien lontano dal sonno.
LEONTE	Che rumore è là, olà?
PAULINA	Nessun rumore, mio signore, ma necessario colloquio a proposito di certe comari per vostra altezza.
LEONTE	Come? Via quella sfrontata signora! Antigono, ti avevo ingiunto ch’ella non mi venisse d’attorno. Sapevo che l’avrebbe fatto.
ANTIGONUS	Gliel’ho detto, mio signore, a rischio del vostro sdegno e del mio, ch’ella non doveva visitarvi.
LEONTE	Come, non sai dominarla?
PAULINA	Da ogni disonestà egli può. In questo, a meno che non prenda il corso che avete preso voi— imprigionarmi per aver commesso onore—credetelo, egli non mi dominerà.
ANTIGONUS	Ecco, ora sentite. Quando vuol prendere la briglia io la lascio correre, ma non inciamperà.
PAULINA	(a Leonte) Mio buon sovrano, io vengo— e vi supplico d’ascoltarmi, io che mi professo vostra leale serva, vostro medico, vostro obbedientissimo consigliere; e pure che osa meno apparir tale nell’assecondare i vostri mali di quanti più sembrano vostri—io dico, io vengo dalla vostra buona regina.
LEONTE	Buona regina?
PAULINA	Buona regina, mio signore, buona regina, dico buona regina, e con le armi la proverei buona, s’io fossi un uomo, il più dappoco intorno a voi.
LEONTE	(ai Signori) Cacciatela via di qui.
PAULINA	Chi tiene per bagatelle i propri occhi metta pur mano su di me per primo. Di mia volontà, me ne andrò. Ma prima compirò la mia ambasciata. La buona Regina— perch’ella è buona—vi ha dato una figlia— eccola qui—e la raccomanda alla vostra benedizione. Depone la neonata
LEONTE	Fuori! Una strega mascolina! Via con lei, fuori dalla porta— una ruffiana informatrice.
PAULINA	Niente affatto. Sono tanto ignorante in ciò quanto voi nel darmi tal titolo, e non meno onesta di quanto voi siate pazzo, il che basta, ve lo garantisco, per come va il mondo, a passare per onesta.
LEONTE	(ai Signori) Traditori, non volete spingerla fuori? (Ad Antigono) Dàlle la bastarda. Tu rimbambito, tu sei sfiancato da tua moglie, scacciato dal posatoio da questa tua Dama Gallinella. Raccogli la bastarda, raccoglila, dico. Dàlla alla tua vecchiaccia.
PAULINA	(ad Antigono) Per sempre siano indegne di venerazione le tue mani se raccogli la principessa in quella forzata bassezza ch’egli le ha imposto.
LEONTE	Ha terrore di sua moglie.
PAULINA	Così vorrei l’aveste voi. Allora sarebbe fuor d’ogni dubbio che chiamereste vostri i vostri figli.
LEONTE	Un nido di traditori.
ANTIGONUS	Io non lo sono, per questa buona luce.
PAULINA	Né io, né alcun altro se non uno che è qui, ed è lui stesso, ché egli il sacro onore di se stesso, quello della sua regina, del suo promettente figlio, della sua bambina, tradisce alla calunnia, il cui pungiglione è più acuto di quello della spada; e non vuole— ché per come stanno ora le cose, è una maledizione ch’egli non possa esservi costretto—una buona volta rimuovere la radice della sua opinione, che è marcia quanto mai quercia o pietra fu sana.
LEONTE	(ai Signori) Una sgualdrina di lingua sconfinata, che poco fa ha bastonato il marito, e ora aizza me! Questa marmocchia non è mia. È la progenie di Polissene. Via con lei, e insieme con la madre consegnatele al fuoco.
PAULINA	È vostra, e potessimo imputarvi il vecchio proverbio, tanto vi somiglia che è peggio. Guardate, miei signori, benché l’impronta sia piccola, è tutta la materia e copia del padre: occhio, naso, labbro, il modo del suo cipiglio, la fronte, anzi, la valletta, le graziose fossette del mento e della guancia, i suoi sorrisi, lo stampo stesso e la forma della mano, dell’unghia, del dito. E tu buona dea Natura, che l’hai fatta così simile a colui che l’ha generata, se tu hai anche l’ordinare della mente, fra tutti i colori non mettervi il giallo, ch’ella non sospetti, come fa lui, che i suoi figli non siano del marito.
LEONTE	(ad Antigono) Una rozza megera!— E tu, buono a nulla, sei degno d’esser impiccato, tu che non vuoi trattenerle la lingua.
ANTIGONUS	Impiccate tutti i mariti che non sanno compiere quell’impresa, e vi resterà a stento un suddito.
LEONTE	Ancora una volta, portatela via.
PAULINA	Un signore indegnissimo e snaturato non può far di più.
LEONTE	Ti farò bruciare.
PAULINA	Non m’importa. È l’eretico che fa il rogo, non colei che vi brucia. Non vi chiamerò tiranno; ma questo crudelissimo trattamento della vostra regina— non potendo produrre altra accusa che la vostra fantasia dai cardini deboli—alquanto sa di tirannide, e vi renderà ignobile, anzi, scandaloso al mondo.
LEONTE	(ad Antigono) Sulla vostra fedeltà, fuori dalla camera con lei! Fossi io un tiranno, dove sarebbe la sua vita? Non oserebbe chiamarmi tale se mi sapesse tale. Via con lei!
PAULINA	Vi prego, non spingetemi, me ne vado. Badate alla vostra bambina, mio signore; è vostra. Giove le mandi uno spirito che meglio la guidi. Che bisogno c’è di queste mani? Voi che siete così teneri verso le sue follie non gli farete mai del bene, nessuno di voi. Così, così. Addio, ce ne andiamo. Esce
LEONTE	(ad Antigono) Tu, traditore, hai aizzato tua moglie a questo. La mia bambina? Via con lei! Proprio tu, che hai un cuore così tenero verso di lei, portala via e falla all’istante consumare dal fuoco. Proprio tu, e nessun altro che tu. Raccoglila subito.
(didascalia)	Entro un’ora portami parola ch’è fatto,
LEONTE	e con buona testimonianza, o ti prenderò la vita, con tutto ciò che altrimenti chiami tuo. Se rifiuti e vuoi affrontare la mia collera, dillo. Il cervello della bastarda con queste mie proprie mani lo farò schizzare fuori. Va’, portala al fuoco; ché tu hai aizzato tua moglie.
ANTIGONUS	Non l’ho fatto, signore. Questi signori, miei nobili compagni, se lor piace possono discolparmene.
LORDS	Lo possiamo. Mio regale sovrano, egli non è colpevole della sua venuta qui.
LEONTE	Siete tutti bugiardi. UN SIGNORE Supplico vostra altezza, dateci miglior credito. Vi abbiamo sempre servito lealmente, e vi supplichiamo di stimarci tali. E in ginocchio vi preghiamo, come ricompensa dei nostri cari servigi passati e a venire, che mutiate questo proposito il quale, essendo così orribile, così sanguinoso, deve condurre a qualche turpe esito. Tutti c’inginocchiamo.
LEONTE	Sono una piuma per ogni vento che soffia. Devo io vivere, per vedere questa bastarda inginocchiarsi e chiamarmi padre? Meglio bruciarla ora che maledirla allora. Ma sia. Che viva. Eppure no, nemmeno. (Ad Antigono) Voi, signore, venite qua, voi che siete stato così teneramente premuroso con Donna Margherita, la vostra levatrice qui presente, per salvare la vita di questa bastarda—ché è una bastarda, tanto certo quanto questa barba è grigia. Che cosa arrischierete per salvare la vita di questa marmocchia?
ANTIGONUS	Qualunque cosa, mio signore, che la mia capacità possa sostenere, e la nobiltà imporre. Almeno questo, impegnerò il poco sangue che mi resta per salvare l’innocente; qualunque cosa possibile.
LEONTE	Sarà possibile. Giura su questa spada che eseguirai il mio comando.
ANTIGONUS	Lo farò, mio signore.
LEONTE	Ascolta, ed eseguilo. Vedi tu? Ché il mancare a un solo punto sarà non soltanto morte per te ma per la tua sboccata moglie, che per questa volta perdoniamo. T’ingiungiamo, come sei nostro vassallo, che tu porti via di qui questa bastarda femmina, e che la porti in qualche remoto e deserto luogo, del tutto fuori dei nostri dominii; e che là tu la lasci, senz’altra misericordia, alla sua propria protezione e al favore del clima. Come per strana sorte è venuta a noi, io per giustizia t’ingiungo, a rischio della tua anima e a tortura del tuo corpo, che tu la affidi da straniera a qualche luogo dove il caso possa nutrirla o finirla. Raccoglila.
ANTIGONUS	Giuro di far questo, benché una immediata morte sarebbe stata più misericordiosa. Vieni, povera bambina, qualche spirito potente istruisca i nibbi e i corvi a esserti nutrici. Lupi e orsi, si dice, gettata da parte la loro ferocia, hanno compiuto simili uffici di pietà. Signore, siate prospero in più di quanto questo atto richieda; (alla bambina) e una benedizione contro questa crudeltà combatta dalla tua parte, povera creatura, condannata alla perdizione.
(didascalia)	Esce con la bambina
LEONTE	No, non alleverò la progenie d’un altro.
(didascalia)	Entra un Servo
SERVANT	Piaccia a vostra altezza, i corrieri di quelli che mandaste all’oracolo son giunti un’ora fa. Cleomene e Dione, felicemente tornati da Delfo, sono entrambi sbarcati, e s’affrettano alla corte. UN SIGNORE (a Leonte) Con vostra licenza, signore, la loro celerità È stata. oltre ogni conto.
LEONTE	Ventitré giorni sono stati assenti. È buona celerità, predice che il grande Apollo vorrà d’un tratto che la verità di questo appaia. Preparatevi, signori. Convocate una seduta, che possiamo processare la nostra slealissima signora; ché come ella è stata pubblicamente accusata, così avrà un giusto e aperto giudizio. Finché ella vive il mio cuore mi sarà un peso. Lasciatemi, e pensate al mio comando.
(didascalia)	Escono separatamente

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Cleomenes and Dion
CLEOMENES	The climate’s delicate, the air most sweet; Fertile the isle, the temple much surpassing The common praise it bears.
DION	I shall report, For most it caught me, the celestial habits— Methinks I so should term them—and the reverence Of the grave wearers. O, the sacrifice- How ceremonious, solemn, and unearthly It was i‘th’ off’ring!
CLEOMENES	But of all, the burst And the ear-deaf‘ning voice o’th’ oracle, Kin to Jove’s thunder, so surprised 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, The time is worth the use on’t.
CLEOMENES	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 sealed up, Shall the contents discover, something rare Even then will rush to knowledge. Go. Fresh horses! And gracious be the issue.
(didascalia)	Exeunt

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entrano Cleomene e Dione
CLEOMENES	Il clima è delicato, l’aria dolcissima; fertile l’isola, il tempio assai superiore alla comune lode che ne corre.
DION	Io riferirò, ché più d’ogni cosa mi colpì, le vesti celestiali— così mi pare debba chiamarle—e la riverenza di quei gravi che le portano. Oh, il sacrificio— quanto cerimonioso, solenne e sovrumano fu nell’offerta!
CLEOMENES	Ma sopra tutto, lo scoppio e la voce assordante dell’oracolo, parente al tuono di Giove, così sorprese i miei sensi ch’io fui un nulla.
DION	Se l’esito del viaggio riesce altrettanto felice per la Regina—oh, sia così!— quanto per noi è stato raro, piacevole, rapido, il tempo vale la spesa che se n’è fatta.
CLEOMENES	Il grande Apollo volga tutto al meglio! Questi proclami, che così impongono colpe a Ermione, poco mi piacciono.
DION	Il violento condurre della cosa chiarirà o porrà fine alla faccenda. Quando l’oracolo, così sigillato dal gran sacerdote d’Apollo, ne scoprirà il contenuto, qualcosa di raro proprio allora irromperà nella conoscenza. Andiamo. Cavalli freschi! E propizio sia l’esito.
(didascalia)	Escono

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Leontes, Lords, and Officers
LEONTES	This sessions, to our great grief we pronounce, Even pushes ’gainst our heart: the party tried The daughter of a king, our wife, and one Of us too much beloved. Let us be cleared 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.
OFFICER	It is his highness’ pleasure That the Queen appear in person here in court.
(didascalia)	Enter Hermione guarded, with Paulina and Ladies
OFFICER	Silence.
LEONTES	Read the indictment.
OFFICER	(reads) 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.
HERMIONE	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 falsehood shall, as I express it, Be so received. But thus: if powers divine Behold our human actions—as they do— I doubt not then but innocence shall make False accusation blush, and tyranny Tremble at patience. 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, though devised And played 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 strained t’appear thus. If one jot beyond The bound of honour, or in act or will That way inclining, hardened be the hearts Of all that hear me, and my near‘st of kin Cry ‘Fie’ upon my grave.
LEONTES	I ne’er heard yet That any of these bolder vices wanted Less impudence to gainsay what they did Than to perform it first.
HERMIONE	That’s true enough, Though ’tis a saying, sir, not due to me.
LEONTES	You will not own it.
HERMIONE	More than mistress of Which comes to me in name of fault, I must not At all acknowledge. For Polixenes, With whom I am accused, I do confess I loved him as in honour he required; With such a kind of love as might become A lady like me; with a love, even such, So, and no other, as yourself commanded; Which not to have done I think had been in me Both disobedience and ingratitude To you and toward 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, though it be dished 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.
LEONTES	You knew of his departure, as you know What you have underta’en to do in’s absence.
HERMIONE	Sir, You speak a language that I understand not. My life stands in the level of your dreams, Which I’ll lay down.
LEONTES	Your actions are my ‘dreams’. You had a bastard by Polixenes, And I but dreamed 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 itself, 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.
HERMIONE	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, And first fruits of my body, from his presence I am barred, like one infectious. My third comfort, Starred most unluckily, is from my breast, The innocent milk in it most innocent mouth, Haled out to murder; myself on every post Proclaimed a strumpet, with immodest hatred The childbed privilege denied, 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 condemned 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. A LORD This your request Is altogether just. Therefore bring forth, And in Apollo’s name, his oracle. [Exeunt certain Officers]
HERMIONE	The Emperor of Russia was my father. O that he were alive, and here beholding His daughter’s trial; that he did but see The flatness of my misery—yet with eyes Of pity, not revenge. [Enter Officers with Cleomenes and Dion]
OFFICER	You here shall swear upon this sword of justice That you, Cleomenes and Dion, have Been both at Delphos, and from thence have brought This sealed-up oracle, by the hand delivered Of great Apollo’s priest; and that since then You have not dared to break the holy seal, Nor read the secrets in’t.
CLEOMENES	and DION All this we swear. LEONTES Break up the seals, and read.
OFFICER	(reads) 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 blessèd be the great Apollo!
HERMIONE	Praised!
LEONTES	Hast thou read truth?
OFFICER	Ay, my lord, even so as it is here set down.
LEONTES	There is no truth at all i’th’ oracle. The sessions shall proceed. This is mere falsehood.
(didascalia)	Enter a Servant
SERVANT	My lord the King! The King!
LEONTES	What is the business?
SERVANT	O sir, I shall be hated to report it. The prince your son, with mere conceit and fear Of the Queen’s speed, is gone.
LEONTES	How, ‘gone’?
SERVANT	Is dead.
LEONTES	Apollo’s angry, and the heavens themselves Do strike at my injustice. Hermione falls to the ground How now there?
PAULINA	This news is mortal to the Queen. Look down And see what death is doing.
LEONTES	Take her hence. Her heart is but o’ercharged. She will recover. I have too much believed mine own suspicion. Beseech you, tenderly apply to her Some remedies for life.
(didascalia)	Exeunt Paulina and Ladies, carrying Hermione
LEONTES	Apollo, pardon My great profaneness ’gainst thine oracle. I’ll reconcile me to Polixenes, New woo my queen, recall 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. Though I with death and with Reward did threaten and encourage him, Not doing it, and being done, he, most humane And filled with honour, to my kingly guest Unclasped 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 rust! And how his piety Does my deeds make the blacker!
(didascalia)	Enter Paulina
PAULINA	Woe the while! O cut my lace, lest my heart, cracking it, Break too. A LORD What fit is this, good lady?
PAULINA	(to Leontes) What studied torments, tyrant, hast for me? What wheels, racks, fires? What flaying, boiling 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 bygone fooleries were but spices of it. That thou betrayed‘st Polixenes, ’twas nothing. That did but show thee, of a fool, inconstant, And damnable ingrateful. Nor was’t much Thou wouldst have poisoned 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, 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 honourable thoughts— Thoughts high for one so tender—cleft the heart That could conceive a gross and foolish sire Blemished 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 sweet‘st, dear’st creature’s dead, and vengeance for’t Not dropped down yet. A LORD The higher powers forbid!
PAULINA	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.
LEONTES	Go on, go on. Thou canst not speak too much. I have deserved All tongues to talk their bitt’rest. A LORD (to Paulina) Say no more. Howe‘er the business goes, you have made fault I’th’ boldness of your speech.
PAULINA	I am sorry for’t. All faults I make, when I shall come to know them I do repent. Alas, I have showed too much The rashness of a woman. He is touched To th’ noble heart. What’s gone and what’s past help Should be past grief. (To Leontes) Do not receive affliction At my petition. I beseech you, rather Let me be punished, 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 your patience to you, And I’ll say nothing.
LEONTES	Thou didst speak but well When most the truth, which I receive much better Than to be pitied of thee. Prithee 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.
(didascalia)	Exeunt

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entrano Leonte, Signori e Ufficiali
LEONTE	Questo processo, con nostro gran dolore lo dichiariamo, preme addirittura contro il nostro cuore: l’imputata è figlia di un re, è nostra moglie, e una da noi troppo amata. Ci si assolva dall’esser tirannici, poiché così apertamente procediamo in giustizia, che avrà il suo debito corso fino alla colpa o alla purgazione. Conducete la prigioniera.
OFFICER	È volere di sua altezza che la Regina compaia di persona qui in corte.
(didascalia)	Entra Ermione sotto scorta, con Paulina e le Dame
OFFICER	Silenzio.
LEONTE	Leggi l’atto d’accusa.
OFFICER	(legge) Ermione, regina del degno Leonte, Re di Sicilia, tu sei qui accusata e chiamata a giudizio di alto tradimento per aver commesso adulterio con Polissene, Re di Boemia, e per aver cospirato con Camillo per togliere la vita al nostro sovrano signore il Re, tuo regale marito; il quale disegno essendo in parte svelato dalle circostanze, tu, Ermione, contro la fede e la fedeltà d’un vero suddito, consigliasti e aiutasti loro, per la loro maggior salvezza, a fuggire di notte.
ERMIONE	Poiché quel che ho da dire non può esser altro che ciò che contraddice la mia accusa, e la testimonianza dalla mia parte nessun’altra che quella che viene da me stessa, poco mi gioverà dire «Non colpevole». La mia integrità, essendo tenuta menzogna, sarà, per quanto io l’esprima, così ricevuta. Ma sia così: se le potenze divine guardano le nostre azioni umane—come fanno— non dubito allora che l’innocenza farà arrossire la falsa accusa, e la tirannide tremare dinanzi alla pazienza. Voi, mio signore, meglio d’ogni altro sapete— voi che meno sembrerete saperlo—che la mia vita passata è stata tanto continente, tanto casta, tanto fedele quanto io sono ora infelice; il che è più di quanto la storia possa dare a modello, foss’anche inventata e recitata per prendere spettatori. Ché guardatemi: una compagna del letto regale, che possiede una metà del trono; figlia d’un gran re, madre d’un promettente principe, qui ritta a ciarlare e parlare per la vita e per l’onore, dinanzi a chiunque piaccia venire e udire. Quanto alla vita, la stimo come stimo il dolore, di cui farei a meno. Quanto all’onore, è cosa che da me deriva ai miei, e solo per quello sto qui. Mi appello alla vostra stessa coscienza, signore: prima che Polissene venisse alla vostra corte, come io ero nella vostra grazia, e come meritavo d’esserlo; e da che egli venne, con quale incontro tanto illecito io mi sarei sforzata di apparire così. Se d’un solo iota oltre il confine dell’onore, o in atto o in volontà a ciò inclinando, s’induriscano i cuori di tutti quelli che m’odono, e i miei più prossimi congiunti gridino «Vergogna» sulla mia tomba.
LEONTE	Non ho mai udito finora che alcuno di questi più arditi vizi avesse bisogno di minore impudenza per negare ciò che fece di quanta per compierlo dapprima.
ERMIONE	Questo è ben vero, benché sia una sentenza, signore, che non spetta a me.
LEONTE	Non volete riconoscerlo.
ERMIONE	Più di quanto sia padrona di ciò che mi vien dato in nome di colpa, non devo affatto riconoscere. Quanto a Polissene, col quale sono accusata, confesso ch’io l’amai come l’onore richiedeva; con quella specie di amore che poteva convenire a una dama come me; con un amore, proprio tale, così e non altro, come voi stesso comandaste; e non averlo fatto sarebbe stato in me e disobbedienza e ingratitudine verso di voi e verso il vostro amico, il cui amore aveva detto fin da quando poté parlare, da bambino, liberamente ch’era vostro. Ora, quanto alla cospirazione, non so di che sapore sia, benché mi sia servita in tavola perché ne faccia la prova. Tutto ciò che ne so è che Camillo era un uomo onesto; e perché egli lasciò la vostra corte, gli dèi stessi, non sapendone più di me, lo ignorano.
LEONTE	Voi sapevate della sua partenza, come sapete ciò che avete intrapreso di fare in sua assenza.
ERMIONE	Signore, voi parlate un linguaggio ch’io non comprendo. La mia vita sta nel mirino dei vostri sogni, ed io la deporrò.
LEONTE	Le vostre azioni sono i miei «sogni». Avete avuto una bastarda da Polissene, e io l’ho solo sognato. Come eravate oltre ogni vergogna— quelle della vostra fatta lo sono—così oltre ogni verità; negarlo importa più che non giovi; ché come la tua marmocchia è stata gettata via, degnamente di sé, non riconosciuta da alcun padre—il che è invero più criminoso in te che in lei—così tu sentirai la nostra giustizia, nel cui passaggio più lieve non aspettarti meno della morte.
ERMIONE	Signore, risparmiate le vostre minacce. Lo spauracchio con cui volete atterrirmi, io lo cerco. Per me la vita non può essere alcun bene. La corona e il conforto della mia vita, il vostro favore, lo do per perduto, ché lo sento andato ma non so come sia andato. La mia seconda gioia, e primo frutto del mio corpo, dalla sua presenza sono esclusa, come un’appestata. Il mio terzo conforto, nato sotto stella infelicissima, dal mio seno, col latte innocente nella sua innocentissima bocca, è stato strappato per esser ucciso; io stessa a ogni cantone proclamata baldracca, con impudico odio negatomi il privilegio del puerperio, che spetta alle donne d’ogni condizione; infine, trascinata qui, in questo luogo, all’aria aperta, prima ch’io abbia ripreso forza. Ora, mio sovrano, ditemi quali benedizioni ho qui in vita, tali ch’io debba temere di morire. Perciò procedete. E pure udite questo—non fraintendetemi—non la vita, non la stimo un fuscello; ma per il mio onore, che vorrei liberare: se sarò condannata sopra congetture, dormendo ogni altra prova tranne quelle che le vostre gelosie destano, io vi dico ch’è rigore, e non legge. Onorevoli tutti, io mi rimetto all’oracolo. Apollo sia il mio giudice. UN SIGNORE Questa vostra richiesta è del tutto giusta. Perciò si porti innanzi, e nel nome d’Apollo, il suo oracolo. [Escono alcuni Ufficiali]
ERMIONE	L’Imperatore di Russia fu mio padre. Oh, fosse egli vivo, e qui a contemplare il processo di sua figlia; che almeno vedesse la nudità della mia miseria—ma con occhi di pietà, non di vendetta. [Entrano Ufficiali con Cleomene e Dione]
OFFICER	Voi qui giurerete su questa spada di giustizia che voi, Cleomene e Dione, siete stati entrambi a Delfo, e di là avete portato questo oracolo sigillato, consegnato dalla mano del sacerdote del grande Apollo; e che da allora non avete osato rompere il sacro sigillo, né leggere i segreti che contiene.
CLEOMENES	e DIONE Tutto questo giuriamo. LEONTE Rompete i sigilli, e leggete.
OFFICER	(legge) Ermione è casta, Polissene senza colpa, Camillo un suddito fedele, Leonte un geloso tiranno, la sua innocente bambina veramente generata, e il Re vivrà senza erede se ciò che è perduto non sarà ritrovato.
LORDS	Ora sia benedetto il grande Apollo!
ERMIONE	Lodato!
LEONTE	Hai tu letto la verità?
OFFICER	Sì, mio signore, proprio così com’è qui scritto.
LEONTE	Non v’è verità alcuna nell’oracolo. Il processo proceda. Questa è mera menzogna.
(didascalia)	Entra un Servo
SERVANT	Mio signore il Re! Il Re!
LEONTE	Che c’è?
SERVANT	Oh signore, sarò odiato per riferirlo. Il principe vostro figlio, per la sola immaginazione e la paura della sorte della Regina, se n’è andato.
LEONTE	Come, «andato»?
SERVANT	È morto.
LEONTE	Apollo è adirato, e i cieli stessi colpiscono la mia ingiustizia. Ermione cade a terra Che c’è là?
PAULINA	Questa notizia è mortale per la Regina. Guardate giù e vedete che cosa sta facendo la morte.
LEONTE	Portatela via. Il suo cuore è solo troppo carico. Si riprenderà. Ho troppo creduto al mio proprio sospetto. Vi supplico, applicatele teneramente qualche rimedio per la vita.
(didascalia)	Escono Paulina e le Dame, portando Ermione
LEONTE	Apollo, perdona la mia grande empietà contro il tuo oracolo. Mi riconcilierò con Polissene, corteggerò di nuovo la mia regina, richiamerò il buon Camillo, che proclamo uomo di verità e di misericordia; ché trasportato dalle mie gelosie a pensieri sanguinari e a vendetta, io scelsi Camillo come ministro per avvelenare il mio amico Polissene, il che sarebbe stato fatto, se la buona mente di Camillo non avesse ritardato il mio rapido comando. Benché io con la morte e con ricompensa lo minacciassi e l’incoraggiassi, a non farlo e a farlo, egli, umanissimo e pieno d’onore, al mio regale ospite svelò la mia trama, abbandonò qui le sue fortune— che sapevate grandi—e al certo azzardo d’ogni incertezza si affidò, non più ricco del suo onore. Come risplende attraverso la mia ruggine! E come la sua pietà rende più nere le mie azioni!
(didascalia)	Entra Paulina
PAULINA	Ahimè, che tempi! Oh tagliate i miei lacci, ché il mio cuore, spezzandoli, non si spezzi anch’esso. UN SIGNORE Che accesso è questo, buona signora?
PAULINA	(a Leonte) Quali studiati tormenti, tiranno, hai per me? Quali ruote, cavalletti, fuochi? Quale scorticamento, quale bollitura in piombo o in olio? Quale antica o più nuova tortura devo ricevere, io la cui ogni parola merita d’assaggiare il tuo peggio? La tua tirannide, operando insieme con le tue gelosie— fantasie troppo deboli per ragazzi, troppo verdi e vane per fanciulle di nove anni—oh, pensa che cosa hanno fatto, e allora impazzisci davvero, del tutto folle, ché tutte le tue passate scempiaggini ne furono solo un condimento. Che tu abbia tradito Polissene, non fu nulla. Ciò ti mostrò soltanto, oltre che folle, incostante, e dannabilmente ingrato. Né fu gran cosa che tu volessi avvelenare l’onore del buon Camillo facendogli uccidere un re—poveri falli, a fronte di più mostruosi, fra i quali reputo il gettare ai corvi la tua bambina o nulla o poco, benché un demonio avrebbe versato acqua dal fuoco prima di farlo. Né ti si imputa direttamente la morte del giovane principe, i cui onorevoli pensieri— pensieri alti per uno così tenero—spezzarono il cuore che poté concepire che un rozzo e stolto padre avesse macchiato la sua graziosa madre. Questo non ti è, no, posto a carico. Ma l’ultima cosa—oh signori, quando l’avrò detta, gridate ahimè! La Regina, la Regina, la creatura più dolce, più cara, è morta, e la vendetta per questo non è ancor piombata giù. UN SIGNORE Le potenze superne non voglia!
PAULINA	Io dico ch’è morta. Lo giurerò. Se né parola né giuramento prevalgono, andate e vedete. Se potete riportare tinta o lucentezza nel suo labbro, nel suo occhio, calore di fuori o fiato di dentro, vi servirò come servirei gli dèi. Ma oh tu tiranno, non pentirti di queste cose, ché sono più pesanti di quanto tutti i tuoi lamenti possano smuovere. Perciò dàtti a null’altro che alla disperazione. Mille ginocchi, diecimila anni di seguito, nudo, digiuno, sopra una sterile montagna, e sempre inverno in perpetua tempesta, non potrebbero muovere gli dèi a guardare dalla parte dove tu fossi.
LEONTE	Continua, continua. Non puoi dire troppo. Ho meritato che tutte le lingue dicano il loro peggio. UN SIGNORE (a Paulina) Non dite altro. Comunque vada la faccenda, avete errato nell’audacia del vostro parlare.
PAULINA	Me ne duole. Di tutti i falli che commetto, quando arrivo a conoscerli mi pento. Ahimè, ho mostrato troppo l’avventatezza d’una donna. Egli è toccato nel nobile cuore. Ciò ch’è andato e ciò a cui non c’è rimedio dovrebbe essere oltre il dolore. (A Leonte) Non ricevete afflizione dalla mia supplica. Vi prego, piuttosto che sia punita io, che vi ho rammentato ciò che dovreste dimenticare. Ora, mio buon sovrano, signore, regale signore, perdonate una donna sciocca. L’amore che portavo alla vostra regina—ecco, di nuovo da folle! Non parlerò più di lei, né dei vostri figli. Non vi rammenterò il mio proprio signore, che pure è perduto. Prendete a voi la vostra pazienza, e io non dirò nulla.
LEONTE	Tu hai parlato solo bene quando più dicevi il vero, che ricevo assai meglio che l’esser da te compatito. Ti prego, conducimi ai corpi morti della mia regina e di mio figlio. Una sola tomba sarà per entrambi. Sopra di essi appariranno le cause della loro morte, a nostra perpetua vergogna. Una volta al giorno visiterò la cappella dove giacciono, e le lacrime là versate saranno il mio sollievo. Fin quando la natura sopporterà questo esercizio, fin tanto faccio voto di praticarlo ogni giorno. Vieni, e conducimi a questi dolori.
(didascalia)	Escono

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Antigonus, carrying the babe, with a Mariner ANTIGONUS
(didascalia)	Thou art perfect then our ship hath touched upon The deserts of Bohemia?
MARINER	Ay, 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’s.
ANTIGONUS	Their sacred wills be done. Go get aboard. Look to thy barque. I’ll not be long before I call upon thee.
MARINER	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.
ANTIGONUS	Go thou away. I’ll follow instantly.
MARINER	I am glad at heart To be so rid o’th’ business. Exit
ANTIGONUS	Come, poor babe. I have heard, but not believed, the spirits o‘th’ dead May walk again. If such thing be, thy mother Appeared 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 filled and so becoming. In pure white robes Like very sanctity she did approach My cabin where I lay, thrice bowed 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 prithee 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, Yet for this once, yea superstitiously, I will be squared by this. I do believe Hermione hath suffered 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! He lays down the babe and a scroll There lie, and there thy character. He lays down a box There these, Which may, if fortune please, both breed thee, pretty, And still rest thine.
(didascalia)	Thunder
ANTIGONUS	The storm begins. Poor wretch, That for thy mother’s fault art thus exposed To loss and what may follow! Weep I cannot, But my heart bleeds, and most accursed am I To be by oath enjoined to this. Farewell. The day frowns more and more. Thou’rt like to have A lullaby too rough. I never saw The heavens so dim by day. A savage clamour! Well may I get aboard. This is the chase. I am gone for ever!
(didascalia)	Exit, pursued by a bear
(didascalia)	Enter an Old Shepherd
OLD SHEPHERD	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 boiled-brains of nineteen and two-and-twenty hunt this weather? They have scared away two of my best sheep, which I fear the wolf will sooner find than the master. If anywhere I have them, ’tis by the seaside, browsing of ivy. Good luck, an’t be thy will! He sees the babe What have we here? Mercy on‘s, a bairn! A very pretty bairn. A boy or a child, I wonder? A pretty one, a very pretty one. Sure some scape. Though 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. 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 hallooed but even now. Whoa-ho-hoa!
(didascalia)	Enter Clown
CLOWN	Hilloa, loa!
OLD SHEPHERD	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?
CLOWN	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.
OLD SHEPHERD	Why, boy, how is it?
CLOWN	I would you did but see how it chafes, how it rages, how it takes up the shore. But that’s not to the point. O, 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 mainmast, and anon swallowed with yeast and froth, as you’d thrust a cork into a hogshead. And then for the land-service, to see how the bear tore out his shoulder-bone, how he cried 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-dragoned it! But first, how the poor souls roared, and the sea mocked them, and how the poor gentleman roared, and the bear mocked him, both roaring louder than the sea or weather.
OLD SHEPHERD	Name of mercy, when was this, boy?
CLOWN	Now, now. I have not winked since I saw these sights. The men are not yet cold under water, nor the bear half dined on the gentleman. He’s at it now.
OLD SHEPHERD	Would I had been by to have helped the old man!
CLOWN	I would you had been by the ship side, to have helped her. There your charity would have lacked footing.
OLD SHEPHERD	Heavy matters, heavy matters. But look thee here, boy. Now bless thyself. Thou metst with things dying, I with things new-born. Here’s a sight for thee. Look thee, a bearing-cloth for a squire’s child. He points to the box 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 changeling. Open’t. What’s within, boy?
CLOWN	(opening the box) You’re a made old man. If the sins of your youth are forgiven you, you’re well to live. Gold, all gold!
OLD SHEPHERD	This is fairy gold, boy, and ‘twill prove so. Up with’t, keep it close. Home, home, the next way. We are lucky, boy, and to be so still requires nothing but secrecy. Let my sheep go. Come, good boy, the next way home.
CLOWN	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.
OLD SHEPHERD	That’s a good deed. If thou mayst discern by that which is left of him what he is, fetch me to th’ sight of him.
CLOWN	Marry will I; and you shall help to put him i’th’ ground.
OLD SHEPHERD	’Tis a lucky day, boy, and we’ll do good deeds on’t.
(didascalia)	Exeunt

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entra Antigono, portando la neonata, con un Marinaio ANTIGONO
(didascalia)	Sei dunque certo che la nostra nave ha toccato i deserti della Boemia?
MARINER	Sì, mio signore, e temo che siamo sbarcati in cattivo tempo. Il cielo ha aspetto torvo e minaccia immediate raffiche. Nella mia coscienza, i cieli sono adirati per ciò che abbiamo per le mani, e ci guardano accigliati.
ANTIGONUS	Sia fatta la loro sacra volontà. Va’, sali a bordo. Bada alla tua barca. Non passerà molto prima ch’io ti chiami.
MARINER	Fate la maggior fretta, e non andate troppo addentro nella terra. È probabile che il tempo si faccia rumoroso. Inoltre, questo luogo è famoso per le creature da preda che vi dimorano.
ANTIGONUS	Va’ pure via. Ti seguirò all’istante.
MARINER	Sono lieto in cuore d’essere sbrigato di questa faccenda. Esce
ANTIGONUS	Vieni, povera bambina. Ho udito, ma non creduto, che gli spiriti dei morti possano tornare a camminare. Se tal cosa esiste, tua madre m’è apparsa la scorsa notte, ché mai sogno fu tanto simile a una veglia. A me viene una creatura, ora col capo piegato da un lato, ora dall’altro. Non vidi mai vaso di simile dolore, così colmo e così ben portante. In pure vesti bianche come la santità stessa ella si accostò alla mia cabina dove giacevo, tre volte s’inchinò dinanzi a me, e, ansimando per cominciare qualche discorso, i suoi occhi divennero due zampilli. Sfogata la furia, subito questo le proruppe: «Buon Antigono, poiché il fato, contro la tua migliore inclinazione, ha destinato la tua persona a gettar via la mia povera bambina secondo il tuo giuramento, vi sono luoghi assai remoti in Boemia. Là piangi, e lasciala piangere; e poiché la bambina è tenuta perduta per sempre, Perdita ti prego chiamala. Per questa scortese faccenda impostati dal mio signore, tu non vedrai mai più tua moglie Paulina». E così con strida ella si dileguò nell’aria. Assai spaventato, col tempo mi ricomposi, e pensai che fosse così, e non sonno. I sogni sono trastulli, pure per questa volta, sì, superstiziosamente, mi lascerò squadrare da questo. Io credo che Ermione abbia patito la morte, e che Apollo voglia—essendo questa in verità la progenie del Re Polissene—ch’ella sia qui deposta, o per la vita o per la morte, sulla terra del suo vero padre. Fiorellino, ti sia propizia la sorte, e bene! Depone la bambina e un rotolo Là giaci, e là il tuo nome. Depone una cassetta Là queste cose, che possano, se la fortuna vuole, e allevarti, bella, e restare pur tue.
(didascalia)	Tuono
ANTIGONUS	La tempesta comincia. Povera infelice, che per la colpa di tua madre sei così esposta alla perdizione e a quel che può seguirne! Piangere non posso, ma il mio cuore sanguina, e maledettissimo sono io ad esser costretto a questo dal giuramento. Addio. Il giorno s’acciglia sempre più. È probabile che tu abbia una ninnananna troppo aspra. Non ho mai visto i cieli così foschi di giorno. Un clamore selvaggio! Ben farei a salire a bordo. Questa è la caccia. Sono perduto per sempre!
(didascalia)	Esce, inseguito da un orso
(didascalia)	Entra un vecchio Pastore
OLD SHEPHERD	Vorrei che non ci fosse età fra i dieci e i ventitré anni, o che la gioventù dormisse via il resto; ché non c’è nulla nel frattempo se non mettere ragazze con un figlio in grembo, far torto ai vecchi, rubare, azzuffarsi—sentite un po’, chi altri se non queste teste bollite di diciannove e ventidue anni andrebbe a caccia con questo tempo? Mi hanno spaventato e disperso due delle mie migliori pecore, che temo il lupo troverà prima del padrone. Se in qualche luogo le ritrovo, sarà lungo il mare, a brucare edera. Buona fortuna, se è tua volontà! Vede la bambina Che abbiamo qui? Misericordia di noi, una creatura! Una creaturina bellissima. Un maschio o una femmina, mi domando? Bellina, bellissima. Certo qualche scappatella. Benché non sia uomo di libri, pure so leggerci «damigella di compagnia» in questa scappatella. Qui c’è stato del lavoro di scale, del lavoro di bauli, del lavoro dietro le porte. Stavano più caldi quelli che l’han fatta di quanto stia qui la povera creatura. La raccoglierò per pietà; ma aspetterò che venga mio figlio. Ha gridato or ora. Ohé, ohé, ohé!
(didascalia)	Entra il Villano
CLOWN	Ehilà, ehilà!
OLD SHEPHERD	Come, sei così vicino? Se vuoi vedere una cosa di cui parlare quando sarai morto e marcito, vieni qua. Che ti prende, ragazzo?
CLOWN	Ho visto due spettacoli, per mare e per terra! Ma non devo dire che è un mare, ché ora è il cielo. Fra il firmamento e quello non ci ficcheresti la punta d’uno spillone.
OLD SHEPHERD	Ma come, ragazzo, che c’è?
CLOWN	Vorrei che vedeste come si frange, come infuria, come si mangia la riva. Ma non è questo il punto. Oh, il grido pietosissimo di quelle povere anime! Ora vederli, e ora non vederli; ora la nave che trapana la luna col suo albero maestro, e subito inghiottita in schiuma e spuma, come si ficca un turacciolo in una botte. E poi, quanto al servizio di terra, vedere come l’orso gli strappò l’osso della spalla, com’egli mi gridava aiuto, e diceva che il suo nome era Antigono, un gentiluomo! Ma per finirla con la nave—vedere come il mare se l’è ingoiata come un boccone di fuoco! Ma prima, come le povere anime ruggivano, e il mare le derideva, e come il povero gentiluomo ruggiva, e l’orso lo derideva, tutti e due ruggendo più forte del mare o del tempo.
OLD SHEPHERD	In nome della misericordia, quando è stato questo, ragazzo?
CLOWN	Ora, ora. Non ho battuto ciglio da che ho visto queste cose. Gli uomini non sono ancora freddi sotto l’acqua, né l’orso è a metà del suo pranzo col gentiluomo. Ci sta ancora.
OLD SHEPHERD	Vorrei essere stato lì ad aiutare il vecchio!
CLOWN	Vorrei che voi foste stato accanto alla nave, per aiutarla. Là la vostra carità non avrebbe trovato dove posare il piede.
OLD SHEPHERD	Cose gravi, cose gravi. Ma guarda qui, ragazzo. Ora fatti il segno della croce. Tu hai incontrato cose che muoiono, io cose che nascono. Ecco uno spettacolo per te. Guarda, un panno da battesimo per il figlio d’uno scudiero. Indica la cassetta Guarda qui, raccogli, raccogli, ragazzo. Aprila. Su, vediamo. Mi fu detto che sarei diventato ricco per opera delle fate. Questo è qualche scambio di fate. Aprila. Che c’è dentro, ragazzo?
CLOWN	(aprendo la cassetta) Siete un vecchio fatto ricco. Se i peccati della vostra giovinezza vi sono perdonati, avete di che vivere bene. Oro, tutto oro!
OLD SHEPHERD	Questo è oro di fate, ragazzo, e tale si dimostrerà. Su, prendilo, tienilo nascosto. A casa, a casa, per la via più corta. Siamo fortunati, ragazzo, e per restarlo non occorre altro che il segreto. Lascia andare le mie pecore. Vieni, buon ragazzo, per la via più corta a casa.
CLOWN	Andate voi per la via più corta con i vostri ritrovamenti. Io vado a vedere se l’orso se n’è andato dal gentiluomo, e quanto ne ha mangiato. Non sono mai cattivi se non quando hanno fame. Se ne resta qualcosa, lo seppellirò.
OLD SHEPHERD	Questa è una buona azione. Se puoi capire da ciò che resta di lui chi egli sia, portami a vederlo.
CLOWN	Perbacco, lo farò; e voi mi aiuterete a metterlo sotto terra.
OLD SHEPHERD	È un giorno fortunato, ragazzo, e vi faremo buone azioni.
(didascalia)	Escono

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Time, the Chorus
TIME	I that please some, try all; both joy and terror Of good and bad; that makes and unfolds 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 and leave the growth untried Of that wide gap, since it is in my power To o’erthrow law, and in one self-born hour To plant and o‘erwhelm custom. Let me pass The same I am ere ancient’st order was Or what is now received. I witness to The times that brought them in; so shall I do To th’ freshest things now reigning, and make stale The glistering of this present as my tale Now seems to it. Your patience this allowing, I turn my glass, and give my scene such growing As you had slept between. Leontes leaving Th‘effects of his fond jealousies, so grieving That he shuts up himself, imagine me, Gentle spectators, that I now may be In fair Bohemia, and remember well I mentioned a son o’th’ King‘s, which Florizel I now name to you; and with speed so pace To speak of Perdita, now grown in grace Equal with wond’ring. What of her ensues I list not prophesy, 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.
(didascalia)	Exit

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entra il Tempo, il Coro
TEMPO	Io che ad alcuni piaccio, e tutti provo; gioia e terrore dei buoni e dei cattivi; che l’errore fo e disfo, ora m’assumo, nel nome del Tempo, d’usare le mie ali. Non m’imputate a delitto, né a me né al mio rapido passaggio, ch’io scivoli oltre sedici anni e lasci non esplorato il crescere di quell’ampio divario, poiché è in mio potere rovesciare la legge, e in un’ora da me stesso generata piantare e travolgere il costume. Lasciate ch’io passi lo stesso che sono, prima che l’ordine più antico fosse o quel che ora s’accetta. Io fui testimone dei tempi che li introdussero; e così farò alle cose più fresche che ora regnano, e renderò stantio lo splendore di questo presente come il mio racconto ora gli appare. Concedendomi voi questa pazienza, io volgo la mia clessidra, e do alla mia scena tal crescita come se aveste dormito nel frattempo. Leonte, lasciando gli effetti delle sue folli gelosie, così dolente che si rinchiude in sé, immaginatemi, gentili spettatori, ch’io ora possa essere nella bella Boemia, e ricordate bene ch’io menzionai un figlio del Re, il quale Florizello ora vi nomino; e con tal celerità procedo a parlare di Perdita, ora cresciuta in grazia pari alla meraviglia. Ciò che di lei segue non mi va di profetare, ma le notizie del Tempo si sappiano quando saran partorite. La figlia d’un pastore e quanto a lei s’attiene, che vien dopo, è l’argomento del Tempo. Di questo accontentatevi, se mai avete speso il tempo peggio fin qui. Se mai, pure il Tempo stesso dice che ardentemente augura non v’accada mai.
(didascalia)	Esce

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Polixenes and Camillo
POLIXENES	I pray thee, good Camillo, be no more importunate. ’Tis a sickness denying thee anything, a death to grant this.
CAMILLO	It is sixteen years since I saw my country. Though I have for the most part been aired abroad, I desire to lay my bones there. Besides, the penitent King, my master, hath sent for me, to whose feeling sorrows I might be some allay—or I o’erween to think so—which is another spur to my departure.
POLIXENES	As thou lov’st me, Camillo, wipe not out the rest of thy services by leaving me now. The need I have of thee thine own goodness hath made. Better not to have had thee than thus to want thee. Thou, having made me businesses which none without thee can sufficiently manage, must either stay to execute them thyself or take away with thee the very services thou hast done; which if I have not enough considered—as too much I cannot—to be more thankful to thee shall be my study, and my profit therein, the heaping friendships. Of that fatal country Sicilia, prithee speak no more, whose very naming punishes me with the remembrance of that penitent—as thou callest him—and reconciled King my brother, whose loss of his most precious queen and children are even now to be afresh lamented. Say to me, when sawest thou the Prince Florizel, my son? Kings are no less unhappy, their issue not being gracious, than they are in losing them when they have approved their virtues.
CAMILLO	Sir, it is three days since I saw the Prince. What his happier affairs may be are to me unknown; but I have missingly noted he is of late much retired from court, and is less frequent to his princely exercises than formerly he hath appeared.
POLIXENES	I have considered so much, Camillo, and with some care, so far that I have eyes under my service which look upon his removedness, from whom I have this intelligence: that he is seldom from the house of a most homely shepherd, a man, they say, that from very nothing, and beyond the imagination of his neighbours, is grown into an unspeakable estate.
CAMILLO	I have heard, sir, of such a man, who hath a daughter of most rare note. The report of her is extended more than can be thought to begin from such a cottage.
POLIXENES	That’s likewise part of my intelligence; but, I fear, the angle that plucks our son thither. Thou shalt accompany us to the place, where we will, not appearing what we are, have some question with the shepherd; from whose simplicity I think it not uneasy to get the cause of my son’s resort thither. Prithee, be my present partner in this business, and lay aside the thoughts of Sicilia.
CAMILLO	I willingly obey your command.
POLIXENES	My best Camillo! We must disguise ourselves.
(didascalia)	Exeunt

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entrano Polissene e Camillo
POLISSENE	Ti prego, buon Camillo, non essere più importuno. È una malattia negarti qualcosa, una morte concederti questo.
CAMILLO	Sono sedici anni da che non vedo il mio paese. Benché per la maggior parte abbia respirato l’aria straniera, desidero deporvi le mie ossa. Inoltre, il penitente Re, mio padrone, ha mandato a chiamarmi, ai cui sensibili dolori io potrei essere qualche lenimento—o presumo troppo a pensarlo—il che è un altro sprone alla mia partenza.
POLISSENE	Se mi ami, Camillo, non cancellare il resto dei tuoi servigi lasciandomi ora. Il bisogno che ho di te l’ha creato la tua stessa bontà. Meglio non averti avuto che così mancare di te. Tu, avendomi creato affari che nessuno senza di te può sufficientemente condurre, devi o restare a eseguirli tu stesso o portar via con te i servigi stessi che hai reso; i quali, se non ho abbastanza considerato—ché troppo non posso—sarà mio studio esserti più grato, e mio profitto in ciò l’accumulare amicizie. Di quel fatale paese, la Sicilia, ti prego non parlare più, ché il solo nominarlo mi punisce col ricordo di quel penitente—come tu lo chiami—e riconciliato Re mio fratello, la cui perdita della sua preziosissima regina e dei figli è proprio ora da lamentare di nuovo. Dimmi, quando hai visto l’ultima volta il principe Florizello, mio figlio? I re non sono meno infelici quando la loro progenie non è virtuosa di quanto lo siano nel perderla quando ne hanno provato le virtù.
CAMILLO	Signore, sono tre giorni da che ho visto il Principe. Quali possano essere le sue più liete occupazioni mi è ignoto; ma ho notato, per la sua mancanza, che da qualche tempo si è molto ritirato dalla corte, ed è meno assiduo ai suoi principeschi esercizi di quanto prima si mostrasse.
POLISSENE	Ho considerato altrettanto, Camillo, e con qualche cura, tanto che ho occhi al mio servizio che sorvegliano il suo appartarsi, dai quali ho questa informazione: che egli è di rado lontano dalla casa d’un pastore assai dozzinale, un uomo, dicono, che dal nulla, e oltre l’immaginazione dei suoi vicini, è cresciuto a un indicibile patrimonio.
CAMILLO	Ho udito, signore, di tale uomo, che ha una figlia di rarissima fama. La voce che corre di lei si estende più di quanto si possa pensare abbia principio da un tale casolare.
POLISSENE	Anche questo è parte della mia informazione; ma, temo, è l’amo che tira là nostro figlio. Tu ci accompagnerai in quel luogo, dove, non apparendo per quello che siamo, faremo qualche interrogatorio al pastore; dalla cui semplicità non credo sia difficile cavare la causa dell’andarvi di mio figlio. Ti prego, sii ora mio compagno in questa faccenda, e metti da parte i pensieri della Sicilia.
CAMILLO	Obbedisco volentieri al vostro comando.
POLISSENE	Mio ottimo Camillo! Dobbiamo travestirci.
(didascalia)	Escono

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Autolycus singing
AUTOLYCUS	When daffodils begin to peer, With heigh, the doxy over the dale, Why then comes in the sweet o’the year, For the red blood reigns in the winter’s pale. The white sheet bleaching on the hedge, With heigh, the sweet birds, O how they sing! Doth set my pugging tooth on edge, For a quart of ale is a dish for a king. The lark, that tirra-lirra chants, With heigh, with heigh, the thrush and the jay, Are summer songs for me and my aunts While we lie tumbling in the hay. I have served Prince Florizel, and in my time wore three-pile, but now I am out of service. But shall I go mourn for that, my dear? The pale moon shines by night, And when I wander here and there I then do most go right. If tinkers may have leave to live, And bear the sow-skin budget, Then my account I well may give, And in the stocks avouch it. My traffic is sheets. When the kite builds, look to lesser linen. My father named me Autolycus, who being, as I am, littered under Mercury, was likewise a snapperup of unconsidered trifles. With die and drab I purchased this caparison, and my revenue is the silly cheat. Gallows and knock are too powerful on the highway. Beating and hanging are terrors to me. For the life to come, I sleep out the thought of it. A prize, a prize!
(didascalia)	Enter Clown
CLOWN	Let me see. Every ’leven wether tods, every tod yields pound and odd shilling. Fifteen hundred shorn, what comes the wool to?
AUTOLYCUS	(aside) If the springe hold, the cock’s mine.
CLOWN	I cannot do’t without counters. Let me see, what am I to buy for our sheep-shearing feast? Three pound of sugar, five pound of currants, rice—what will this sister of mine do with rice? But my father hath made her mistress of the feast, and she lays it on. She hath made me four-and-twenty nosegays for the shearers—three-man-song-men, all, and very good ones—but they are most of them means and basses, but one Puritan amongst them, and he sings psalms to hornpipes. I must have saffron to colour the warden pies; mace; dates, none—that’s out of my note; nutmegs, seven; a race or two of ginger—but that I may beg; four pound of prunes, and as many of raisins o’th’ sun.
AUTOLYCUS	(grovelling on the ground) O, that ever I was born!
CLOWN	I’th’ name of me!
AUTOLYCUS	O help me, help me! Pluck but off these rags, and then death, death!
CLOWN	Alack, poor soul, thou hast need of more rags to lay on thee rather than have these off.
AUTOLYCUS	O sir, the loathsomeness of them offend me more than the stripes I have received, which are mighty ones and millions.
CLOWN	Alas, poor man, a million of beating may come to a great matter.
AUTOLYCUS	I am robbed, sir, and beaten; my money and apparel ta’en from me, and these detestable things put upon me.
CLOWN	What, by a horseman, or a footman?
AUTOLYCUS	A footman, sweet sir, a footman.
CLOWN	Indeed, he should be a footman, by the garments he has left with thee. If this be a horseman’s coat it hath seen very hot service. Lend me thy hand, I’ll help thee. Come, lend me thy hand. He helps Autolycus up
AUTOLYCUS	O, good sir, tenderly. O!
CLOWN	Alas, poor soul!
AUTOLYCUS	O, good sir, softly, good sir! I fear, sir, my shoulder-blade is out.
CLOWN	How now? Canst stand?
AUTOLYCUS	Softly, dear sir. Good sir, softly.
(didascalia)	He picks the Clown’s pocket
AUTOLYCUS	You ha’ done me a charitable office.
CLOWN	(reaching for his purse) Dost lack any money? I have a little money for thee.
AUTOLYCUS	No, good sweet sir, no, I beseech you, sir. I have a kinsman not past three-quarters of a mile hence, unto whom I was going. I shall there have money, or anything I want. Offer me no money, I pray you. That kills my heart.
CLOWN	What manner of fellow was he that robbed you?
AUTOLYCUS	A fellow, sir, that I have known to go about with troll-madams. I knew him once a servant of the Prince. I cannot tell, good sir, for which of his virtues it was, but he was certainly whipped out of the court.
CLOWN	His vices, you would say. There’s no virtue whipped out of the court. They cherish it to make it stay there; and yet it will no more but abide.
AUTOLYCUS	Vices, I would say, sir. I know this man well. He hath been since an ape-bearer, then a process-server—a bailiff—then he compassed a motion of the Prodigal Son, and married a tinker’s wife within a mile where my land and living lies, and having flown over many knavish professions, he settled only in rogue. Some call him Autolycus.
CLOWN	Out upon him! Prig, for my life, prig! He haunts wakes, fairs, and bear-baitings.
AUTOLYCUS	Very true, sir. He, sir, he. That’s the rogue that put me into this apparel.
CLOWN	Not a more cowardly rogue in all Bohemia. If you had but looked big and spit at him, he’d have run.
AUTOLYCUS	I must confess to you, sir, I am no fighter. I am false of heart that way, and that he knew, I warrant him.
CLOWN	How do you now?
AUTOLYCUS	Sweet sir, much better than I was. I can stand, and walk. I will even take my leave of you, and pace softly towards my kinsman’s.
CLOWN	Shall I bring thee on the way?
AUTOLYCUS	No, good-faced sir, no, sweet sir.
CLOWN	Then fare thee well. I must go buy spices for our sheep-shearing.
AUTOLYCUS	Prosper you, sweet sir. Exit the Clown Your purse is not hot enough to purchase your spice. I’ll be with you at your sheep-shearing, too. If I make not this cheat bring out another, and the shearers prove sheep, let me be unrolled and my name put in the book of virtue. (Sings) Jog on, jog on, the footpath way, And merrily hent the stile-a. A merry heart goes all the day, Your sad tires in a mile-a.
(didascalia)	Exit

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entra Autolico cantando
AUTOLICO	Quando i narcisi cominciano a spuntare, con ehi, la ganza oltre la valle, ecco allora entrare il dolce dell’anno, ché il rosso sangue regna nel pallore dell’inverno. Il bianco lenzuolo che sbianca sulla siepe, con ehi, i dolci uccelli, oh come cantano! mi mette in filo il dente ladro, ché un boccale di birra è piatto da re. L’allodola, che tirra-lirra canta, con ehi, con ehi, il tordo e la ghiandaia, son canzoni d’estate per me e le mie comari mentre ci rotoliamo nel fieno. Ho servito il principe Florizello, e ai miei tempi portai velluto a tre peli, ma ora sono senza servizio. E dovrò io farne lutto, mia cara? La pallida luna splende di notte, e quando io vago qua e là è allora che vado più diritto. Se agli stagnini è dato di vivere, e di portare la sacca di pelle di scrofa, allora anch’io ben posso rendere il mio conto, e sostenerlo nella gogna. Il mio traffico son le lenzuola. Quando il nibbio fa il nido, guarda alla biancheria minuta. Mio padre mi chiamò Autolico, il quale essendo, come sono io, figliato sotto Mercurio, era del pari un raccoglitore di bagattelle trascurate. Con dadi e sgualdrine mi comprai questa gualdrappa, e la mia rendita è il piccolo imbroglio. Forca e mazzate son troppo potenti sulla strada maestra. Bastonature e impiccagioni sono terrori per me. Quanto alla vita futura, ne dormo via il pensiero. Una preda, una preda!
(didascalia)	Entra il Villano
CLOWN	Vediamo. Ogni undici castrati fanno un tod, ogni tod rende una sterlina e qualche scellino. Millecinquecento tosati: a quanto viene la lana?
AUTOLICO	(a parte) Se il laccio tiene, il galletto è mio.
CLOWN	Non ci riesco senza gettoni. Vediamo, che devo comprare per la nostra festa della tosatura? Tre libbre di zucchero, cinque libbre d’uva di Corinto, riso—che se ne farà di riso questa mia sorella? Ma mio padre l’ha fatta padrona della festa, e lei ci dà dentro. M’ha fatto ventiquattro mazzolini per i tosatori—cantori di canzone a tre voci, tutti quanti, e assai buoni—ma la maggior parte son mezzani e bassi, e uno solo puritano fra loro, e canta salmi su arie di zampogna. Devo avere zafferano per colorire i pasticci di pere; macis; datteri, nessuno—non è nella mia lista; noci moscate, sette; una radice o due di zenzero—ma quello posso chiederlo in dono; quattro libbre di prugne secche, e altrettante d’uva passa al sole.
AUTOLICO	(strisciando a terra) Oh, ch’io sia mai nato!
CLOWN	In nome mio!
AUTOLICO	Oh aiutatemi, aiutatemi! Toglietemi solo questi stracci, e poi morte, morte!
CLOWN	Ahimè, povera anima, hai bisogno che ti si mettano addosso più stracci, piuttosto che toglierti questi.
AUTOLICO	Oh signore, il loro ribrezzo m’offende più delle staffilate che ho ricevuto, che sono grandi e a milioni.
CLOWN	Ahimè, pover’uomo, un milione di bastonate può fare una gran somma.
AUTOLICO	Sono derubato, signore, e bastonato; il denaro e le vesti tolti di dosso, e queste cose detestabili messemi addosso.
CLOWN	Come, da un uomo a cavallo o da uno a piedi?
AUTOLICO	Da uno a piedi, dolce signore, uno a piedi.
CLOWN	Davvero, dev’essere uno a piedi, dai panni che t’ha lasciato. Se questo è il farsetto d’un cavaliere, ha visto un servizio molto caldo. Dammi la mano, ti aiuterò. Su, dammi la mano. Aiuta Autolico ad alzarsi
AUTOLICO	Oh, buon signore, con delicatezza. Ahi!
CLOWN	Ahimè, povera anima!
AUTOLICO	Oh, buon signore, piano, buon signore! Temo, signore, che la scapola mi sia uscita.
CLOWN	Ebbene? Riesci a star ritto?
AUTOLICO	Piano, caro signore. Buon signore, piano.
(didascalia)	Vuota la tasca del Villano
AUTOLICO	M’avete fatto un ufficio di carità.
CLOWN	(cercando la borsa) Ti manca del denaro? Ho un po’ di denaro per te.
AUTOLICO	No, buon dolce signore, no, vi supplico, signore. Ho un parente non più di tre quarti di miglio da qui, dal quale stavo andando. Là avrò denaro, o qualunque cosa mi occorra. Non offritemi denaro, vi prego. Questo m’accora.
CLOWN	Che sorta d’uomo era colui che vi derubò?
AUTOLICO	Un tale, signore, ch’io ho conosciuto andare in giro coi giochi di bocce da fiera. L’ho conosciuto una volta servo del Principe. Non so dire, buon signore, per quale delle sue virtù fosse, ma certamente fu frustato via dalla corte.
CLOWN	I suoi vizi, vorrete dire. Non c’è virtù che sia frustata via dalla corte. La coccolano per farla restare là; eppure non vuol far altro che sostare un poco.
AUTOLICO	Vizi, volevo dire, signore. Conosco bene quest’uomo. È stato poi portatore di scimmie, poi notificatore d’atti—un usciere—poi mise su uno spettacolo di burattini del Figliuol Prodigo, e sposò la moglie d’uno stagnino a un miglio da dove stanno la mia terra e i miei beni, e dopo aver svolazzato per molte professioni furfantesche, s’è stabilito soltanto in quella di birbante. Alcuni lo chiamano Autolico.
CLOWN	Accidenti a lui! Un ladro, sulla mia vita, un ladro! Frequenta sagre, fiere e combattimenti d’orsi.
AUTOLICO	Verissimo, signore. Lui, signore, proprio lui. È quel birbante che m’ha messo in questi panni.
CLOWN	Non c’è birbante più codardo in tutta la Boemia. Se solo aveste fatto la faccia grossa e gli aveste sputato addosso, sarebbe scappato.
AUTOLICO	Devo confessarvi, signore, che non sono un combattente. Sono falso di cuore da quel lato, e questo lui lo sapeva, ve lo garantisco.
CLOWN	Come state ora?
AUTOLICO	Dolce signore, assai meglio di prima. Posso stare ritto e camminare. Prenderò senz’altro congedo da voi, e andrò pian piano verso la casa del mio parente.
CLOWN	Vuoi che ti accompagni per la strada?
AUTOLICO	No, signore dal buon viso, no, dolce signore.
CLOWN	Allora stammi bene. Devo andare a comprare le spezie per la nostra tosatura.
AUTOLICO	Prosperate, dolce signore. Esce il Villano La vostra borsa non è abbastanza calda per comprare le vostre spezie. Sarò con voi anche alla vostra tosatura. Se non faccio sì che questo imbroglio ne partorisca un altro, e che i tosatori si mostrino pecore, che io sia cancellato dai ruoli e il mio nome messo nel libro della virtù. (Canta) Trotta, trotta, per il sentiero, e allegramente scavalca la staccionata. Un cuore allegro cammina tutto il giorno, il tuo, se è triste, si stanca in un miglio.
(didascalia)	Esce

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Florizel dressed as Doricles a countryman, and Perdita as Queen of the Feast
FLORIZEL	These your unusual weeds to each part of you Does give a life; no shepherdess, but Flora Peering in April’s front. This your sheep-shearing Is as a meeting of the petty gods, And you the queen on’t.
PERDITA	Sir, my gracious lord, To chide at your extremes it not becomes me— O, pardon that I name them! Your high self, The gracious mark o’th’ land, you have obscured With a swain’s wearing, and me, poor lowly maid, Most goddess-like pranked up. But that our feasts In every mess have folly, and the feeders Digest it with a custom, I should blush To see you so attired; swoon, I think, To show myself a glass.
FLORIZEL	I bless the time When my good falcon made her flight across Thy father’s ground.
PERDITA	Now Jove afford you cause! To me the difference forges dread; your greatness Hath not been used to fear. Even now I tremble To think your father by some accident Should pass this way, as you did. O, the fates! How would he look to see his work, so noble, Vilely bound up? What would he say? Or how Should I, in these my borrowed flaunts, behold The sternness of his presence?
FLORIZEL	Apprehend Nothing but jollity. The gods themselves, Humbling their deities to love, have taken The shapes of beasts upon them. Jupiter Became a bull, and bellowed; the green Neptune A ram, and bleated; and the fire-robed god, Golden Apollo, a poor humble swain, As I seem now. Their transformations Were never for a piece of beauty rarer, Nor in a way so chaste, since my desires Run not before mine honour, nor my lusts Burn hotter than my faith.
PERDITA	O, but sir, Your resolution cannot hold when ’tis Opposed, as it must be, by th’ power of the King. One of these two must be necessities, Which then will speak that you must change this purpose, Or I my life.
FLORIZEL	Thou dearest Perdita, With these forced thoughts I prithee darken not The mirth o’th’ feast. Or I’ll be thine, my fair, Or not my father’s. For I cannot be Mine own, nor anything to any, if I be not thine. To this I am most constant, Though destiny say no. Be merry, gentle; Strangle such thoughts as these with anything That you behold the while. Your guests are coming. Lift up your countenance as it were the day Of celebration of that nuptial which We two have sworn shall come.
PERDITA	O Lady Fortune, Stand you auspicious!
FLORIZEL	See, your guests approach. Address yourself to entertain them sprightly, And let’s be red with mirth.
(didascalia)	Enter the Old Shepherd, with Polixenes and Camillo,
FLORIZEL	disguised, the Clown, Mopsa, Dorcas, and others
OLD SHEPHERD	(to Perdita) Fie, daughter, when my old wife lived, upon This day she was both pantler, butler, cook, Both dame and servant, welcomed all, served all, Would sing her song and dance her turn, now here At upper end o‘th’ table, now i’th’ middle, On his shoulder, and his, her face afire With labour, and the thing she took to quench it She would to each one sip. You are retired As if you were a feasted one and not The hostess of the meeting. Pray you bid These unknown friends to’s welcome, for it is A way to make us better friends, more known. Come, quench your blushes, and present yourself That which you are, mistress o’th’ feast. Come on, And bid us welcome to your sheep-shearing, As your good flock shall prosper.
PERDITA	(to Polixenes) Sir, welcome. It is my father’s will I should take on me The hostess-ship o’th’ day. (To Camillo) You’re welcome, sir. Give me those flowers there, Dorcas. Reverend sirs, For you there’s rosemary and rue. These keep Seeming and savour all the winter long. Grace and remembrance be to you both, And welcome to our shearing.
POLIXENES	Shepherdess, A fair one are you. Well you fit our ages With flowers of winter.
PERDITA	Sir, the year growing ancient, Not yet on summer’s death, nor on the birth Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o’th’ season Are our carnations and streaked gillyvors, Which some call nature’s bastards. Of that kind Our rustic garden’s barren, and I care not To get slips of them.
POLIXENES	Wherefore, gentle maiden, Do you neglect them?
PERDITA	For I have heard it said There is an art which in their piedness shares With great creating nature.
POLIXENES	Say there be, Yet nature is made better by no mean But nature makes that mean. So over that art Which you say adds to nature is an art That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry A gentler scion to the wildest stock, And make conceive a bark of baser kind By bud of nobler race. This is an art Which does mend nature—change it rather; but The art itself is nature.
PERDITA	So it is.
POLIXENES	Then make your garden rich in gillyvors, And do not call them bastards.
PERDITA	I’ll not put The dibble in earth to set one slip of them, No more than, were I painted, I would wish This youth should say ‘twere well, and only therefore Desire to breed by me. Here’s flowers for you: Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram, The marigold, that goes to bed wi’th’ sun, And with him rises, weeping. These are flowers Of middle summer, and I think they are given To men of middle age. You’re very welcome. She gives them flowers
CAMILLO	I should leave grazing were I of your flock, And only live by gazing.
PERDITA	Out, alas, You’d be so lean that blasts of January Would blow you through and through. (To Florizel) Now, my fair‘st friend, I would I had some flowers o’th’ spring that might Become your time of day; (to Mopsa and Dorcas) and yours, and yours, That wear upon your virgin branches yet Your maidenheads growing. O Proserpina, For the flowers now that, frighted, thou letst fall From Dis’s wagon!-daffodils, That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty; violets, dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes Or Cytherea’s breath; pale primroses, That die unmarried ere they can behold Bright Phoebus in his strength—a malady Most incident to maids; bold oxlips, and The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds, The flower-de-luce being one. O, these I lack, To make you garlands of, and my sweet friend, To strew him o‘er and o’er.
FLORIZEL	What, like a corpse?
PERDITA	No, like a bank, for love to lie and play on, Not like a corpse—or if, not to be buried, But quick and in mine arms. Come, take your flowers. Methinks I play as I have seen them do In Whitsun pastorals. Sure this robe of mine Does change my disposition.
FLORIZEL	What you do Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet, I’d have you do it ever; when you sing, I’d have you buy and sell so, so give alms, Pray so; and for the ord‘ring your affairs, To sing them too. When you do dance, I wish you A wave o’th’ sea, that you might ever do Nothing but that, move still, still so, And own no other function. Each your doing, So singular in each particular, Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds, That all your acts are queens.
PERDITA	O Doricles, Your praises are too large. But that your youth And the true blood which peeps so fairly through’t Do plainly give you out an unstained shepherd, With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles, You wooed me the false way.
FLORIZEL	I think you have As little skill to fear as I have purpose To put you to’t. But come, our dance, I pray; Your hand, my Perdita. So turtles pair, That never mean to part.
PERDITA	I’ll swear for ’em.
POLIXENES	(to Camillo) This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever Ran on the greensward. Nothing she does or seems But smacks of something greater than herself, Too noble for this place.
CAMILLO	He tells her something That makes her blood look out. Good sooth, she is The queen of curds and cream.
CLOWN	Come on, strike up!
DORCAS	Mopsa must be your mistress. Marry, garlic to mend her kissing with!
MOPSA	Now, in good time!
CLOWN	Not a word, a word, we stand upon our manners. Come, strike up!
(didascalia)	Music. Here a dance of shepherds and shepherdesses
POLIXENES	Pray, good shepherd, what fair swain is this Which dances with your daughter?
OLD SHEPHERD	They call him Doricles, and boasts himself To have a worthy feeding; but I have it Upon his own report, and I believe it. He looks like sooth. He says he loves my daughter. I think so, too, for never gazed the moon Upon the water as he’ll stand and read, As ’twere, my daughter’s eyes; and to be plain, I think there is not half a kiss to choose Who loves another best.
POLIXENES	She dances featly.
OLD SHEPHERD	So she does anything, though I report it That should be silent. If young Doricles Do light upon her, she shall bring him that Which he not dreams of.
(didascalia)	Enter a Servant
SERVANT	O, master, if you did but hear the pedlar at the door, you would never dance again after a tabor and pipe. No, the bagpipe could not move you. He sings several tunes faster than you’ll tell money. He utters them as he had eaten ballads, and all men’s ears grew to his tunes.
CLOWN	He could never come better. He shall come in. I love a ballad but even too well, if it be doleful matter merrily set down, or a very pleasant thing indeed, and sung lamentably.
SERVANT	He hath songs for man or woman, of all sizes. No milliner can so fit his customers with gloves. He has the prettiest love songs for maids, so without bawdry, which is strange, with such delicate burdens of dildos and fadings, ‘Jump her, and thump her’; and where some stretch-mouthed rascal would, as it were, mean mischief and break a foul gap into the matter, he makes the maid to answer, ‘Whoop, do me no harm, good man’; puts him off, slights him, with ‘Whoop, do me no harm, good man!’
POLIXENES	This is a brave fellow.
CLOWN	Believe me, thou talkest of an admirable conceited fellow. Has he any unbraided wares?
SERVANT	He hath ribbons of all the colours i‘th’ rainbow; points more than all the lawyers in Bohemia can learnedly handle, though they come to him by th’ gross; inkles, caddises, cambrics, lawns—why, he sings ’em over as they were gods or goddesses. You would think a smock were a she-angel, he so chants to the sleeve-hand and the work about the square on’t.
CLOWN	Prithee bring him in, and let him approach singing.
PERDITA	Forewarn him that he use no scurrilous words in’s tunes.
(didascalia)	Exit Servant
CLOWN	You have of these pedlars that have more in them than you’d think, sister.
PERDITA	Ay, good brother, or go about to think.
(didascalia)	Enter Autolycus, wearing a false beard, carrying his pack, and singing
AUTOLYCUS	Lawn as white as driven snow, Cypress black as e’er was crow, Gloves as sweet as damask roses, Masks for faces, and for noses; Bugle-bracelet, necklace amber, Perfume for a lady’s chamber; Golden coifs, and stomachers For my lads to give their dears; Pins and poking-sticks of steel, What maids lack from head to heel Come buy of me, come, come buy, come buy, Buy, lads, or else your lasses cry. Come buy!
CLOWN	If I were not in love with Mopsa thou shouldst take no money of me, but being enthralled as I am, it will also be the bondage of certain ribbons and gloves.
MOPSA	I was promised them against the feast, but they come not too late now.
DORCAS	He hath promised you more than that, or there be liars.
MOPSA	He hath paid you all he promised you. Maybe he has paid you more, which will shame you to give him again.
CLOWN	Is there no manners left among maids? Will they wear their plackets where they should bear their faces? Is there not milking-time, when you are going to bed, or kiln-hole, to whistle of these secrets, but you must be tittle-tattling before all our guests? ’Tis well they are whispering. Clammer your tongues, and not a word more.
MOPSA	I have done. Come, you promised me a tawdry-lace and a pair of sweet gloves.
CLOWN	Have I not told thee how I was cozened by the way, and lost all my money?
AUTOLYCUS	And indeed, sir, there are cozeners abroad, therefore it behoves men to be wary.
CLOWN	Fear not thou, man, thou shalt lose nothing here.
AUTOLYCUS	I hope so, sir, for I have about me many parcels of charge.
CLOWN	What hast here? Ballads?
MOPSA	Pray now, buy some. I love a ballad in print, alife, for then we are sure they are true.
AUTOLYCUS	Here’s one to a very doleful tune, how a usurer’s wife was brought to bed of twenty money-bags at a burden, and how she longed to eat adders’ heads and toads carbonadoed.
MOPSA	Is it true, think you?
AUTOLYCUS	Very true, and but a month old.
DORCAS	Bless me from marrying a usurer!
AUTOLYCUS	Here’s the midwife’s name to’t, one Mistress Tail-Porter, and five or six honest wives’ that were present. Why should I carry lies abroad?
MOPSA	(to Clown) Pray you now, buy it.
CLOWN	Come on, lay it by, and let’s first see more ballads. We’ll buy the other things anon.
AUTOLYCUS	Here’s another ballad, of a fish that appeared upon the coast on Wednesday the fourscore of April, forty thousand fathom above water, and sung this ballad against the hard hearts of maids. It was thought she was a woman, and was turned into a cold fish for she would not exchange flesh with one that loved her. The ballad is very pitiful, and as true.
DORCAS	Is it true too, think you?
AUTOLYCUS	Five justices’ hands at it, and witnesses more than my pack will hold.
CLOWN	Lay it by, too. Another.
AUTOLYCUS	This is a merry ballad, but a very pretty one. MOPSA Let’s have some merry ones.
AUTOLYCUS	Why, this is a passing merry one, and goes to the tune of ‘Two Maids Wooing a Man’. There’s scarce a maid westward but she sings it. ’Tis in request, I can tell you.
MOPSA	We can both sing it. If thou‘lt bear a part thou shalt hear; ’tis in three parts.
DORCAS	We had the tune on’t a month ago.
AUTOLYCUS	I can bear my part, you must know, ’tis my occupation. Have at it with you.
CLOWN	We’ll have this song out anon by ourselves. My father and the gentlemen are in sad talk, and we’ll not trouble them. Come, bring away thy pack after me. Wenches, I’ll buy for you both. Pedlar, let’s have the first choice. Follow me, girls.
(didascalia)	Exit with Dorcas and Mopsa
AUTOLYCUS	And you shall pay well for ’em.
(didascalia)	Enter Servant
SERVANT	Master, there is three carters, three shepherds, three neatherds, three swineherds that have made themselves all men of hair. They call themselves saultiers, and they have a dance which the wenches say is a gallimaufry of gambols, because they are not in’t. But they themselves are o’th’ mind, if it be not too rough for some that know little but bowling, it will please plentifully.
OLD SHEPHERD	Away. We’ll none on’t. Here has been too much homely foolery already. (To Polixenes) I know, sir, we weary you.
POLIXENES	You weary those that refresh us. Pray, let’s see these four threes of herdsmen.
SERVANT	One three of them, by their own report, sir, hath danced before the King, and not the worst of the three but jumps twelve foot and a half by th’ square.
OLD SHEPHERD	Leave your prating. Since these good men are pleased, let them come in—but quickly, now.
SERVANT	Why, they stay at door, sir. Here a dance of twelve satyrs
POLIXENES	(to the Old Shepherd) O, father, you’ll know more of that hereafter. (To Camillo) Is it not too far gone? ’Tis time to part them. He’s simple, and tells much. (To Florizel) How now, fair shepherd, Your heart is full of something that does take Your mind from feasting. Sooth, when I was young And handed love as you do, I was wont To load my she with knacks. I would have ransacked The pedlar’s silken treasury, and have poured it To her acceptance. You have let him go, And nothing marted with him. If your lass Interpretation should abuse, and call this Your lack of love or bounty, you were straited For a reply, at least if you make a care Of happy holding her.
FLORIZEL	Old sir, I know She prizes not such trifles as these are. The gifts she looks from me are packed and locked Up in my heart, which I have given already, But not delivered. (To Perdita) O, hear me breathe my life Before this ancient sir, who, it should seem, Hath sometime loved. I take thy hand, this hand As soft as dove’s down, and as white as it, Or Ethiopian’s tooth, or the fanned snow that’s bolted By th’ northern blasts twice o’er.
POLIXENES	What follows this? How prettily the young swain seems to wash The hand was fair before! I have put you out. But to your protestation. Let me hear What you profess.
FLORIZEL	Do, and be witness to’t.
POLIXENES	And this my neighbour too?
FLORIZEL	And he, and more Than he; and men, the earth, the heavens, and all, That were I crowned the most imperial monarch, Thereof most worthy, were I the fairest youth That ever made eye swerve, had force and knowledge More than was ever man’s, I would not prize them Without her love; for her employ them all, Commend them and condemn them to her service Or to their own perdition.
POLIXENES	Fairly offered.
CAMILLO	This shows a sound affection.
OLD SHEPHERD	But, my daughter, Say you the like to him?
PERDITA	I cannot speak So well, nothing so well, no, nor mean better. By th’ pattern of mine own thoughts I cut out The purity of his.
OLD SHEPHERD	Take hands, a bargain; And, friends unknown, you shall bear witness to’t. I give my daughter to him, and will make Her portion equal his.
FLORIZEL	O, that must be I’th’ virtue of your daughter. One being dead, I shall have more than you can dream of yet, Enough then for your wonder. But come on, Contract us fore these witnesses.
OLD SHEPHERD	Come, your hand; And, daughter, yours.
POLIXENES	Soft, swain, a while, beseech you. Have you a father?
FLORIZEL	I have. But what of him?
POLIXENES	Knows he of this?
FLORIZEL	He neither does nor shall.
POLIXENES	Methinks a father Is at the nuptial of his son a guest That best becomes the table. Pray you once more, Is not your father grown incapable Of reasonable affairs? Is he not stupid With age and alt’ring rheums? Can he speak, hear, Know man from man? Dispute his own estate? Lies he not bed-rid, and again does nothing But what he did being childish?
FLORIZEL	No, good sir. He has his health, and ampler strength indeed Than most have of his age.
POLIXENES	By my white beard, You offer him, if this be so, a wrong Something unfilial. Reason my son Should choose himself a wife, but as good reason The father, all whose joy is nothing else But fair posterity, should hold some counsel In such a business.
FLORIZEL	I yield all this; But for some other reasons, my grave sir, Which ’tis not fit you know, I not acquaint My father of this business.
POLIXENES	Let him know’t.
FLORIZEL	He shall not.
POLIXENES	Prithee let him.
FLORIZEL	No, he must not.
OLD SHEPHERD	Let him, my son. He shall not need to grieve At knowing of thy choice.
FLORIZEL	Come, come, he must not. Mark our contract.
POLIXENES	(removing his disguise) Mark your divorce, young sir, Whom son I dare not call. Thou art too base To be acknowledged. Thou a sceptre’s heir, That thus affects a sheep-hook? (To the Old Shepherd) Thou, old traitor, I am sorry that by hanging thee I can but Shorten thy life one week. (To Perdita) And thou, fresh piece Of excellent witchcraft, who of force must know The royal fool thou cop’st with—
OLD SHEPHERD	O, my heart!
POLIXENES	I’ll have thy beauty scratched with briers and made More homely than thy state. (To Florizel) For thee, fond boy, If I may ever know thou dost but sigh That thou no more shalt see this knack, as never I mean thou shalt, we’ll bar thee from succession, Not hold thee of our blood, no, not our kin, Farre than Deucalion off. Mark thou my words. Follow us to the court. (To the Old Shepherd) Thou churl, for this time, Though full of our displeasure, yet we free thee From the dead blow of it. (To Perdita) And you, enchantment, Worthy enough a herdsman—yea, him too, That makes himself, but for our honour therein, Unworthy thee—if ever henceforth thou These rural latches to his entrance open, Or hoop his body more with thy embraces, I will devise a death as cruel for thee As thou art tender to’t.
(didascalia)	Exit
PERDITA	Even here undone. I was not much afeard, for once or twice I was about to speak, and tell him plainly The selfsame sun that shines upon his court Hides not his visage from our cottage, but Looks on alike. Will’t please you, sir, be gone? I told you what would come of this. Beseech you, Of your own state take care. This dream of mine Being now awake, I’ll queen it no inch farther, But milk my ewes and weep.
CAMILLO	(to the Old Shepherd) Why, how now, father? Speak ere thou diest.
OLD SHEPHERD	I cannot speak, nor think, Nor dare to know that which I know. (To Florizel) O sir, You have undone a man of fourscore-three, That thought to fill his grave in quiet, yea, To die upon the bed my father died, To lie close by his honest bones. But now Some hangman must put on my shroud, and lay me Where no priest shovels in dust. (To Perdita) O cursed wretch, That knew’st this was the Prince, and wouldst adventure To mingle faith with him. Undone, undone! If I might die within this hour, I have lived To die when I desire. Exit
FLORIZEL	(to Perdita) Why look you so upon me? I am but sorry, not afeard; delayed, But nothing altered. What I was, I am, More straining on for plucking back, not following My leash unwillingly.
CAMILLO	Gracious my lord, You know your father’s temper. At this time He will allow no speech—which I do guess You do not purpose to him; and as hardly Will he endure your sight as yet, I fear. Then till the fury of his highness settle, Come not before him.
FLORIZEL	I not purpose it. I think, Camillo?
CAMILLO	Even he, my lord.
PERDITA	(to Florizel) How often have I told you ‘twould be thus? How often said my dignity would last But till ’twere known?
FLORIZEL	It cannot fail but by The violation of my faith, and then Let nature crush the sides o’th’ earth together And mar the seeds within. Lift up thy looks. From my succession wipe me, father! I Am heir to my affection.
CAMILLO	Be advised.
FLORIZEL	I am, and by my fancy. If my reason Will thereto be obedient, I have reason. If not, my senses, better pleased with madness, Do bid it welcome.
CAMILLO	This is desperate, sir.
FLORIZEL	So call it. But it does fulfil my vow. I needs must think it honesty. Camillo, Not for Bohemia, nor the pomp that may Be thereat gleaned; for all the sun sees, or The close earth wombs, or the profound seas hides In unknown fathoms, will I break my oath To this my fair beloved. Therefore, I pray you, As you have ever been my father’s honoured friend, When he shall miss me—as, in faith, I mean not To see him any more—cast your good counsels Upon his passion. Let myself and fortune Tug for the time to come. This you may know, And so deliver: I am put to sea With her who here I cannot hold on shore; And most opportune to her need, I have A vessel rides fast by, but not prepared For this design. What course I mean to hold Shall nothing benefit your knowledge, nor Concern me the reporting.
CAMILLO	O my lord, I would your spirit were easier for advice, Or stronger for your need.
FLORIZEL	Hark, Perdita— (To Camillo) I’ll hear you by and by.
CAMILLO	(aside) He’s irremovable, Resolved for flight. Now were I happy if His going I could frame to serve my turn, Save him from danger, do him love and honour, Purchase the sight again of dear Sicilia And that unhappy king, my master, whom I so much thirst to see.
FLORIZEL	Now, good Camillo, I am so fraught with curious business that I leave out ceremony.
CAMILLO	Sir, I think You have heard of my poor services i’th’ love That I have borne your father?
FLORIZEL	Very nobly Have you deserved. It is my father’s music To speak your deeds, not little of his care To have them recompensed as thought on.
CAMILLO	Well, my lord, If you may please to think I love the King, And through him what’s nearest to him, which is Your gracious self, embrace but my direction, If your more ponderous and settled project May suffer alteration. On mine honour, I’ll point you where you shall have such receiving As shall become your highness, where you may Enjoy your mistress—from the whom I see There’s no disjunction to be made but by, As heavens forfend, your ruin—marry her, And with my best endeavours in your absence Your discontenting father strive to qualify And bring him up to liking.
FLORIZEL	How, Camillo, May this, almost a miracle, be done?— That I may call thee something more than man, And after that trust to thee.
CAMILLO	Have you thought on A place whereto you’ll go?
FLORIZEL	Not any yet. But as th’unthought-on accident is guilty To what we wildly do, so we profess Ourselves to be the slaves of chance, and flies Of every wind that blows.
CAMILLO	Then list to me. This follows, if you will not change your purpose But undergo this flight: make for Sicilia, And there present yourself and your fair princess, For so I see she must be, fore Leontes. She shall be habited as it becomes The partner of your bed. Methinks I see Leontes opening his free arms and weeping His welcomes forth; asks thee there ‘Son, forgiveness!’ As ‘twere i’th’ father’s person, kisses the hands Of your fresh princess; o‘er and o’er divides him ‘Twixt his unkindness and his kindness. Th’one He chides to hell, and bids the other grow Faster than thought or time.
FLORIZEL	Worthy Camillo, What colour for my visitation shall I Hold up before him?
CAMILLO	Sent by the King your father To greet him, and to give him comforts. Sir, The manner of your bearing towards him, with What you, as from your father, shall deliver— Things known betwixt us three—I’ll write you down, The which shall point you forth at every sitting What you must say, that he shall not perceive But that you have your father’s bosom there, And speak his very heart.
FLORIZEL	I am bound to you. There is some sap in this.
CAMILLO	A course more promising Than a wild dedication of yourselves To unpathed waters, undreamed shores; most certain, To miseries enough—no hope to help you, But as you shake off one, to take another; Nothing so certain as your anchors, who Do their best office if they can but stay you Where you’ll be loath to be. Besides, you know, Prosperity’s the very bond of love, Whose fresh complexion and whose heart together Affliction alters.
PERDITA	One of these is true. I think affliction may subdue the cheek But not take in the mind.
CAMILLO	Yea, say you so? There shall not at your father’s house these seven years Be born another such.
FLORIZEL	My good Camillo, She’s as forward of her breeding as She is i’th’ rear our birth.
CAMILLO	I cannot say ’tis pity She lacks instructions, for she seems a mistress To most that teach.
PERDITA	Your pardon, sir. For this I’ll blush you thanks.
FLORIZEL	My prettiest Perdita! But O, the thorns we stand upon! Camillo, Preserver of my father, now of me, The medicine of our house, how shall we do? We are not furnished like Bohemia’s son, Nor shall appear so in Sicilia.
CAMILLO	My lord, Fear none of this. I think you know my fortunes Do all lie there. It shall be so my care To have you royally appointed as if The scene you play were mine. For instance, sir, That you may know you shall not want—one word. They speak apart.
(didascalia)	Enter Autolycus
AUTOLYCUS	Ha, ha! What a fool honesty is, and trust—his sworn brother—a very simple gentleman! I have sold all my trumpery; not a counterfeit stone, not a ribbon, glass, pomander, brooch, table-book, ballad, knife, tape, glove, shoe-tie, bracelet, horn-ring to keep my pack from fasting. They throng who should buy first, as if my trinkets had been hallowed, and brought a benediction to the buyer; by which means I saw whose purse was best in picture; and what I saw, to my good use I remembered. My clown, who wants but something to be a reasonable man, grew so in love with the wenches’ song that he would not stir his pettitoes till he had both tune and words, which so drew the rest of the herd to me that all their other senses stuck in ears. You might have pinched a placket, it was senseless. ’Twas nothing to geld a codpiece of a purse. I could have filed keys off that hung in chains. No hearing, no feeling but my sir’s song, and admiring the nothing of it. So that in this time of lethargy I picked and cut most of their festival purses, and had not the old man come in with a hubbub against his daughter and the King’s son, and scared my choughs from the chaff, I had not left a purse alive in the whole army. Camillo, Florizel, and Perdita come forward
CAMILLO	Nay, but my letters by this means being there So soon as you arrive shall clear that doubt.
FLORIZEL	And those that you’ll procure from King Leontes—
CAMILLO	Shall satisfy your father.
PERDITA	Happy be you! All that you speak shows fair.
CAMILLO	(seeing Autolycus) Who have we here? We’ll make an instrument of this, omit Nothing may give us aid.
AUTOLYCUS	(aside) If they have overheard me now—why, hanging!
CAMILLO	How now, good fellow? Why shakest thou so? Fear not, man. Here’s no harm intended to thee.
AUTOLYCUS	I am a poor fellow, sir.
CAMILLO	Why, be so still. Here’s nobody will steal that from thee. Yet for the outside of thy poverty, we must make an exchange. Therefore discase thee instantty—thou must think there’s a necessity in’t-and change garments with this gentleman. Though the pennyworth on his side be the worst, yet hold thee, (giving him money) there’s some boot.
AUTOLYCUS	I am a poor fellow, sir. (Aside) I know ye well enough.
CAMILLO	Nay prithee, dispatch—the gentleman is half flayed already.
AUTOLYCUS	Are you in earnest, sir? (Aside) I smell the trick on’t.
FLORIZEL	Dispatch, I prithee.
AUTOLYCUS	Indeed, I have had earnest, but I cannot with conscience take it.
CAMILLO	Unbuckle, unbuckle. Florizel and Autolycus exchange clothes (To Perdita) Fortunate mistress—let my prophecy Come home to ye!—you must retire yourself Into some covert, take your sweetheart’s hat And pluck it o’er your brows, muffle your face, Dismantle you, and, as you can, disliken The truth of your own seeming, that you may— For I do fear eyes—over to shipboard Get undescried.
PERDITA	I see the play so lies That I must bear a part.
CAMILLO	No remedy. (To Florizel) Have you done there?
FLORIZEL	Should I now meet my father He would not call me son.
CAMILLO	Nay, you shall have no hat. He gives the hat to Perdita Come, lady, come. Farewell, my friend.
AUTOLYCUS	Adieu, sir.
FLORIZEL	O Perdita, what have we twain forgot! Pray you, a word. They speak aside
CAMILLO	(aside) What I do next shall be to tell the King Of this escape, and whither they are bound; Wherein my hope is I shall so prevail To force him after, in whose company I shall re-view Sicilia, for whose sight I have a woman’s longing.
FLORIZEL	Fortune speed us! Thus we set on, Camillo, to th’ seaside.
CAMILLO	The swifter speed the better.
(didascalia)	Exeunt Florizel, Perdita, and Camillo
AUTOLYCUS	I understand the business, I hear it. To have an open ear, a quick eye, and a nimble hand is necessary for a cutpurse. A good nose is requisite also, to smell out work for th’other senses. I see this is the time that the unjust man doth thrive. What an exchange had this been without boot! What a boot is here with this exchange! Sure the gods do this year connive at us, and we may do anything extempore. The Prince himself is about a piece of iniquity, stealing away from his father with his clog at his heels. If I thought it were a piece of honesty to acquaint the King withal, I would not do’t. I hold it the more knavery to conceal it, and therein am I constant to my profession.
(didascalia)	Enter the Clown and the Old Shepherd, carrying a fardel and a box
(didascalia)	Aside, aside! Here is more matter for a hot brain. Every lane’s end, every shop, church, session, hanging, yields a careful man work.
CLOWN	See, see, what a man you are now! There is no other way but to tell the King she’s a changeling, and none of your flesh and blood.
OLD SHEPHERD	Nay, but hear me.
CLOWN	Nay, but hear me.
OLD SHEPHERD	Go to, then.
CLOWN	She being none of your flesh and blood, your flesh and blood has not offended the King, and so your flesh and blood is not to be punished by him. Show those things you found about her, those secret things, all but what she has with her. This being done, let the law go whistle, I warrant you.
OLD SHEPHERD	I will tell the King all, every word, yea, and his son’s pranks, too, who, I may say, is no honest man, neither to his father nor to me, to go about to make me the King’s brother-in-law.
CLOWN	Indeed, brother-in-law was the farthest off you could have been to him, and then your blood had been the dearer by I know not how much an ounce. AUTOLYCUS (aside) Very wisely, puppies.
OLD SHEPHERD	Well, let us to the King. There is that in this fardel will make him scratch his beard.
AUTOLYCUS	(aside) I know not what impediment this complaint may be to the flight of my master.
CLOWN	Pray heartily he be at’ palace.
AUTOLYCUS	(aside) Though I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes by chance. Let me pocket up my pedlar’s excrement. He removes his false beard —How now, rustics, whither are you bound?
OLD SHEPHERD	To th’ palace, an it like your worship.
AUTOLYCUS	Your affairs there? What? With whom? The condition of that fardel? The place of your dwelling? Your names? Your ages? Of what having, breeding, and anything that is fitting to be known, discover.
CLOWN	We are but plain fellows, sir.
AUTOLYCUS	A lie, you are rough and hairy. Let me have no lying. It becomes none but tradesmen, and they often give us soldiers the lie, but we pay them for it with stamped coin, not stabbing steel, therefore they do not give us the lie.
CLOWN	Your worship had like to have given us one if you had not taken yourself with the manner.
OLD SHEPHERD	Are you a courtier, an’t like you, sir?
AUTOLYCUS	Whether it like me or no, I am a courtier. Seest thou not the air of the court in these enfoldings? Hath not my gait in it the measure of the court? Receives not thy nose court-odour from me? Reflect I not on thy baseness court-contempt? Thinkest thou, for that I insinuate to toze from thee thy business, I am therefore no courtier? I am courtier cap-à-pie, and one that will either push on or pluck back thy business there. Whereupon I command thee to open thy affair.
OLD SHEPHERD	My business, sir, is to the King.
AUTOLYCUS	What advocate hast thou to him?
OLD SHEPHERD	I know not, an’t like you.
CLOWN	(aside to the Old Shepherd) ’Advocate’ ’s the court word for a pheasant. Say you have none.
OLD SHEPHERD	None, sir. I have no pheasant, cock nor hen.
AUTOLYCUS	(aside) How blessed are we that are not simple men! Yet nature might have made me as these are, Therefore I will not disdain.
CLOWN	This cannot be but a great courtier.
OLD SHEPHERD	His garments are rich, but he wears them not handsomely.
CLOWN	He seems to be the more noble in being fantastical. A great man, I’ll warrant. I know by the picking on’s teeth.
AUTOLYCUS	The fardel there, what’s i’th’ fardel? Wherefore that box?
OLD SHEPHERD	Sir, there lies such secrets in this fardel and box which none must know but the King, and which he shall know within this hour, if I may come to th’ speech of him.
AUTOLYCUS	Age, thou hast lost thy labour. OLD SHEPHERD Why, sir?
AUTOLYCUS	The King is not at the palace, he is gone aboard a new ship to purge melancholy and air himself; for if thou beest capable of things serious, thou must know the King is full of grief.
OLD SHEPHERD	So ’tis said, sir; about his son, that should have married a shepherd’s daughter.
AUTOLYCUS	If that shepherd be not in handfast, let him fly. The curses he shall have, the tortures he shall feel, will break the back of man, the heart of monster.
CLOWN	Think you so, sir?
AUTOLYCUS	Not he alone shall suffer what wit can make heavy and vengeance bitter, but those that are germane to him, though removed fifty times, shall all come under the hangman, which, though it be great pity, yet it is necessary. An old sheep-whistling rogue, a ram-tender, to offer to have his daughter come into grace! Some say he shall be stoned; but that death is too soft for him, say I. Draw our throne into a sheepcote? All deaths are too few, the sharpest too easy.
CLOWN	Has the old man e’er a son, sir, do you hear, an’t like you, sir?
AUTOLYCUS	He has a son, who shall be flayed alive, then ’nointed over with honey, set on the head of a wasps’ nest, then stand till he be three-quarters-and-a-dram dead, then recovered again with aqua-vitae, or some other hot infusion, then, raw as he is, and in the hottest day prognostication proclaims, shall he be set against a brick wall, the sun looking with a southward eye upon him, where he is to behold him with flies blown to death. But what talk we of these traitorly rascals, whose miseries are to be smiled at, their offences being so capital? Tell me, for you seem to be honest plain men, what you have to the King. Being something gently considered, I’ll bring you where he is aboard, tender your persons to his presence, whisper him in your behalfs, and if it be in man, besides the King, to effect your suits, here is man shall do it.
CLOWN	(to the Old Shepherd) He seems to be of great authority. Close with him, give him gold; and though authority be a stubborn bear, yet he is oft led by the nose with gold. Show the inside of your purse to the outside of his hand, and no more ado. Remember—‘stoned’, and ‘flayed alive’.
OLD SHEPHERD	An’t please you, sir, to undertake the business for us, here is that gold I have. I’ll make it as much more, and leave this young man in pawn till I bring it you.
AUTOLYCUS	After I have done what I promised?
OLD SHEPHERD	Ay, sir.
AUTOLYCUS	Well, give me the moiety. (To the Clown) Are you a party in this business?
CLOWN	In some sort, sir. But though my case be a pitiful one, I hope I shall not be flayed out of it.
AUTOLYCUS	O, that’s the case of the shepherd’s son. Hang him, he’ll be made an example.
CLOWN	(to the Old Shepherd) Comfort, good comfort. We must to the King, and show our strange sights. He must know ’tis none of your daughter, nor my sister. We are gone else. (To Autolycus) Sir, I will give you as much as this old man does when the business is performed, and remain, as he says, your pawn till it be brought you.
AUTOLYCUS	I will trust you. Walk before toward the seaside. Go on the right hand. I will but look upon the hedge, and follow you.
CLOWN	(to the Old Shepherd) We are blessed in this man, as I may say, even blessed.
OLD SHEPHERD	Let’s before, as he bids us. He was provided to do us good. Exit with the Clown
AUTOLYCUS	If I had a mind to be honest, I see fortune would not suffer me. She drops booties in my mouth. I am courted now with a double occasion: gold, and a means to do the Prince my master good, which who knows how that may turn back to my advancement? I will bring these two moles, these blind ones, aboard him. If he think it fit to shore them again, and that the complaint they have to the King concerns him nothing, let him call me rogue for being so far officious, for I am proof against that title, and what shame else belongs to’t. To him will I present them. There may be matter in it.
(didascalia)	Exit

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entra Florizello vestito da Doricle, un contadino, e Perdita come Regina della Festa
FLORIZELLO	Queste tue vesti insolite a ogni parte di te danno una vita; non pastorella, ma Flora che appare in fronte ad aprile. Questa tua tosatura è come un convegno degli dèi minori, e tu ne sei la regina.
PERDITA	Signore, mio grazioso signore, rimproverare i vostri eccessi non mi si addice— oh, perdonate che io li nomini! Il vostro alto sé, l’insegna graziosa del paese, l’avete oscurato con l’abito d’un bifolco, e me, povera umile fanciulla, agghindata come una dea. Se non fosse che le nostre feste in ogni portata hanno follia, e i convitati la digeriscono per usanza, arrossirei a vedervi così vestito; svenirei, credo, a mostrarmi uno specchio.
FLORIZELLO	Benedico il tempo in cui il mio buon falcone spiccò il volo sopra il campo di tuo padre.
PERDITA	Ora Giove ve ne dia motivo! A me la differenza forgia spavento; la vostra grandezza non è avvezza alla paura. Ancora adesso tremo a pensare che vostro padre per qualche caso passi di qui, come faceste voi. Oh, i fati! Come guarderebbe la sua opera, così nobile, rilegata così vilmente? Che direbbe? O come potrei io, in questi miei orpelli prestati, sostenere la severità della sua presenza?
FLORIZELLO	Non paventare nulla se non l’allegria. Gli dèi stessi, umiliando le loro deità all’amore, hanno preso forme di bestie. Giove si fece toro, e muggì; il verde Nettuno un montone, e belò; e il dio vestito di fuoco, l’aureo Apollo, un povero umile bifolco, come io paio adesso. Le loro trasformazioni non furono mai per una bellezza più rara, né in modo così casto, poiché i miei desideri non corrono innanzi al mio onore, né le mie brame ardono più caldo della mia fede.
PERDITA	Oh, ma signore, la vostra risoluzione non può reggere quando è contrastata, come dev’essere, dal potere del Re. Una di queste due cose sarà necessaria: o allora si dirà che voi dovete mutare questo proposito, o io la mia vita.
FLORIZELLO	Tu, carissima Perdita, con questi pensieri forzati ti prego non oscurare l’allegria della festa. O sarò tuo, mia bella, o non sarò di mio padre. Perché non posso essere mio, né alcunché per alcuno, se non sono tuo. In questo sono costantissimo, anche se il destino dica di no. Sii allegra, gentile; strangola tali pensieri con qualunque cosa tu veda nel frattempo. I tuoi ospiti arrivano. Solleva il tuo volto come se fosse il giorno della celebrazione di quelle nozze che noi due abbiamo giurato verranno.
PERDITA	O Signora Fortuna, siimi propizia!
FLORIZELLO	Vedi, i tuoi ospiti s’appressano. Disponiti a intrattenerli con brio, e siamo rossi d’allegria.
(didascalia)	Entra il Vecchio Pastore, con Polissene e Camillo,
FLORIZELLO	travestiti, il Villano, Mopsa, Dorcas e altri
OLD SHEPHERD	(a Perdita) Via, figlia, quando viveva la mia vecchia moglie, in questo giorno ella era dispensiera, coppiera, cuoca, padrona e serva insieme, accoglieva tutti, serviva tutti, cantava la sua canzone e ballava la sua danza, ora qui a capo della tavola, ora nel mezzo, sulla spalla di questo e di quello, il viso in fiamme per la fatica, e la bevanda che prendeva per spegnerlo la porgeva a sorseggiare a ciascuno. Tu stai in disparte come se fossi un’invitata e non la padrona di casa del convegno. Ti prego, dà a questi amici sconosciuti il benvenuto, ché è un modo di farci amici migliori, più noti. Su, spegni i tuoi rossori, e mostrati quel che sei, signora della festa. Su, e dacci il benvenuto alla tua tosatura, affinché il tuo buon gregge prosperi.
PERDITA	(a Polissene) Signore, benvenuto. È volontà di mio padre che io assuma la carica di ospite del giorno. (A Camillo) Voi siete il benvenuto, signore. Dammi quei fiori là, Dorcas. Reverendi signori, per voi c’è rosmarino e ruta. Questi conservano aspetto e profumo per tutto l’inverno. Grazia e memoria siano a voi entrambi, e benvenuti alla nostra tosatura.
POLISSENE	Pastorella, bella siete. Bene adattate le nostre età con fiori d’inverno.
PERDITA	Signore, l’anno facendosi antico, non ancora sulla morte dell’estate, né sulla nascita del tremante inverno, i più bei fiori della stagione sono i nostri garofani e le violacciocche striate, che alcuni chiamano bastardi della natura. Di quella specie il nostro rustico giardino è sterile, e non mi curo di averne talee.
POLISSENE	Perché, gentile fanciulla, li trascurate?
PERDITA	Perché ho sentito dire che c’è un’arte che nella loro screziatura divide con la grande creatrice natura.
POLISSENE	Ammesso che ci sia, pure la natura non è resa migliore da alcun mezzo se non da un mezzo che la natura stessa fa. Così sopra quell’arte che voi dite s’aggiunge alla natura c’è un’arte che la natura fa. Vedete, dolce fanciulla, noi sposiamo un ramo più gentile al ceppo più selvatico, e facciamo concepire una corteccia di specie più bassa da una gemma di razza più nobile. Questa è un’arte che emenda la natura—anzi la muta; ma l’arte stessa è natura.
PERDITA	Così è.
POLISSENE	Allora fate ricco il vostro giardino di violacciocche, e non chiamatele bastarde.
PERDITA	Non metterò il piantatoio in terra per piantarne una sola talea, non più di quanto, se fossi dipinta, vorrei che questo giovane dicesse che sto bene, e solo per questo desiderasse generare con me. Ecco fiori per voi: calda lavanda, mente, santoreggia, maggiorana, la calendula, che va a letto col sole e con lui si leva, piangendo. Questi sono fiori di mezza estate, e credo siano dati a uomini di mezza età. Siete assai benvenuti. Dà loro dei fiori
CAMILLO	Smetterei di pascolare, fossi del vostro gregge, e vivrei solo di guardarvi.
PERDITA	Via, ahimè, sareste così magro che le raffiche di gennaio vi soffierebbero da parte a parte. (A Florizello) Ora, mio amico più bello, vorrei avere qualche fiore di primavera che si addicesse alla vostra età del giorno; (a Mopsa e Dorcas) e alla vostra, e alla vostra, che portate ancora sui vostri rami vergini le vostre verginità in boccio. O Proserpina, avessi i fiori che tu, atterrita, lasciasti cadere dal carro di Dite!—giunchiglie, che vengono prima che la rondine osi, e prendono i venti di marzo con bellezza; viole, fioche, ma più dolci delle palpebre degli occhi di Giunone o del fiato di Citerea; pallide primule, che muoiono nubili prima di poter vedere il fulgido Febo nella sua forza—malanno assai frequente alle fanciulle; arditi tossilaggini, e la corona imperiale; gigli d’ogni sorta, l’iris essendone uno. Oh, questi mi mancano, per farvene ghirlande, e, mio dolce amico, per coprirtene tutto quanto.
FLORIZELLO	Che, come un cadavere?
PERDITA	No, come una sponda erbosa, su cui l’amore giaccia e giochi, non come un cadavere—o se pure, non per essere sepolto, ma vivo e fra le mie braccia. Su, prendete i vostri fiori. Mi pare di recitare come li ho visti fare nelle pastorali di Pentecoste. Certo questa mia veste muta il mio carattere.
FLORIZELLO	Ciò che fate sempre migliora ciò che è fatto. Quando parlate, dolce, vorrei che lo faceste sempre; quando cantate, vorrei che così compraste e vendeste, così faceste l’elemosina, così pregaste; e nell’ordinare le vostre faccende, che le cantaste pure. Quando danzate, vi vorrei un’onda del mare, che non faceste mai altro che quello, muovervi sempre, sempre così, e non aveste altra funzione. Ogni vostro atto, così singolare in ogni particolare, incorona ciò che state facendo nelle presenti azioni, sì che tutti i vostri atti sono regine.
PERDITA	O Doricle, le vostre lodi sono troppo grandi. Se la vostra giovinezza e il vero sangue che vi traspare così bello non vi dichiarassero apertamente pastore immacolato, con saggezza potrei temere, mio Doricle, che mi corteggiaste per via falsa.
FLORIZELLO	Credo che abbiate tanto poca arte nel temere quanta io intenzione di darvene motivo. Ma venite, la nostra danza, vi prego; la vostra mano, mia Perdita. Così s’appaiano le tortore, che mai intendono separarsi.
PERDITA	Lo giurerei per loro.
POLISSENE	(a Camillo) Questa è la più graziosa ragazza di umili natali che mai abbia corso sul verde. Nulla fa o pare che non sappia di qualcosa di più grande di lei, troppo nobile per questo luogo.
CAMILLO	Le dice qualcosa che le fa affacciare il sangue. In verità, ella è la regina della cagliata e della panna.
CLOWN	Su, attaccate!
DORCAS	Mopsa dev’essere la tua dama. Perbacco, dell’aglio per correggerle i baci!
MOPSA	Ora, proprio a tempo!
CLOWN	Non una parola, non una, teniamo alle buone maniere. Su, attaccate!
(didascalia)	Musica. Qui una danza di pastori e pastorelle
POLISSENE	Di grazia, buon pastore, chi è questo bel giovane che danza con vostra figlia?
OLD SHEPHERD	Lo chiamano Doricle, e si vanta d’avere un buon pascolo; ma l’ho dal suo stesso racconto, e ci credo. Ha l’aria della verità. Dice che ama mia figlia. Lo credo anch’io, perché mai la luna fissò l’acqua come lui sta a leggere, per così dire, gli occhi di mia figlia; e a dirla schietta, credo che non ci sia mezzo bacio di differenza a chi ami di più l’altro.
POLISSENE	Danza con garbo.
OLD SHEPHERD	Così fa ogni cosa, benché lo dica io che dovrei tacere. Se il giovane Doricle le capita in sorte, ella gli porterà quello che nemmeno sogna.
(didascalia)	Entra un Servo
SERVANT	Oh, padrone, se solo aveste udito il merciaio alla porta, non danzereste mai più al suono di tamburello e piffero. No, nemmeno la cornamusa potrebbe smuovervi. Canta più arie di quante monete voi ne contiate. Le sciorina come se avesse mangiato ballate, e le orecchie di tutti gli uomini si sono appiccicate alle sue arie.
CLOWN	Non poteva capitare meglio. Che entri pure. Io amo una ballata anche troppo bene, se è materia dolorosa messa in note allegre, o cosa davvero piacevolissima, e cantata in modo lamentevole.
SERVANT	Ha canzoni per uomo o per donna, d’ogni taglia. Nessun merciaio sa calzare così i suoi clienti coi guanti. Ha le più graziose canzoni d’amore per le fanciulle, così senza sconcezze, il che è strano, con certi delicati ritornelli di dildo e fading, ‘Saltale addosso, e battila’; e dove qualche mascalzone dalla bocca larga vorrebbe, per così dire, insinuare malizia e aprire una brutta breccia nella faccenda, lui fa rispondere alla fanciulla: ‘Ehi, non farmi male, buon uomo’; lo respinge, lo sprezza, con ‘Ehi, non farmi male, buon uomo!’
POLISSENE	È un bel tipo, questo.
CLOWN	Credimi, parli d’un tipo d’ammirevole ingegno. Ha merci non sciupate?
SERVANT	Ha nastri di tutti i colori dell’arcobaleno; puntali più di quanti tutti gli avvocati di Boemia ne possano dottamente maneggiare, benché gli vengano a grosse; fettucce, lane, batiste, veli—ma via, lui li canta come se fossero dèi o dee. Crederesti che una camicia fosse un angelo femmina, tanto salmodia sul polsino e sul ricamo attorno allo scollo.
CLOWN	Ti prego, portalo dentro, e che s’avvicini cantando.
PERDITA	Avvertilo che non usi parole scurrili nelle sue arie.
(didascalia)	Esce il Servo
CLOWN	Ci sono di questi merciai che hanno dentro più di quanto penseresti, sorella.
PERDITA	Sì, buon fratello, o di quanto ci si metta a pensare.
(didascalia)	Entra Autolico, con una barba finta, portando la sua balla, e cantando
AUTOLICO	Tela bianca come neve, crespo nero come pece, guanti dolci come rose, maschere per visi e nasi; braccialetti di vetro, ambre in collana, profumi per la camera d’una dama; cuffie d’oro e pettorine che i miei ragazzi dan per doni; spilli e stecche d’acciaio fino, quanto manca alle fanciulle da capo a piede: venite a comprar da me, venite, venite a comprare, comprate, ragazzi, o le vostre belle piangeranno. Comprate!
CLOWN	Se non fossi preso d’amore per Mopsa non mi caveresti un soldo, ma essendo schiavo come sono, sarà anche la schiavitù di certi nastri e guanti.
MOPSA	Mi erano stati promessi per la festa, ma non arrivano troppo tardi neanche adesso.
DORCAS	Ti ha promesso più di quello, o qui c’è chi mente.
MOPSA	Lui ti ha pagato tutto quello che ti aveva promesso. Forse ti ha pagato di più, e sarà una vergogna per te doverglielo restituire.
CLOWN	Non è rimasta traccia di buone maniere fra le ragazze? Vogliono portare le sottane dove dovrebbero portare la faccia? Non c’è il tempo della mungitura, quando andate a letto, o la bocca del forno, per fischiettare questi segreti, che dovete cianciare davanti a tutti i nostri ospiti? È bene che stiano bisbigliando. Serrate le lingue, e non una parola di più.
MOPSA	Ho finito. Su, mi avevi promesso un nastro da collo e un paio di guanti profumati.
CLOWN	Non t’ho detto come fui truffato per via, e persi tutto il mio denaro?
AUTOLICO	E davvero, signore, ci sono truffatori in giro, perciò conviene agli uomini stare in guardia.
CLOWN	Non temere tu, amico, qui non perderai nulla.
AUTOLICO	Lo spero, signore, perché porto addosso molti colli di valore.
CLOWN	Che hai qui? Ballate?
MOPSA	Ti prego, comprane qualcuna. Io amo una ballata stampata, sull’anima mia, perché allora siamo sicuri che è vera.
AUTOLICO	Eccone una su un’aria molto dolente: come la moglie d’un usuraio partorì venti sacchi di denaro in un parto solo, e come le venne voglia di mangiare teste di vipera e rospi in graticola.
MOPSA	È vera, credete?
AUTOLICO	Verissima, e vecchia appena d’un mese.
DORCAS	Il cielo mi scampi dallo sposare un usuraio!
AUTOLICO	C’è sotto il nome della levatrice, una certa mastra Coda-Portante, e di cinque o sei oneste comari che erano presenti. Perché dovrei andare in giro a portar menzogne?
MOPSA	(al Villano) Vi prego, compratela.
CLOWN	Su, mettila da parte, e vediamo prima altre ballate. Le altre cose le compreremo poi.
AUTOLICO	Ecco un’altra ballata, d’un pesce che apparve sulla costa mercoledì l’ottanta d’aprile, quarantamila braccia sopra l’acqua, e cantò questa ballata contro i cuori duri delle fanciulle. Si pensò che fosse una donna, e che fosse stata mutata in pesce freddo perché non volle scambiare la sua carne con uno che l’amava. La ballata è molto pietosa, e altrettanto vera.
DORCAS	È vera anche questa, credete?
AUTOLICO	Cinque firme di giudici in calce, e testimoni più di quanti la mia balla ne contenga.
CLOWN	Metti da parte anche questa. Un’altra.
AUTOLICO	Questa è una ballata allegra, ma proprio graziosa. MOPSA Prendiamone qualcuna allegra.
AUTOLICO	Ma via, questa è allegra da non dire, e va sull’aria di ‘Due Fanciulle che Corteggiano un Uomo’. Non c’è quasi fanciulla a ponente che non la canti. È molto richiesta, ve lo dico io.
MOPSA	Sappiamo cantarla tutt’e due. Se tu ne fai una parte l’udrai; è a tre voci.
DORCAS	Ne avevamo l’aria un mese fa.
AUTOLICO	So fare la mia parte, dovete sapere, è il mio mestiere. Andiamoci con voi.
CLOWN	Questa canzone ce la finiremo poi fra noi. Mio padre e i gentiluomini sono in discorsi seri, e non li disturberemo. Vieni, portami dietro la tua balla. Ragazze, comprerò per tutt’e due. Merciaio, lasciaci la prima scelta. Seguitemi, ragazze.
(didascalia)	Esce con Dorcas e Mopsa
AUTOLICO	E le pagherete bene.
(didascalia)	Entra un Servo
SERVANT	Padrone, ci sono tre carrettieri, tre pastori, tre bovari, tre porcari che si sono fatti tutti uomini di pelo. Si chiamano saltatori, e hanno una danza che le ragazze dicono essere un guazzabuglio di capriole, perché loro non ci sono dentro. Ma loro stessi sono del parere che, se non è troppo rozza per certuni che non conoscono altro che le bocce, piacerà moltissimo.
OLD SHEPHERD	Via. Non ne vogliamo. Qui c’è già stata troppa buffoneria casalinga. (A Polissene) So, signore, che vi stanchiamo.
POLISSENE	Stancate quelli che ci ristorano. Vi prego, vediamo questi quattro terzetti di mandriani.
SERVANT	Un terzetto di loro, a loro stesso dire, signore, ha danzato davanti al Re, e il peggiore dei tre salta dodici piedi e mezzo a squadra.
OLD SHEPHERD	Basta con le tue chiacchiere. Poiché questi buoni signori ne sono contenti, che entrino—ma presto, adesso.
SERVANT	Ma stanno alla porta, signore. Qui una danza di dodici satiri
POLISSENE	(al Vecchio Pastore) Oh, padre, di questo saprete di più in seguito. (A Camillo) Non è andata troppo oltre? È tempo di dividerli l’uno dall’altra. È semplice, e dice molto. (A Florizello) Ebbene, bel pastore, il vostro cuore è pieno di qualcosa che vi distoglie la mente dal banchetto. In verità, quando ero giovane e trattavo l’amore come voi, ero solito caricare la mia bella di ninnoli. Avrei saccheggiato il serico tesoro del merciaio, e glielo avrei versato perché l’accettasse. Voi lo avete lasciato andare, e non avete mercanteggiato nulla con lui. Se la vostra ragazza abusasse dell’interpretazione, e chiamasse questo una vostra mancanza d’amore o di generosità, sareste in strette per una risposta, almeno se vi sta a cuore di tenerla felice.
FLORIZELLO	Vecchio signore, so che ella non apprezza simili inezie. I doni che attende da me sono impacchettati e chiusi nel mio cuore, che le ho già donato, ma non consegnato. (A Perdita) Oh, ascoltatemi esalare la mia vita davanti a questo antico signore, il quale, a quanto pare, un tempo ha amato. Prendo la tua mano, questa mano soffice come piuma di colomba, e bianca altrettanto, o come dente d’etiope, o come la neve ventilata e stacciata due volte dalle raffiche del nord.
POLISSENE	Che segue a questo? Con che grazia il giovane bifolco pare lavare la mano ch’era bella prima! Vi ho interrotto. Ma tornate alla vostra protesta. Fatemi udire ciò che professate.
FLORIZELLO	Fatelo, e siatene testimone.
POLISSENE	E anche questo mio vicino?
FLORIZELLO	E lui, e più di lui; e gli uomini, la terra, i cieli, e tutto: che, fossi io incoronato il più imperiale monarca, e degnissimo d’esserlo, fossi il più bel giovane che mai fece deviare uno sguardo, avessi forza e sapere più di quanti uomo n’ebbe mai, non li stimerei senza il suo amore; per lei li impiegherei tutti, li affiderei e li condannerei al suo servizio o alla loro stessa perdizione.
POLISSENE	Bella offerta.
CAMILLO	Questo mostra un affetto sano.
OLD SHEPHERD	Ma, figlia mia, dici tu lo stesso a lui?
PERDITA	Non so parlare così bene, niente affatto così bene, no, né voler meglio. Sul modello dei miei stessi pensieri ritaglio la purezza dei suoi.
OLD SHEPHERD	Datevi le mani, è fatta; e voi, amici sconosciuti, ne sarete testimoni. Do a lui mia figlia, e farò la sua dote uguale alla sua sostanza.
FLORIZELLO	Oh, ciò dev’essere nella virtù di vostra figlia. Morto uno, avrò più di quanto possiate ancora sognare, abbastanza allora per la vostra meraviglia. Ma andiamo, fidanzateci davanti a questi testimoni.
OLD SHEPHERD	Su, la vostra mano; e, figlia, la tua.
POLISSENE	Piano, giovane, un momento, ve ne prego. Avete un padre?
FLORIZELLO	Ne ho. Ma che c’entra lui?
POLISSENE	Sa di questo?
FLORIZELLO	Non lo sa né lo saprà.
POLISSENE	Mi pare che un padre sia alle nozze del figlio l’ospite che meglio s’addice alla tavola. Vi prego ancora una volta: vostro padre non è divenuto incapace di ragionevoli faccende? Non è istupidito dall’età e da flussi che l’alterano? Sa parlare, udire, distinguere uomo da uomo? Trattare i propri beni? Non giace inchiodato al letto, e non fa null’altro che quel che faceva da bambino?
FLORIZELLO	No, buon signore. Ha la sua salute, e forza più ampia invero di quanta n’abbiano i più della sua età.
POLISSENE	Per la mia barba bianca, gli fate, se è così, un torto alquanto poco filiale. È ragione che mio figlio si scelga da sé una moglie, ma è altrettanto ragione che il padre, la cui gioia non è altro che una bella discendenza, abbia qualche voce in tale affare.
FLORIZELLO	Concedo tutto questo; ma per certe altre ragioni, mio grave signore, che non è opportuno voi sappiate, non metto mio padre a parte di questa faccenda.
POLISSENE	Che lo sappia.
FLORIZELLO	Non lo saprà.
POLISSENE	Ti prego, faglielo sapere.
FLORIZELLO	No, non deve.
OLD SHEPHERD	Faglielo sapere, figlio mio. Non avrà bisogno d’affliggersi nel conoscere la tua scelta.
FLORIZELLO	Su, su, non deve. Segnate il nostro contratto.
POLISSENE	(togliendosi il travestimento) Segnate il vostro divorzio, giovane signore, che non oso chiamare figlio. Sei troppo vile per essere riconosciuto. Tu, erede d’uno scettro, che così ti invaghisci d’un vincastro? (Al Vecchio Pastore) Tu, vecchio traditore, mi duole che impiccandoti io non possa che accorciarti la vita d’una settimana. (A Perdita) E tu, fresco pezzo d’eccellente stregoneria, che per forza devi sapere con quale regale folle t’accompagni—
OLD SHEPHERD	Oh, il mio cuore!
POLISSENE	Farò graffiare la tua bellezza coi rovi e renderla più dimessa della tua condizione. (A Florizello) Quanto a te, ragazzo folle, se mai verrò a sapere che tu anche solo sospiri perché non vedrai più questo ninnolo, come mai intendo che tu faccia, ti escluderemo dalla successione, non ti terremo del nostro sangue, no, né nostro parente, più lontano di Deucalione. Segna le mie parole. Seguici alla corte. (Al Vecchio Pastore) Tu, villano, per questa volta, benché pieno del nostro sdegno, pure ti liberiamo dal suo colpo mortale. (A Perdita) E voi, incantesimo, degna abbastanza d’un mandriano—sì, e anche di lui, che si fa, se non fosse per il nostro onore in ciò, indegno di te—se mai d’ora innanzi tu aprirai questi chiavistelli rustici al suo ingresso, o cingerai ancora il suo corpo coi tuoi abbracci, escogiterò per te una morte tanto crudele quanto tu sei tenera a sopportarla.
(didascalia)	Esce
PERDITA	Rovinata qui sul posto. Non ebbi molta paura, perché una o due volte stavo per parlare, e dirgli chiaro che quello stesso sole che splende sulla sua corte non nasconde il suo volto alla nostra capanna, ma guarda ugualmente. Vi piaccia, signore, andarvene? Vi dissi che cosa ne sarebbe venuto. Vi supplico, abbiate cura del vostro stato. Questo mio sogno, essendo ora sveglia, non farò più la regina d’un pollice, ma mungerò le mie pecore e piangerò.
CAMILLO	(al Vecchio Pastore) Ebbene, che c’è, padre? Parlate prima di morire.
OLD SHEPHERD	Non so parlare, né pensare, né oso sapere ciò che so. (A Florizello) Oh signore, avete rovinato un uomo d’ottantatré anni, che pensava di riempire in pace la sua fossa, sì, di morire sul letto in cui morì mio padre, di giacere accanto alle sue oneste ossa. Ma ora qualche boia dovrà mettermi addosso il sudario, e depormi dove nessun prete getta polvere. (A Perdita) O maledetta sciagurata, che sapevi che questi era il Principe, e osavi avventurarti a mescolare la tua fede con lui. Rovinato, rovinato! Potessi morire entro quest’ora, ho vissuto per morire quando lo desidero. Esce
FLORIZELLO	(a Perdita) Perché mi guardate così? Sono solo dolente, non spaventato; ritardato, ma per nulla mutato. Quel che ero, sono, e tanto più mi tendo in avanti perché mi si tira indietro, non seguendo il mio guinzaglio malvolentieri.
CAMILLO	Grazioso mio signore, conoscete l’umore di vostro padre. In questo momento non permetterà alcun discorso—il che immagino voi non abbiate intenzione di rivolgergli; e altrettanto a stento sopporterà la vostra vista per ora, temo. Perciò, finché non si plachi la furia di sua altezza, non presentatevi a lui.
FLORIZELLO	Non l’intendo. Credo, Camillo?
CAMILLO	Proprio lui, mio signore.
PERDITA	(a Florizello) Quante volte vi ho detto che sarebbe andata così? Quante volte ho detto che la mia dignità sarebbe durata solo finché non fosse nota?
FLORIZELLO	Non può fallire se non per la violazione della mia fede, e allora lasciate che la natura schiacci insieme i fianchi della terra e guasti i semi che vi stanno dentro. Alza lo sguardo. Cancellami dalla tua successione, padre! Io sono erede del mio affetto.
CAMILLO	Riflettete.
FLORIZELLO	Rifletto, e per mia fantasia. Se la mia ragione vorrà obbedirle, ho ragione. Se no, i miei sensi, più lieti della follia, le danno il benvenuto.
CAMILLO	Questo è disperato, signore.
FLORIZELLO	Chiamatelo così. Ma adempie il mio voto. Devo per forza ritenerlo onestà. Camillo, né per la Boemia, né per il fasto che vi si possa raccogliere; per tutto ciò che il sole vede, o la chiusa terra cova in grembo, o i mari profondi nascondono in braccia ignote, romperò il mio giuramento a questa mia bella amata. Perciò vi prego, poiché siete sempre stato l’onorato amico di mio padre, quando egli mi cercherà—ché, in fede mia, non intendo vederlo mai più—versate i vostri buoni consigli sulla sua passione. Lasciate che io e la fortuna ci contendiamo il tempo a venire. Questo potete sapere, e così riferire: prendo il mare con lei che qui non posso trattenere a riva; e assai opportunamente al suo bisogno, ho una nave ancorata qui presso, ma non preparata per questo disegno. Quale rotta intenda tenere non gioverà per nulla alla vostra conoscenza, né mi conviene riferirlo.
CAMILLO	O mio signore, vorrei che il vostro spirito fosse più docile al consiglio, o più forte per il vostro bisogno.
FLORIZELLO	Ascolta, Perdita— (A Camillo) Vi ascolterò fra poco.
CAMILLO	(a parte) È irremovibile, risoluto alla fuga. Ora sarei felice se potessi piegare la sua partenza a servire il mio scopo, salvarlo dal pericolo, rendergli amore e onore, guadagnare di rivedere la cara Sicilia e quell’infelice re, mio padrone, che ho tanta sete di vedere.
FLORIZELLO	Ora, buon Camillo, sono così carico di strane faccende che tralascio le cerimonie.
CAMILLO	Signore, credo abbiate udito dei miei poveri servigi nell’amore che ho portato a vostro padre.
FLORIZELLO	Assai nobilmente avete meritato. È musica per mio padre parlare delle vostre azioni, e non piccola sua cura averle ricompensate come erano state pensate.
CAMILLO	Ebbene, mio signore, se vi piace credere che io ami il Re, e attraverso lui ciò che gli è più vicino, cioè il vostro grazioso sé, abbracciate soltanto la mia guida, se il vostro più ponderoso e fermo progetto può soffrire mutamento. Sul mio onore, vi indicherò dove avrete tale accoglienza quale s’addice a vostra altezza, dove potrete godere della vostra dama—dalla quale vedo che non si può fare disgiunzione se non con, e i cieli lo impediscano, la vostra rovina—sposarla, e con i miei migliori sforzi in vostra assenza mi adoprerò a mitigare il vostro padre scontento e a portarlo al consenso.
FLORIZELLO	Come, Camillo, può compiersi questo, che è quasi un miracolo?— affinché io possa chiamarti qualcosa di più che uomo, e dopo di ciò affidarmi a te.
CAMILLO	Avete pensato a un luogo dove andare?
FLORIZELLO	Nessuno ancora. Ma come l’incidente impensato è colpevole di ciò che facciamo alla cieca, così ci professiamo schiavi del caso, e mosche d’ogni vento che soffia.
CAMILLO	Allora ascoltatemi. Questo segue, se non volete mutare proposito ma affrontare questa fuga: puntate sulla Sicilia, e là presentate voi stesso e la vostra bella principessa, ché tale vedo dev’essere, davanti a Leonte. Sarà vestita come s’addice alla compagna del vostro letto. Mi pare di vedere Leonte che apre le braccia libere e piangendo riversa i suoi benvenuti; e vi chiede là: ‘Figlio, perdono!‘ come fosse nella persona del padre, bacia le mani della vostra fresca principessa; e più e più volte si divide fra la sua durezza e la sua dolcezza. L’una la caccia all’inferno, e all’altra ordina di crescere più veloce del pensiero o del tempo.
FLORIZELLO	Degno Camillo, quale pretesto per la mia visita dovrò addurre davanti a lui?
CAMILLO	Mandato dal Re vostro padre a salutarlo, e a portargli conforti. Signore, il modo del vostro contegno verso di lui, con ciò che voi, come da parte di vostro padre, dovrete riferire— cose note fra noi tre—ve lo metterò per iscritto, e vi indicherà a ogni udienza ciò che dovrete dire, sì che egli non s’accorga d’altro se non che avete lì il petto di vostro padre, e ne parlate il cuore stesso.
FLORIZELLO	Vi sono obbligato. C’è del succo in questo.
CAMILLO	Una via più promettente d’una selvaggia consacrazione di voi stessi ad acque senza rotta, a rive mai sognate; e certissima, a miserie in abbondanza—nessuna speranza d’aiuto, se non che, scrollatane una, ne prendiate un’altra; nulla di così certo quanto le vostre àncore, che fanno il loro miglior ufficio se solo riescono a trattenervi dove vi rincrescerà d’essere. Inoltre, sapete, la prosperità è il vero vincolo dell’amore, il cui fresco colorito e il cui cuore insieme l’afflizione altera.
PERDITA	Una di queste cose è vera. Credo che l’afflizione possa domare la guancia ma non conquistare la mente.
CAMILLO	Ah, dite così? Non nascerà nella casa di vostro padre in questi sette anni un’altra come lei.
FLORIZELLO	Mio buon Camillo, ella è tanto avanti alla sua educazione quanto è indietro rispetto alla nostra nascita.
CAMILLO	Non posso dire che sia un peccato che le manchino insegnamenti, perché pare maestra ai più di quelli che insegnano.
PERDITA	Perdonatemi, signore. Per questo vi arrossirò i miei ringraziamenti.
FLORIZELLO	Mia graziosissima Perdita! Ma oh, le spine su cui stiamo! Camillo, salvatore di mio padre, ora mio, medicina della nostra casa, come faremo? Non siamo forniti come il figlio di Boemia, né tali appariremo in Sicilia.
CAMILLO	Mio signore, non temete nulla di questo. Credo sappiate che le mie fortune stanno tutte là. Sarà mia cura farvi allestire regalmente come se la scena che recitate fosse la mia. Per esempio, signore, affinché sappiate che nulla vi mancherà—una parola. Parlano in disparte.
(didascalia)	Entra Autolico
AUTOLICO	Ah, ah! Che sciocca cosa è l’onestà, e la fiducia—suo fratello giurato—un gentiluomo assai sempliciotto! Ho venduto tutta la mia paccottiglia; non una pietra falsa, non un nastro, uno specchio, un pomo profumato, una spilla, un taccuino, una ballata, un coltello, una fettuccia, un guanto, un laccio da scarpe, un braccialetto, un anello di corno per tenere la mia balla dal digiuno. Si accalcavano a chi comprasse per primo, come se i miei ninnoli fossero stati consacrati e portassero una benedizione al compratore; e per questo mezzo vidi quale borsa fosse la meglio in figura; e ciò che vidi, a mio buon uso ricordai. Il mio villano, cui manca solo qualcosa per essere un uomo ragionevole, s’invaghì d’un tale amore per la canzone delle ragazze che non volle muovere i suoi piedini finché non ebbe insieme aria e parole, il che attirò tanto a me il resto della mandria che tutti i loro altri sensi erano conficcati nelle orecchie. Si sarebbe potuto pizzicare una sottana, era insensibile. Non era nulla castrare d’una borsa una braghetta. Avrei potuto limar via chiavi che pendevano da catene. Nessun udito, nessun tatto se non per la canzone del mio signorino, e l’ammirazione del suo nulla. Cosicché in questo tempo di letargo ho scelto e tagliato la maggior parte delle loro borse di festa, e se il vecchio non fosse arrivato con un baccano contro sua figlia e il figlio del Re, e non avesse spaventato le mie cornacchie dalla pula, non avrei lasciato una borsa viva in tutto l’esercito. Camillo, Florizello e Perdita si fanno avanti
CAMILLO	No, ma le mie lettere, essendo là per questo mezzo non appena voi arriverete, chiariranno quel dubbio.
FLORIZELLO	E quelle che vi procurerete dal Re Leonte—
CAMILLO	Soddisferanno vostro padre.
PERDITA	Siate felice! Tutto ciò che dite si mostra bello.
CAMILLO	(vedendo Autolico) Chi abbiamo qui? Ne faremo uno strumento, non tralasciando nulla che ci possa dare aiuto.
AUTOLICO	(a parte) Se mi hanno sentito ora—be’, la forca!
CAMILLO	Ebbene, buon uomo? Perché tremi così? Non temere, amico. Qui non t’è inteso alcun male.
AUTOLICO	Sono un pover’uomo, signore.
CAMILLO	Ebbene, restalo pure. Qui nessuno te lo ruberà. Eppure, quanto all’esterno della tua povertà, dobbiamo fare uno scambio. Perciò spògliati all’istante—devi pensare che c’è una necessità in ciò—e scambia i vestiti con questo gentiluomo. Benché il vantaggio dalla sua parte sia il peggiore, pure tieni, (dandogli del denaro) ecco qualcosa in aggiunta.
AUTOLICO	Sono un pover’uomo, signore. (A parte) Vi conosco abbastanza bene.
CAMILLO	Su, ti prego, sbrigati—il gentiluomo è già mezzo scorticato.
AUTOLICO	Dite sul serio, signore? (A parte) Fiuto il trucco della cosa.
FLORIZELLO	Sbrigati, ti prego.
AUTOLICO	In verità, ho avuto la caparra, ma non posso in coscienza prenderla.
CAMILLO	Slacciate, slacciate. Florizello e Autolico si scambiano i vestiti (A Perdita) Fortunata signora—che la mia profezia vi giunga a casa!—dovete ritirarvi in qualche riparo, prendere il cappello del vostro innamorato e calcarvelo sulle ciglia, imbacuccarvi il viso, svestirvi, e, come potete, sfigurare la verità del vostro stesso apparire, affinché possiate— perché io temo gli occhi—salire a bordo senza essere scorta.
PERDITA	Vedo che la commedia è tale che devo farne una parte.
CAMILLO	Non c’è rimedio. (A Florizello) Avete finito lì?
FLORIZELLO	Se incontrassi ora mio padre non mi chiamerebbe figlio.
CAMILLO	No, non avrete cappello. Dà il cappello a Perdita Venite, signora, venite. Addio, amico mio.
AUTOLICO	Addio, signore.
FLORIZELLO	O Perdita, che cosa abbiamo dimenticato noi due! Vi prego, una parola. Parlano in disparte
CAMILLO	(a parte) Ciò che farò poi sarà dire al Re di questa fuga, e dove sono diretti; nel che la mia speranza è di prevalere tanto da costringerlo a seguirli, in compagnia del quale rivedrò la Sicilia, della cui vista ho una brama da donna.
FLORIZELLO	La fortuna ci dia buon corso! Così partiamo, Camillo, verso il mare.
CAMILLO	Più veloce la corsa, meglio è.
(didascalia)	Escono Florizello, Perdita e Camillo
AUTOLICO	Capisco la faccenda, la sento. Avere l’orecchio aperto, l’occhio svelto e la mano agile è necessario a un tagliaborse. Anche un buon naso è richiesto, per fiutare lavoro per gli altri sensi. Vedo che questo è il tempo in cui l’uomo ingiusto prospera. Che scambio sarebbe stato questo anche senza aggiunta! E che aggiunta c’è qui con questo scambio! Certo gli dèi quest’anno chiudono un occhio su di noi, e possiamo fare qualunque cosa all’impronta. Il Principe stesso è dietro a un pezzo d’iniquità, fuggendo da suo padre con la sua palla al piede. Se pensassi che sia un atto d’onestà informarne il Re, non lo farei. Lo ritengo maggior furfanteria tacerlo, e in questo sono fedele alla mia professione.
(didascalia)	Entrano il Villano e il Vecchio Pastore, portando un fardello e una scatola
(didascalia)	Da parte, da parte! Ecco altra materia per un cervello caldo. Ogni fondo di viottolo, ogni bottega, chiesa, sessione, impiccagione, dà lavoro a un uomo accorto.
CLOWN	Vedete, vedete che uomo siete adesso! Non c’è altra via che dire al Re che è una bambina scambiata, e per nulla della vostra carne e del vostro sangue.
OLD SHEPHERD	No, ma ascoltami.
CLOWN	No, ma ascoltami tu.
OLD SHEPHERD	Va bene, allora.
CLOWN	Non essendo lei della vostra carne e del vostro sangue, la vostra carne e il vostro sangue non hanno offeso il Re, e così la vostra carne e il vostro sangue non devono essere puniti da lui. Mostrate quelle cose che avete trovato addosso a lei, quelle cose segrete, tutte tranne quel che porta con sé. Fatto questo, lasciate che la legge vada a fischiare, ve lo garantisco io.
OLD SHEPHERD	Dirò tutto al Re, ogni parola, sì, e anche le birbonate di suo figlio, il quale, posso dirlo, non è uomo onesto, né verso suo padre né verso di me, a cercare di farmi cognato del Re.
CLOWN	Davvero, cognato era il più lontano che potevate essere da lui, e allora il vostro sangue sarebbe stato più caro di non so quanto all’oncia. AUTOLICO (a parte) Molto saggiamente, cuccioli.
OLD SHEPHERD	Ebbene, andiamo dal Re. C’è in questo fardello qualcosa che gli farà grattare la barba.
AUTOLICO	(a parte) Non so quale impedimento questa denuncia possa essere alla fuga del mio padrone.
CLOWN	Pregate di cuore che sia a palazzo.
AUTOLICO	(a parte) Benché non sia onesto per natura, lo sono a volte per caso. Lasciate che m’intaschi questa escrescenza da merciaio. Si toglie la barba finta —Ebbene, campagnoli, dove siete diretti?
OLD SHEPHERD	Al palazzo, se piace a vossignoria.
AUTOLICO	I vostri affari là? Quali? Con chi? La condizione di quel fardello? Il luogo della vostra dimora? I vostri nomi? Le vostre età? Di quali averi, educazione, e ogni cosa che sia opportuno sapere: scoprite.
CLOWN	Siamo solo gente semplice, signore.
AUTOLICO	Una bugia: siete ruvidi e pelosi. Non voglio menzogne. Non s’addicono che ai bottegai, e loro spesso danno a noi soldati la menzogna, ma noi gliela paghiamo con moneta coniata, non con acciaio pugnalatore, perciò non ce la danno affatto.
CLOWN	Vossignoria stava per darcene una, se non vi foste colto sul fatto.
OLD SHEPHERD	Siete un cortigiano, se vi piace, signore?
AUTOLICO	Che mi piaccia o no, sono un cortigiano. Non vedi l’aria della corte in queste pieghe? Non ha la mia andatura il ritmo della corte? Non riceve il tuo naso odore di corte da me? Non rifletto sulla tua bassezza il disprezzo della corte? Credi tu che, perché m’insinuo per cavarti di bocca i tuoi affari, io non sia perciò un cortigiano? Sono cortigiano da capo a piedi, e uno che può spingere avanti o tirare indietro i tuoi affari là. Perciò ti comando di aprirmi la tua faccenda.
OLD SHEPHERD	I miei affari, signore, sono col Re.
AUTOLICO	Che avvocato hai presso di lui?
OLD SHEPHERD	Non lo so, se vi piace.
CLOWN	(a parte al Vecchio Pastore) ‘Avvocato’ è la parola di corte per fagiano. Dite che non ne avete.
OLD SHEPHERD	Nessuno, signore. Non ho fagiano, né gallo né gallina.
AUTOLICO	(a parte) Come siamo benedetti noi che non siamo uomini semplici! Eppure la natura avrebbe potuto farmi come questi, perciò non li disdegnerò.
CLOWN	Costui non può essere che un gran cortigiano.
OLD SHEPHERD	I suoi abiti sono ricchi, ma non li porta con garbo.
CLOWN	Pare tanto più nobile quanto più è stravagante. Un gran signore, ve lo garantisco. Lo capisco da come si stuzzica i denti.
AUTOLICO	Quel fardello là, cosa c’è nel fardello? E perché quella scatola?
OLD SHEPHERD	Signore, ci sono tali segreti in questo fardello e in questa scatola che nessuno deve saperli se non il Re, e che egli saprà entro quest’ora, se posso venire a parlargli.
AUTOLICO	Vecchio, hai perso la tua fatica. OLD SHEPHERD Perché, signore?
AUTOLICO	Il Re non è a palazzo, è salito a bordo d’una nuova nave per purgare la malinconia e prendere aria; perché, se sei capace di cose serie, devi sapere che il Re è pieno di dolore.
OLD SHEPHERD	Così si dice, signore; per suo figlio, che avrebbe dovuto sposare la figlia d’un pastore.
AUTOLICO	Se quel pastore non è in ceppi, che fugga. Le maledizioni che avrà, le torture che sentirà, spezzeranno la schiena a un uomo, il cuore a un mostro.
CLOWN	Credete, signore?
AUTOLICO	Non lui solo soffrirà quanto l’ingegno può render pesante e la vendetta amaro, ma anche quelli che gli sono consanguinei, benché rimossi cinquanta volte, verranno tutti sotto il boia; il che, benché sia gran pietà, pure è necessario. Un vecchio furfante fischiapecore, un guardamontoni, osare che sua figlia entrasse in grazia! Alcuni dicono che sarà lapidato; ma quella morte è troppo dolce per lui, dico io. Tirare il nostro trono in un ovile? Tutte le morti sono troppo poche, la più aspra troppo facile.
CLOWN	Ha il vecchio un figlio, signore, sentite, se vi piace, signore?
AUTOLICO	Ha un figlio, che sarà scorticato vivo, poi unto di miele, posato sulla cima d’un nido di vespe, poi lasciato in piedi finché sia morto per tre quarti e una dramma, poi rianimato con acquavite, o qualche altra infusione calda, poi, crudo com’è, e nel giorno più caldo che l’almanacco proclami, sarà messo contro un muro di mattoni, col sole che lo guarda con occhio meridionale, dove dovrà vedersi ucciso dalle mosche fino alla morte. Ma che parliamo di questi furfanti traditori, le cui miserie son da sorridere, essendo i loro delitti così capitali? Ditemi, poiché sembrate uomini onesti e schietti, che cosa avete da dire al Re. Con un certo gentile riguardo, vi porterò dov’egli è, a bordo, presenterò le vostre persone alla sua presenza, gli sussurrerò a vostro favore, e se è in un uomo, oltre al Re, portare a effetto le vostre richieste, eccolo qui l’uomo che lo farà.
CLOWN	(al Vecchio Pastore) Sembra essere di grande autorità. Attaccatevi a lui, dategli oro; e benché l’autorità sia un orso testardo, pure è spesso menata per il naso con l’oro. Mostrate l’interno della vostra borsa all’esterno della sua mano, e non se ne parli più. Ricordate—‘lapidato’ e ‘scorticato vivo’.
OLD SHEPHERD	Se vi piace, signore, prendervi la faccenda per noi, ecco quell’oro che ho. Ve ne farò altrettanto di più, e lascio questo giovane in pegno finché ve lo porti.
AUTOLICO	Dopo che avrò fatto quel che ho promesso?
OLD SHEPHERD	Sì, signore.
AUTOLICO	Ebbene, datemi la metà. (Al Villano) Sei tu parte in questa faccenda?
CLOWN	In certo modo, signore. Ma benché il mio caso sia pietoso, spero di non esserne scorticato fuori.
AUTOLICO	Oh, quello è il caso del figlio del pastore. Impiccatelo, sarà fatto esempio.
CLOWN	(al Vecchio Pastore) Coraggio, buon coraggio. Dobbiamo andare dal Re e mostrare le nostre strane cose. Deve sapere che non è vostra figlia, né mia sorella. Altrimenti siamo perduti. (A Autolico) Signore, vi darò altrettanto quanto questo vecchio quando la faccenda sarà compiuta, e resterò, come dice lui, vostro pegno finché non vi sia portato.
AUTOLICO	Mi fiderò di voi. Andate avanti verso il mare. Tenete la destra. Io darò solo un’occhiata dietro la siepe, e vi seguo.
CLOWN	(al Vecchio Pastore) Siamo benedetti in quest’uomo, posso dire, proprio benedetti.
OLD SHEPHERD	Andiamo avanti, come ci ordina. Era destinato a farci del bene. Esce col Villano
AUTOLICO	Se avessi voglia d’essere onesto, vedo che la fortuna non me lo permetterebbe. Mi lascia cadere il bottino in bocca. Ora sono corteggiato da una doppia occasione: oro, e un mezzo per fare del bene al Principe mio padrone; e chi sa come ciò possa ritornare a mio vantaggio? Porterò a bordo da lui queste due talpe, questi due ciechi. Se gli parrà bene rimetterli a riva, e se la denuncia che hanno da fare al Re non lo riguarda per nulla, mi chiami pure furfante per essere stato così officioso, ché io sono a prova di quel titolo, e di ogni altra vergogna che vi si accompagni. A lui li presenterò. Ci può esser materia in ciò.
(didascalia)	Esce

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Leontes, Cleomenes, Dion, and Paulina
CLEOMENES	(to Leontes) Sir, you have done enough, and have performed A saint-like sorrow. No fault could you make Which you have not redeemed, indeed, paid down More penitence than done trespass. At the last Do as the heavens have done, forget your evil. With them, forgive yourself.
LEONTES	Whilst I remember Her and her virtues I cannot forget My blemishes in them, and so still think of The wrong I did myself, which was so much That heirless it hath made my kingdom, and Destroyed the sweet‘st companion that e’er man Bred his hopes out of. True?
PAULINA	Too true, my lord. If one by one you wedded all the world, Or from the all that are took something good To make a perfect woman, she you killed Would be unparalleled.
LEONTES	I think so. Killed? She I killed? I did so. But thou strik’st me Sorely to say I did; it is as bitter Upon thy tongue as in my thought. Now, good now, Say so but seldom.
CLEOMENES	Not at all, good lady. You might have spoke a thousand things that would Have done the time more benefit, and graced Your kindness better.
PAULINA	You are one of those Would have him wed again.
DION	If you would not so You pity not the state, nor the remembrance Of his most sovereign name, consider little What dangers, by his highness’ fail of issue, May drop upon his kingdom and devour Incertain lookers-on. What were more holy Than to rejoice the former queen is well? What holier, than for royalty’s repair, For present comfort and for future good, To bless the bed of majesty again With a sweet fellow to’t?
PAULINA	There is none worthy Respecting her that’s gone. Besides, the gods Will have fulfilled their secret purposes. For has not the divine Apollo said? Is’t not the tenor of his oracle That King Leontes shall not have an heir Till his lost child be found? Which that it shall Is all as monstrous to our human reason As my Antigonus to break his grave And come again to me, who, on my life, Did perish with the infant. ’Tis your counsel My lord should to the heavens be contrary, Oppose against their wills. (To Leontes) Care not for issue. The crown will find an heir. Great Alexander Left his to th’ worthiest, so his successor Was like to be the best.
LEONTES	Good Paulina, Who hast the memory of Hermione, I know, in honour—O, that ever I Had squared me to thy counsel! Then even now I might have looked upon my queen’s full eyes, Have taken treasure from her lips.
PAULINA	And left them More rich for what they yielded.
LEONTES	Thou speak’st truth. No more such wives, therefore no wife. One worse, And better used, would make her sainted spirit Again possess her corpse, and on this stage, Where we offenders mourn, appear soul-vexed, And begin, ‘Why to me?’
PAULINA	Had she such power She had just cause.
LEONTES	She had, and would incense me To murder her I married.
PAULINA	I should SO. Were I the ghost that walked I’d bid you mark Her eye, and tell me for what dull part in’t You chose her. Then I’d shriek that even your ears Should rift to hear me, and the words that followed Should be, ‘Remember mine’.
LEONTES	Stars, stars, And all eyes else, dead coals! Fear thou no wife. I’ll have no wife, Paulina.
PAULINA	Will you swear Never to marry but by my free leave?
LEONTES	Never, Paulina, so be blest my spirit.
PAULINA	Then, good my lords, bear witness to his oath.
CLEOMENES	You tempt him over-much.
PAULINA	Unless another As like Hermione as is her picture Affront his eye—
CLEOMENES	Good madam, I have done.
PAULINA	Yet if my lord will marry—if you will, sir; No remedy but you will—give me the office To choose your queen. She shall not be so young As was your former, but she shall be such As, walked your first queen’s ghost, it should take joy To see her in your arms.
LEONTES	My true Paulina, We shall not marry till thou bidd’st us.
PAULINA	That Shall be when your first queen’s again in breath. Never till then.
(didascalia)	Enter a Servant
SERVANT	One that gives out himself Prince Florizel, Son of Polixenes, with his princess—she The fairest I have yet beheld—desires access To your high presence.
LEONTES	What with him? He comes not Like to his father’s greatness. His approach, So out of circumstance and sudden, tells us ’Tis not a visitation framed, but forced By need and accident. What train?
SERVANT	But few, And those but mean.
LEONTES	His princess, say you, with him?
SERVANT	Ay, the most peerless piece of earth, I think, That e’er the sun shone bright on.
PAULINA	O, Hermione, As every present time doth boast itself Above a better, gone, so must thy grave Give way to what’s seen now! (To the Servant) Sir, you yourself Have said and writ so; but your writing now Is colder than that theme. She had not been Nor was not to be equalled—thus your verse Flowed with her beauty once. ’Tis shrewdly ebbed To say you have seen a better.
SERVANT	Pardon, madam. The one I have almost forgot—your pardon! The other, when she has obtained your eye, Will have your tongue too. This is a creature, Would she begin a sect, might quench the zeal Of all professors else; make proselytes Of who she but bid follow.
PAULINA	How? Not women!
SERVANT	Women will love her that she is a woman More worth than any man; men, that she is The rarest of all women.
LEONTES	Go, Cleomenes. Yourself, assisted with your honoured friends, Bring them to our embracement.
(didascalia)	Exit Cleomenes
LEONTES	Still ’tis strange He thus should steal upon us.
PAULINA	Had our prince, Jewel of children, seen this hour, he had paired Well with this lord. There was not full a month Between their births.
LEONTES	Prithee no more, cease. Thou know’st He dies to me again when talked of. Sure, When I shall see this gentleman thy speeches Will bring me to consider that which may Unfurnish me of reason. They are come.
(didascalia)	Enter Florizel, Perdita, Cleomenes, and others
LEONTES	Your mother was most true to wedlock, Prince, For she did print your royal father off, Conceiving you. Were I but twenty-one, Your father’s image is so hit in you, His very air, that I should call you brother, As I did him, and speak of something wildly By us performed before. Most dearly welcome, And your fair princess—goddess! O, alas, I lost a couple that ’twixt heaven and earth Might thus have stood, begetting wonder, as You, gracious couple, do; and then I lost— All mine own folly—the society, Amity too, of your brave father, whom, Though bearing misery, I desire my life Once more to look on him.
FLORIZEL	By his command Have I here touched Sicilia, and from him Give you all greetings that a king at friend Can send his brother; and but infirmity, Which waits upon worn times, hath something seized His wished ability, he had himself The lands and waters ’twixt your throne and his Measured to look upon you, whom he loves— He bade me say so—more than all the sceptres, And those that bear them, living.
LEONTES	O, my brother! Good gentleman, the wrongs I have done thee stir Afresh within me, and these thy offices, So rarely kind, are as interpreters Of my behindhand slackness. Welcome hither, As is the spring to th‘earth! And hath he too Exposed this paragon to th’ fearful usage— At least ungentle—of the dreadful Neptune To greet a man not worth her pains, much less Th’adventure of her person?
FLORIZEL	Good my lord, She came from Libya.
LEONTES	Where the warlike Smalus, That noble honoured lord, is feared and loved?
FLORIZEL	Most royal sir, from thence; from him whose daughter His tears proclaimed his, parting with her. Thence, A prosperous south wind friendly, we have crossed, To execute the charge my father gave me For visiting your highness. My best train I have from your Sicilian shores dismissed; Who for Bohemia bend, to signify Not only my success in Libya, sir, But my arrival, and my wife’s, in safety Here where we are.
LEONTES	The blessed gods Purge all infection from our air whilst you Do climate here! You have a holy father, A graceful gentleman, against whose person, So sacred as it is, I have done sin, For which the heavens, taking angry note, Have left me issueless; and your father’s blessed, As he from heaven merits it, with you, Worthy his goodness. What might I have been, Might I a son and daughter now have looked on, Such goodly things as you?
(didascalia)	Enter a Lord
LORD	Most noble sir, That which I shall report will bear no credit Were not the proof so nigh. Please you, great sir, Bohemia greets you from himself by me; Desires you to attach his son, who has, His dignity and duty both cast off, Fled from his father, from his hopes, and with A shepherd’s daughter.
LEONTES	Where’s Bohemia? Speak.
LORD	Here in your city. I now came from him. I speak amazedly, and it becomes My marvel and my message. To your court Whiles he was hast’ning—in the chase, it seems, Of this fair couple—meets he on the way The father of this seeming lady and Her brother, having both their country quitted With this young prince.
FLORIZEL	Camillo has betrayed me, Whose honour and whose honesty till now Endured all weathers.
LORD	Lay’t so to his charge. He’s with the King your father.
LEONTES	Who, Camillo?
LORD	Camillo, sir. I spake with him, who now Has these poor men in question. Never saw I Wretches so quake. They kneel, they kiss the earth, Forswear themselves as often as they speak. Bohemia stops his ears, and threatens them With divers deaths in death.
PERDITA	O, my poor father! The heaven sets spies upon us, will not have Our contract celebrated.
LEONTES	You are married?
FLORIZEL	We are not, sir, nor are we like to be. The stars, I see, will kiss the valleys first. The odds for high and low’s alike.
LEONTES	My lord, Is this the daughter of a king?
FLORIZEL	She is, When once she is my wife.
LEONTES	That ‘once’, I see, by your good father’s speed Will come on very slowly. I am sorry, Most sorry, you have broken from his liking Where you were tied in duty; and as sorry Your choice is not so rich in worth as beauty, That you might well enjoy her.
FLORIZEL	(to Perdita) Dear, look up. Though fortune, visible an enemy, Should chase us with my father, power no jot Hath she to change our loves.—Beseech you, sir, Remember since you owed no more to time Than I do now. With thought of such affections, Step forth mine advocate. At your request My father will grant precious things as trifles.
LEONTES	Would he do so, I’d beg your precious mistress, Which he counts but a trifle.
PAULINA	Sir, my liege, Your eye hath too much youth in’t. Not a month Fore your queen died she was more worth such gazes Than what you look on now.
LEONTES	I thought of her Even in these looks I made. (To Florizel) But your petition Is yet unanswered. I will to your father. Your honour not o’erthrown by your desires, I am friend to them and you. Upon which errand I now go toward him. Therefore follow me, And mark what way I make. Come, good my lord.
(didascalia)	Exeunt

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entrano Leonte, Cleomene, Dione e Paulina
CLEOMENES	(a Leonte) Signore, avete fatto abbastanza, e avete compiuto un dolore da santo. Nessuna colpa poteste commettere che non abbiate riscattata, anzi avete pagato più penitenza che offesa commessa. Alla fine fate come hanno fatto i cieli: dimenticate il vostro male. Con loro, perdonate voi stesso.
LEONTE	Finché ricordo lei e le sue virtù non posso dimenticare le mie macchie in esse, e così ancora penso al torto che feci a me stesso, che fu tanto grande da rendere senza erede il mio regno, e da distruggere la più dolce compagna da cui mai uomo abbia tratto le sue speranze. Non è vero?
PAULINA	Troppo vero, mio signore. Se una a una sposaste tutte le donne del mondo, o da tutte quelle che sono prendeste qualcosa di buono per fare una donna perfetta, quella che uccideste resterebbe senza pari.
LEONTE	Lo credo. Uccisa? Quella che io uccisi? Lo feci. Ma tu mi colpisci duramente a dire che lo feci; è amaro sulla tua lingua quanto nel mio pensiero. Ora, di grazia, dillo di rado.
CLEOMENES	Non ditelo affatto, buona signora. Avreste potuto dire mille cose che avrebbero giovato di più al tempo, e onorato meglio la vostra bontà.
PAULINA	Voi siete di quelli che vorrebbero farlo risposare.
DION	Se voi non lo voleste non avreste pietà dello stato, né della memoria del suo sovranissimo nome; considerereste poco quali pericoli, per la mancanza di prole di sua altezza, possano piombare sul suo regno e divorare gli incerti spettatori. Che cosa sarebbe più santo che rallegrarsi che l’antica regina stia bene? Che cosa più santo, per il ristoro della regalità, per il conforto presente e per il bene futuro, che benedire di nuovo il letto della maestà con una dolce compagna?
PAULINA	Non ce n’è alcuna degna rispetto a colei che è andata. Inoltre, gli dèi vorranno compiuti i loro segreti disegni. Non ha forse detto il divino Apollo? Non è questo il tenore del suo oracolo, che il Re Leonte non avrà erede finché la sua figlia perduta non sia ritrovata? Che ciò avvenga è per la nostra umana ragione altrettanto mostruoso quanto che il mio Antigono spezzi la sua tomba e torni da me, lui che, sulla mia vita, perì con la bambina. È vostro consiglio che il mio signore sia contrario ai cieli, e si opponga alle loro volontà. (A Leonte) Non vi curate di prole. La corona troverà un erede. Il grande Alessandro lasciò la sua al più degno, e così il suo successore fu probabilmente il migliore.
LEONTE	Buona Paulina, che hai la memoria di Ermione, lo so, in onore—oh, se mai mi fossi conformato al tuo consiglio! Allora anche adesso avrei potuto guardare negli occhi pieni della mia regina, e trarre tesoro dalle sue labbra.
PAULINA	E lasciarle più ricche per ciò che davano.
LEONTE	Tu dici la verità. Non più mogli come lei, dunque nessuna moglie. Una peggiore, e trattata meglio, farebbe che il suo spirito santificato possedesse di nuovo il suo corpo, e su questa scena, dove noi offensori piangiamo, apparisse con l’anima tormentata, e cominciasse: ‘Perché a me?‘
PAULINA	Se ne avesse il potere ne avrebbe giusta causa.
LEONTE	L’avrebbe, e mi infiammerebbe ad assassinare colei che avessi sposata.
PAULINA	Lo farei ANCH’IO. Fossi io il fantasma che cammina, vi direi di osservare il suo occhio, e di dirmi per quale parte scialba in esso la sceglieste. Poi striderei tanto che perfino le vostre orecchie si spaccherebbero a udirmi, e le parole che seguirebbero sarebbero: ‘Ricordati dei miei’.
LEONTE	Stelle, stelle, e tutti gli altri occhi, carboni spenti! Non temere altra moglie. Non avrò moglie, Paulina.
PAULINA	Volete giurare di non sposarvi mai se non col mio libero consenso?
LEONTE	Mai, Paulina, così sia benedetto il mio spirito.
PAULINA	Allora, miei buoni signori, siate testimoni del suo giuramento.
CLEOMENES	Lo tentate troppo.
PAULINA	A meno che un’altra somigliante a Ermione quanto il suo ritratto non gli si affacci allo sguardo—
CLEOMENES	Buona signora, ho finito.
PAULINA	Pure, se il mio signore vorrà sposarsi—se lo vorrete, signore; e non c’è rimedio, lo vorrete—datemi l’ufficio di scegliere la vostra regina. Non sarà così giovane come la prima, ma sarà tale che, se camminasse il fantasma della vostra prima regina, proverebbe gioia a vederla fra le vostre braccia.
LEONTE	Mia fedele Paulina, non ci sposeremo finché non ce lo comandi tu.
PAULINA	E ciò sarà quando la vostra prima regina tornerà a respirare. Mai prima d’allora.
(didascalia)	Entra un Servo
SERVANT	Uno che si dà per il Principe Florizello, figlio di Polissene, con la sua principessa—la più bella che io abbia finora veduta—chiede accesso alla vostra alta presenza.
LEONTE	Che c’è con lui? Non viene come si conviene alla grandezza di suo padre. Il suo arrivo, così fuori d’ogni cerimonia e improvviso, ci dice che non è una visita preparata, ma forzata da bisogno e da caso. Che seguito?
SERVANT	Pochi, e di modesta condizione.
LEONTE	La sua principessa, dite, è con lui?
SERVANT	Sì, il più impareggiabile pezzo di terra, credo, su cui mai il sole abbia splenduto.
PAULINA	O Ermione, come ogni tempo presente si vanta sopra uno migliore, passato, così deve la tua tomba cedere il posto a ciò che ora si vede! (Al Servo) Signore, voi stesso l’avete detto e scritto; ma il vostro scritto ora è più freddo di quel tema. Ella non era stata né poteva essere eguagliata—così i vostri versi fluivano un tempo con la sua bellezza. È crudelmente calata la marea, se dite d’averne veduta una migliore.
SERVANT	Perdono, signora. L’una l’ho quasi dimenticata—perdonatemi! L’altra, quando avrà preso il vostro occhio, avrà anche la vostra lingua. Questa è una creatura che, se fondasse una setta, spegnerebbe lo zelo d’ogni altro seguace; farebbe proseliti di chiunque le dicesse solo di seguirla.
PAULINA	Come? Non le donne!
SERVANT	Le donne l’ameranno perché è una donna di più valore d’ogni uomo; gli uomini, perché è la più rara di tutte le donne.
LEONTE	Va’, Cleomene. Tu stesso, assistito dai tuoi onorati amici, portali al nostro abbraccio.
(didascalia)	Esce Cleomene
LEONTE	Pure è strano ch’egli ci giunga così di soppiatto.
PAULINA	Se il nostro principe, gioiello dei fanciulli, avesse visto quest’ora, si sarebbe accoppiato bene con questo signore. Non c’era un mese intero fra le loro nascite.
LEONTE	Ti prego, basta, cessa. Sai ch’egli mi muore di nuovo quando se ne parla. Certo, quando vedrò questo gentiluomo i tuoi discorsi mi porteranno a considerare ciò che può spogliarmi della ragione. Eccoli venuti.
(didascalia)	Entrano Florizello, Perdita, Cleomene e altri
LEONTE	Vostra madre fu fedelissima al talamo, Principe, perché stampò vostro padre reale concependo voi. Avessi io solo ventun anni, tanto l’immagine di vostro padre è colta in voi, la sua stessa aria, che vi chiamerei fratello, come chiamavo lui, e parlerei di qualcosa di folle da noi compiuto un tempo. Carissimo benvenuto, e alla vostra bella principessa—dea! Oh, ahimè, io persi una coppia che fra cielo e terra avrebbe potuto stare così, generando meraviglia, come fate voi, graziosa coppia; e poi persi— tutta colpa della mia follia—la compagnia, e anche l’amicizia, del vostro nobile padre, il quale, pur portando miseria, desidero che la mia vita duri a guardarlo una volta ancora.
FLORIZELLO	Per suo comando ho toccato qui la Sicilia, e da parte sua vi porgo tutti i saluti che un re amico può mandare a suo fratello; e se non fosse l’infermità, che accompagna gli anni logori, ad avere in parte ghermito la facoltà che egli desiderava, avrebbe egli stesso misurato le terre e le acque fra il vostro trono e il suo per venirvi a vedere, voi che egli ama— me l’ha fatto dire—più di tutti gli scettri, e di quanti li reggono, viventi.
LEONTE	Oh, fratello mio! Buon gentiluomo, i torti che ti ho fatto si agitano di nuovo dentro di me, e questi tuoi uffici, così raramente cortesi, sono interpreti della mia tarda negligenza. Benvenuto qui, come la primavera alla terra! Ed ha egli anche esposto questo paragone al pauroso trattamento— quanto meno scortese—del terribile Nettuno, per salutare un uomo che non vale le sue pene, e ancor meno l’avventura della sua persona?
FLORIZELLO	Mio buon signore, ella venne dalla Libia.
LEONTE	Dove il bellicoso Smalo, quel nobile e onorato signore, è temuto e amato?
FLORIZELLO	Regalissimo signore, di là; da lui, di cui le lacrime la proclamarono figlia, nel separarsene. Di là, con un propizio vento di mezzogiorno amico, abbiamo attraversato, per eseguire l’incarico che mio padre mi diede di visitare vostra altezza. Il mio miglior seguito l’ho congedato dalle vostre coste siciliane; essi volgono verso la Boemia, per significare non solo il mio successo in Libia, signore, ma il mio arrivo, e quello di mia moglie, in salvo qui dove siamo.
LEONTE	Gli dèi benedetti purghino ogni infezione dalla nostra aria mentre voi soggiornate in questo clima! Avete un padre santo, un gentiluomo pieno di grazia, contro la cui persona, sacra com’è, io ho peccato, per il che i cieli, prendendone nota adirati, mi hanno lasciato senza prole; e vostro padre è benedetto, come dal cielo lo merita, con voi, degno della sua bontà. Che cosa sarei potuto essere, se ora avessi potuto guardare un figlio e una figlia, così belle creature come voi?
(didascalia)	Entra un Signore
LORD	Nobilissimo signore, ciò che riferirò non troverebbe credito se la prova non fosse così vicina. Vi piaccia, gran signore: il Boemo vi saluta da parte sua per mezzo mio; vi chiede di arrestare suo figlio, il quale, gettati via la sua dignità e il suo dovere, è fuggito da suo padre, dalle sue speranze, e con la figlia d’un pastore.
LEONTE	Dov’è il Boemo? Parla.
LORD	Qui nella vostra città. Vengo ora da lui. Parlo stupefatto, e ciò si addice alla mia meraviglia e al mio messaggio. Mentre verso la vostra corte si affrettava—all’inseguimento, pare, di questa bella coppia—incontra per via il padre di questa apparente signora e il fratello di lei, avendo entrambi lasciato il loro paese con questo giovane principe.
FLORIZELLO	Camillo mi ha tradito, il cui onore e la cui onestà finora avevano retto a ogni intemperie.
LORD	Ponetegliene pure la colpa. Egli è col Re vostro padre.
LEONTE	Chi, Camillo?
LORD	Camillo, signore. Ho parlato con lui, che ora ha questi poveri uomini sotto interrogatorio. Mai vidi sciagurati tremare tanto. S’inginocchiano, baciano la terra, si spergiurano tante volte quante parlano. Il Boemo si tura le orecchie, e li minaccia di diverse morti dentro la morte.
PERDITA	Oh, mio povero padre! Il cielo pone spie su di noi, non vuole che il nostro contratto sia celebrato.
LEONTE	Siete sposati?
FLORIZELLO	Non lo siamo, signore, né è probabile che lo siamo. Le stelle, vedo, bacieranno prima le valli. Le probabilità per l’alto e per il basso sono pari.
LEONTE	Mio signore, è questa la figlia d’un re?
FLORIZELLO	Lo è, una volta che sia mia moglie.
LEONTE	Quel ‘una volta’, vedo, per la premura del vostro buon padre verrà assai lentamente. Mi dispiace, moltissimo mi dispiace, che vi siate staccato dal suo gradimento là dove eravate legato dal dovere; e altrettanto mi dispiace che la vostra scelta non sia così ricca di pregio quanto di bellezza, sì che ne poteste godere bene.
FLORIZELLO	(a Perdita) Cara, alza gli occhi. Benché la fortuna, nemica visibile, ci inseguisse insieme a mio padre, non ha potere alcuno di mutare i nostri amori.—Vi supplico, signore, ricordate quando non dovevate al tempo più di quanto io gli deva adesso. Col pensiero di tali affetti, fatevi avanti come mio avvocato. Alla vostra richiesta mio padre concederà cose preziose come inezie.
LEONTE	Se lo facesse, chiederei la vostra preziosa dama, che egli conta per un’inezia.
PAULINA	Signore, mio sovrano, il vostro occhio ha troppa giovinezza in sé. Non un mese prima che la vostra regina morisse, ella valeva tali sguardi più di ciò che ora guardate.
LEONTE	Pensavo a lei proprio in questi sguardi che ho fatto. (A Florizello) Ma la vostra richiesta è ancora senza risposta. Andrò da vostro padre. Se il vostro onore non è abbattuto dai vostri desideri, sono amico a essi e a voi. Per la qual missione ora mi avvio verso di lui. Perciò seguitemi, e osservate quale strada io faccia. Venite, mio buon signore.
(didascalia)	Escono

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Autolycus and a Gentleman
AUTOLYCUS	Beseech you, sir, were you present at this relation?
FIRST GENTLEMAN	I was by at the opening of the fardel, heard the old shepherd deliver the manner how he found it; whereupon, after a little amazedness, we were all commanded out of the chamber. Only this, methought I heard the shepherd say he found the child.
AUTOLYCUS	I would most gladly know the issue of it.
FIRST GENTLEMAN	I make a broken delivery of the business, but the changes I perceived in the King and Camillo were very notes of admiration. They seemed almost, with staring on one another, to tear the cases of their eyes. There was speech in their dumbness, language in their very gesture. They looked as they had heard of a world ransomed, or one destroyed. A notable passion of wonder appeared in them, but the wisest beholder, that knew no more but seeing, could not say if th’importance were joy or sorrow. But in the extremity of the one, it must needs be.
(didascalia)	Enter another Gentleman
FIRST GENTLEMAN	Here comes a gentleman that happily knows more. The news, Ruggiero!
SECOND GENTLEMAN	Nothing but bonfires. The oracle is fulfilled. The King’s daughter is found. Such a deal of wonder is broken out within this hour, that ballad-makers cannot be able to express it.
(didascalia)	Enter another Gentleman
SECOND GENTLEMAN	Here comes the Lady Paulina’s steward. He can deliver you more.—How goes it now, sir? This news which is called true is so like an old tale that the verity of it is in strong suspicion. Has the King found his heir?
THIRD GENTLEMAN	Most true, if ever truth were pregnant by circumstance. That which you hear you’ll swear you see, there is such unity in the proofs. The mantle of Queen Hermione’s, her jewel about the neck of it, the letters of Antigonus found with it, which they know to be his character; the majesty of the creature, in resemblance of the mother; the affection of nobleness which nature shows above her breeding, and many other evidences proclaim her with all certainty to be the King’s daughter. Did you see the meeting of the two kings?
SECOND GENTLEMAN	No.
THIRD GENTLEMAN	Then have you lost a sight which was to be seen, cannot be spoken of. There might you have beheld one joy crown another, so and in such manner that it seemed sorrow wept to take leave of them, for their joy waded in tears. There was casting up of eyes, holding up of hands, with countenance of such distraction that they were to be known by garment, not by favour. Our king being ready to leap out of himself for joy of his found daughter, as if that joy were now become a loss cries, ‘O, thy mother, thy mother!’, then asks Bohemia forgiveness, then embraces his son-in-law, then again worries he his daughter with clipping her. Now he thanks the old shepherd, which stands by like a weather-bitten conduit of many kings’ reigns. I never heard of such another encounter, which lames report to follow it, and undoes description to do it.
SECOND GENTLEMAN	What, pray you, became of Antigonus, that carried hence the child?
THIRD GENTLEMAN	Like an old tale still, which will have matter to rehearse though credit be asleep and not an ear open. He was torn to pieces with a bear. This avouches the shepherd’s son, who has not only his innocence, which seems much, to justify him, but a handkerchief and rings of his, that Paulina knows.
FIRST GENTLEMAN	What became of his barque and his followers?
THIRD GENTLEMAN	Wrecked the same instant of their master’s death, and in the view of the shepherd; so that all the instruments which aided to expose the child were even then lost when it was found. But O, the noble combat that ’twixt joy and sorrow was fought in Paulinal She had one eye declined for the loss of her husband, another elevated that the oracle was fulfilled. She lifted the Princess from the earth, and so locks her in embracing as if she would pin her to her heart, that she might no more be in danger of losing.
FIRST GENTLEMAN	The dignity of this act was worth the audience of kings and princes, for by such was it acted.
THIRD GENTLEMAN	One of the prettiest touches of all, and that which angled for mine eyes—caught the water, though not the fish—was when at the relation of the Queen’s death, with the manner how she came to’t bravely confessed and lamented by the King, how attentiveness wounded his daughter till from one sign of dolour to another she did, with an ‘Alas’, I would fain say bleed tears; for I am sure my heart wept blood. Who was most marble there changed colour. Some swooned, all sorrowed. If all the world could have seen’t, the woe had been universal.
FIRST GENTLEMAN	Are they returned to the court?
THIRD GENTLEMAN	No. The Princess, hearing of her mother’s statue, which is in the keeping of Paulina, a piece many years in doing, and now newly performed by that rare Italian master Giulio Romano, who, had he himself eternity and could put breath into his work, would beguile nature of her custom, so perfectly he is her ape. He so near to Hermione hath done Hermione that they say one would speak to her and stand in hope of answer. Thither with all greediness of affection are they gone, and there they intend to sup.
SECOND GENTLEMAN	I thought she had some great matter there in hand, for she hath privately twice or thrice a day, ever since the death of Hermione, visited that removed house. Shall we thither, and with our company piece the rejoicing?
FIRST GENTLEMAN	Who would be thence, that has the benefit of access? Every wink of an eye some new grace will be born. Our absence makes us unthrifty to our knowledge. Let’s along. Exeunt Gentlemen
AUTOLYCUS	Now, had I not the dash of my former life in me, would preferment drop on my head. I brought the old man and his son aboard the Prince; told him I heard them talk of a fardel, and I know not what. But he at that time over-fond of the shepherd’s daughter—so he then took her to be—who began to be much sea-sick, and himself little better, extremity of weather continuing, this mystery remained undiscovered. But ’tis all one to me, for had I been the finder-out of this secret it would not have relished among my other discredits.
(didascalia)	Enter the Old Shepherd and the Clown, dressed as gentlemen
AUTOLYCUS	Here come those I have done good to against my will, and already appearing in the blossoms of their fortune.
OLD SHEPHERD	Come, boy; I am past more children, but thy sons and daughters will be all gentlemen born.
CLOWN	(to Autolycus) You are well met, sir. You denied to fight with me this other day because I was no gentleman born. See you these clothes? Say you see them not, and think me still no gentleman born. You were best say these robes are not gentlemen born. Give me the lie, do, and try whether I am not now a gentleman born.
AUTOLYCUS	I know you are now, sir, a gentleman born.
CLOWN	Ay, and have been so any time these four hours. OLD SHEPHERD And so have I, boy.
CLOWN	So you have; but I was a gentleman born before my father, for the King’s son took me by the hand and called me brother; and then the two kings called my father brother; and then the Prince my brother and the Princess my sister called my father father; and so we wept; and there was the first gentleman-like tears that ever we shed.
OLD SHEPHERD	We may live, son, to shed many more.
CLOWN	Ay, or else ’twere hard luck, being in so preposterous estate as we are.
AUTOLYCUS	I humbly beseech you, sir, to pardon me all the faults I have committed to your worship, and to give me your good report to the Prince my master.
OLD SHEPHERD	Prithee, son, do, for we must be gentle now we are gentlemen.
CLOWN	Thou wilt amend thy life?
AUTOLYCUS	Ay, an it like your good worship.
CLOWN	Give me thy hand. I will swear to the Prince thou art as honest a true fellow as any is in Bohemia.
OLD SHEPHERD	You may say it, but not swear it.
CLOWN	Not swear it now I am a gentleman? Let boors and franklins say it; I’ll swear it.
OLD SHEPHERD	How if it be false, son?
CLOWN	If it be ne’er so false, a true gentleman may swear it in the behalf of his friend, (to Autolycus) and I’ll swear to the Prince thou art a tall fellow of thy hands and that thou wilt not be drunk; but I know thou art no tall fellow of thy hands and that thou wilt be drunk; but I’ll swear it, and I would thou wouldst be a tall fellow of thy hands.
AUTOLYCUS	I will prove so, sir, to my power.
CLOWN	Ay, by any means prove a tall fellow. If I do not wonder how thou dar’st venture to be drunk, not being a tall fellow, trust me not.
(didascalia)	Flourishwithin
CLOWN	Hark, the kings and princes, our kindred, are going to see the Queen’s picture. Come, follow us. We’ll be thy good masters.
(didascalia)	Exeunt

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entrano Autolico e un Gentiluomo
AUTOLICO	Vi prego, signore, eravate presente a questo racconto?
FIRST GENTLEMAN	Ero lì all’apertura del fardello, udii il vecchio pastore esporre il modo in cui l’aveva trovato; dopo di che, passato un po’ di stupore, ci fu ordinato a tutti di uscire dalla stanza. Solo questo: mi parve di udire il pastore dire che aveva trovato la bambina.
AUTOLICO	Vorrei sapere ben volentieri come sia andata a finire.
FIRST GENTLEMAN	Faccio un resoconto sconnesso della faccenda, ma i mutamenti che notai nel Re e in Camillo erano veri punti d’ammirazione. Pareva quasi che, fissandosi l’un l’altro, si strappassero le orbite degli occhi. C’era parola nel loro mutismo, linguaggio nel loro stesso gesto. Avevano l’aria di chi ha udito d’un mondo riscattato, o d’uno distrutto. Una notevole passione di meraviglia apparve in loro, ma lo spettatore più saggio, che non sapesse altro che quel che vedeva, non avrebbe potuto dire se il senso fosse gioia o dolore. Ma nell’estremo dell’una o dell’altro doveva pur essere.
(didascalia)	Entra un altro Gentiluomo
FIRST GENTLEMAN	Ecco venire un gentiluomo che forse ne sa di più. Le notizie, Ruggiero!
SECOND GENTLEMAN	Nient’altro che falò. L’oracolo è compiuto. La figlia del Re è ritrovata. Tanta meraviglia è scoppiata in quest’ora che i compositori di ballate non sapranno esprimerla.
(didascalia)	Entra un altro Gentiluomo
SECOND GENTLEMAN	Ecco venire il maggiordomo di Madonna Paulina. Egli può dirvene di più.—Come va ora, signore? Questa notizia che si dice vera è così simile a una vecchia favola che la sua verità è fortemente sospetta. Ha il Re trovato la sua erede?
THIRD GENTLEMAN	Verissimo, se mai verità fu gravida di circostanze. Ciò che udite giurereste di vederlo, tanta è l’unità delle prove. Il manto della Regina Ermione, il suo gioiello intorno al collo di esso, le lettere di Antigono trovate con lui, che riconoscono essere della sua scrittura; la maestà della creatura, nella somiglianza con la madre; l’inclinazione alla nobiltà che la natura mostra al di sopra della sua educazione, e molte altre prove la proclamano con ogni certezza figlia del Re. Avete visto l’incontro dei due re?
SECOND GENTLEMAN	No.
THIRD GENTLEMAN	Allora avete perduto uno spettacolo che era da vedersi, e non si può raccontare. Là avreste potuto vedere una gioia incoronare l’altra, e in tal modo che pareva che il dolore piangesse nel prender congedo da loro, perché la loro gioia guadava nelle lacrime. C’era un alzare d’occhi, un levare di mani, con volti tanto stravolti che si riconoscevano dalla veste, non dai lineamenti. Il nostro re, pronto a saltar fuori di sé per la gioia della figlia ritrovata, come se quella gioia fosse ora divenuta una perdita, grida: ‘Oh, tua madre, tua madre!’, poi chiede perdono al Boemo, poi abbraccia il genero, poi di nuovo tormenta la figlia stringendola. Ora ringrazia il vecchio pastore, che sta lì come una fontana corrosa dalle intemperie di molti regni di re. Non ho mai udito d’un altro incontro simile, che azzoppa il racconto che vorrebbe seguirlo, e disfa la descrizione che vorrebbe renderlo.
SECOND GENTLEMAN	Che ne fu, di grazia, di Antigono, che portò via di qui la bambina?
THIRD GENTLEMAN	Sempre come una vecchia favola, che avrà materia da recitare anche se la credenza dorme e non c’è orecchio aperto. Fu fatto a pezzi da un orso. Questo lo attesta il figlio del pastore, che ha non solo la sua innocenza, il che pare molto, a giustificarlo, ma un fazzoletto e degli anelli di lui, che Paulina riconosce.
FIRST GENTLEMAN	Che ne fu della sua barca e dei suoi uomini?
THIRD GENTLEMAN	Naufragati nello stesso istante della morte del loro padrone, e sotto gli occhi del pastore; cosicché tutti gli strumenti che servirono a esporre la bambina furono perduti proprio quando essa fu ritrovata. Ma oh, il nobile combattimento che fra gioia e dolore fu combattuto in Paulinal Aveva un occhio abbassato per la perdita del marito, l’altro levato perché l’oracolo era compiuto. Sollevò la Principessa da terra, e la serra così nell’abbraccio come se volesse appuntarsela al cuore, perché non corresse più il pericolo di perderla.
FIRST GENTLEMAN	La dignità di questa scena valeva un pubblico di re e di principi, perché da tali fu recitata.
THIRD GENTLEMAN	Uno dei tocchi più graziosi di tutti, e quello che pescò ai miei occhi—prese l’acqua, se non il pesce—fu quando, al racconto della morte della Regina, col modo in cui vi giunse, confessato e lamentato coraggiosamente dal Re, l’attenzione ferì sua figlia finché, da un segno di dolore all’altro, ella, con un ‘Ahimè’, vorrei quasi dire sanguinò lacrime; perché sono certo che il mio cuore pianse sangue. Chi era là più di marmo mutò colore. Alcuni svennero, tutti si dolsero. Se tutto il mondo l’avesse potuto vedere, il dolore sarebbe stato universale.
FIRST GENTLEMAN	Sono tornati alla corte?
THIRD GENTLEMAN	No. La Principessa, avendo sentito parlare della statua di sua madre, che è in custodia di Paulina, opera di molti anni di lavoro, e ora appena compiuta da quel raro maestro italiano Giulio Romano, il quale, avesse egli stesso l’eternità e potesse infondere il respiro nella sua opera, ingannerebbe la natura del suo ufficio, tanto perfettamente ne è la scimmia. Egli ha fatto Ermione così vicina a Ermione che, dicono, si vorrebbe parlarle e restare nella speranza d’una risposta. Là con ogni avidità d’affetto sono andati, e là intendono cenare.
SECOND GENTLEMAN	Pensavo che avesse per le mani qualche gran cosa laggiù, perché privatamente due o tre volte al giorno, fin dalla morte di Ermione, ha visitato quella casa appartata. Andiamoci, e con la nostra compagnia accresciamo la letizia?
FIRST GENTLEMAN	Chi vorrebbe starne lontano, avendo il beneficio dell’accesso? A ogni battito di ciglia nascerà qualche nuova grazia. La nostra assenza ci rende poveri di conoscenza. Andiamo. Escono i Gentiluomini
AUTOLICO	Ora, se non avessi in me la macchia della mia vita passata, la promozione mi pioverebbe sul capo. Portai il vecchio e suo figlio a bordo dal Principe; gli dissi che li avevo sentiti parlare d’un fardello, e non so che altro. Ma essendo egli in quel momento troppo innamorato della figlia del pastore—così allora la riteneva—la quale cominciava ad avere un gran mal di mare, e lui stesso poco meglio, e continuando l’estremo maltempo, questo mistero rimase non scoperto. Ma per me è tutt’uno, perché, fossi stato io lo scopritore di questo segreto, non avrebbe avuto buon sapore fra i miei altri discrediti.
(didascalia)	Entrano il Vecchio Pastore e il Villano, vestiti da gentiluomini
AUTOLICO	Ecco venire quelli a cui ho fatto del bene contro la mia volontà, e già in fiore nella loro fortuna.
OLD SHEPHERD	Vieni, ragazzo; io non farò più figli, ma i tuoi figli e le tue figlie saranno tutti gentiluomini nati.
CLOWN	(a Autolico) Ben trovato, signore. Vi siete rifiutato di battervi con me l’altro giorno perché non ero gentiluomo nato. Vedete questi abiti? Dite che non li vedete, e ritenetemi ancora non gentiluomo nato. Fareste meglio a dire che queste vesti non sono gentiluomini nati. Datemi una smentita, su, e provate se ora non sono un gentiluomo nato.
AUTOLICO	So che ora lo siete, signore, un gentiluomo nato.
CLOWN	Sì, e lo sono da un buon pezzo, da queste quattro ore. OLD SHEPHERD E lo sono anch’io, ragazzo.
CLOWN	Sì che lo siete; ma io fui gentiluomo nato prima di mio padre, perché il figlio del Re mi prese per mano e mi chiamò fratello; e poi i due re chiamarono mio padre fratello; e poi il Principe mio fratello e la Principessa mia sorella chiamarono mio padre padre; e allora piangemmo; e quelle furono le prime lacrime da gentiluomini che mai versammo.
OLD SHEPHERD	Possiamo vivere, figlio, per versarne molte altre.
CLOWN	Sì, o altrimenti sarebbe brutta sorte, essendo in così assurda condizione come siamo.
AUTOLICO	Vi supplico umilmente, signore, di perdonarmi tutte le colpe che ho commesso verso vossignoria, e di dare buona relazione di me al Principe mio padrone.
OLD SHEPHERD	Fallo, figlio, ti prego, perché dobbiamo essere gentili ora che siamo gentiluomini.
CLOWN	Emenderai la tua vita?
AUTOLICO	Sì, se piace a vossignoria.
CLOWN	Dammi la mano. Giurerò al Principe che sei un uomo onesto e leale quanto altri mai in Boemia.
OLD SHEPHERD	Potete dirlo, ma non giurarlo.
CLOWN	Non giurarlo, ora che sono un gentiluomo? Che lo dicano i bifolchi e i piccoli proprietari; io lo giurerò.
OLD SHEPHERD	E se fosse falso, figlio?
CLOWN	Per quanto falso sia, un vero gentiluomo può giurarlo a favore del suo amico, (a Autolico) e giurerò al Principe che sei un uomo valente delle tue mani e che non ti ubriacherai; ma so che non sei affatto un uomo valente delle tue mani e che ti ubriacherai; ma lo giurerò lo stesso, e vorrei che tu fossi un uomo valente delle tue mani.
AUTOLICO	Lo dimostrerò, signore, per quanto è in mio potere.
CLOWN	Sì, in ogni modo dimostrati un uomo valente. Se non mi meraviglio di come tu osi arrischiarti a ubriacarti, non essendo un uomo valente, non fidarti di me.
(didascalia)	Squillodentro
CLOWN	Ascolta, i re e i principi, nostri parenti, vanno a vedere il ritratto della Regina. Vieni, seguici. Saremo i tuoi buoni padroni.
(didascalia)	Escono

Speaker	Line
(didascalia)	Enter Leontes, Polixenes, Florizel, Perdita, Camillo, Paulina, Lords, and attendants
LEONTES	O grave and good Paulina, the great comfort That I have had of thee!
PAULINA	What, sovereign sir, I did not well, I meant well. All my services You have paid home, but that you have vouchsafed With your crowned brother and these young contracted Heirs of your kingdoms my poor house to visit, It is a surplus of your grace which never My life may last to answer.
LEONTES	O Paulina, We honour you with trouble. But we came To see the statue of our queen. Your gallery Have we passed through, not without much content In many singularities; but we saw not That which my daughter came to look upon, The statue of her mother.
PAULINA	As she lived peerless, So her dead likeness I do well believe Excels what ever yet you looked upon, Or hand of man hath done. Therefore I keep it Lonely, apart. But here it is. Prepare To see the life as lively mocked as ever Still sleep mocked death. Behold, and say ’tis well. She draws a curtain and reveals the figure of Hermione, standing like a statue I like your silence; it the more shows off Your wonder. But yet speak; first you, my liege. Comes it not something near?
LEONTES	Her natural posture. Chide me, dear stone, that I may say indeed Thou art Hermione; or rather, thou art she In thy not chiding, for she was as tender As infancy and grace. But yet, Paulina, Hermione was not so much wrinkled, nothing So aged as this seems.
POLIXENES	O, not by much.
PAULINA	So much the more our carver’s excellence, Which lets go by some sixteen years, and makes her As she lived now.
LEONTES	As now she might have done, So much to my good comfort as it is Now piercing to my soul. O, thus she stood, Even with such life of majesty—warm life, As now it coldly stands—when first I wooed her. I am ashamed. Does not the stone rebuke me For being more stone than it? O royal piece! There’s magic in thy majesty, which has My evils conjured to remembrance, and From thy admiring daughter took the spirits, Standing like stone with thee.
PERDITA	And give me leave, And do not say ’tis superstition, that I kneel and then implore her blessing. Lady, Dear Queen, that ended when I but began, Give me that hand of yours to kiss.
PAULINA	O, patience! The statue is but newly fixed; the colour’s Not dry.
CAMILLO	(to Leontes) My lord, your sorrow was too sore laid on, Which sixteen winters cannot blow away, So many summers dry. Scarce any joy Did ever so long live; no sorrow But killed itself much sooner.
POLIXENES	(to Leontes) Dear my brother, Let him that was the cause of this have power To take off so much grief from you as he Will piece up in himself.
PAULINA	(to Leontes) Indeed, my lord, If I had thought the sight of my poor image Would thus have wrought you—for the stone is mine— I’d not have showed it. She makes to draw the curtain
LEONTES	Do not draw the curtain.
PAULINA	No longer shall you gaze on’t, lest your fancy May think anon it moves.
LEONTES	Let be, let be! Would I were dead but that methinks already. What was he that did make it? See, my lord, Would you not deem it breathed, and that those veins Did verily bear blood?
POLIXENES	Masterly done. The very life seems warm upon her lip.
LEONTES	The fixture of her eye has motion in’t, As we are mocked with art.
PAULINA	I’ll draw the curtain. My lord’s almost so far transported that He’ll think anon it lives.
LEONTES	O sweet Paulina, Make me to think so twenty years together. No settled senses of the world can match The pleasure of that madness. Let’t alone.
PAULINA	I am sorry, sir, I have thus far stirred you; but I could afflict you farther.
LEONTES	Do, Paulina, For this affliction has a taste as sweet As any cordial comfort. Still methinks There is an air comes from her. What fine chisel Could ever yet cut breath? Let no man mock me, For I will kiss her.
PAULINA	Good my lord, forbear. The ruddiness upon her lip is wet. You’ll mar it if you kiss it, stain your own With oily painting. Shall I draw the curtain?
LEONTES	No, not these twenty years.
PERDITA	So long could I Stand by, a looker-on.
PAULINA	Either forbear, Quit presently the chapel, or resolve you For more amazement. If you can behold it, I’ll make the statue move indeed, descend, And take you by the hand. But then you’ll think— Which I protest against—I am assisted By wicked powers.
LEONTES	What you can make her do I am content to look on; what to speak, I am content to hear; for ’tis as easy To make her speak as move.
PAULINA	It is required You do awake your faith. Then, all stand still. Or those that think it is unlawful business I am about, let them depart.
LEONTES	Proceed. No foot shall stir.
(didascalia)	Music; awake her; strike!
(didascalia)	Music
PAULINA	(To Hermione) ’Tis time. Descend. Be stone no more. Approach. Strike all that look upon with marvel. Come, I’ll fill your grave up. Stir. Nay, come away. Bequeath to death your numbness, for from him Dear life redeems you. (To Leontes) You perceive she stirs. Hermione slowly descends Start not. Her actions shall be holy as You hear my spell is lawful. Do not shun her Until you see her die again, for then You kill her double. Nay, present your hand. When she was young, you wooed her. Now, in age, Is she become the suitor?
LEONTES	O, she’s warm! If this be magic, let it be an art Lawful as eating.
POLIXENES	She embraces him.
CAMILLO	She hangs about his neck. If she pertain to life, let her speak too.
POLIXENES	Ay, and make it manifest where she has lived, Or how stol’n from the dead.
PAULINA	That she is living, Were it but told you, should be hooted at Like an old tale. But it appears she lives, Though yet she speak not. Mark a little while. (To Perdita) Please you to interpose, fair madam. Kneel, And pray your mother’s blessing.—Turn, good lady, Our Perdita is found.
HERMIONE	You gods, look down, And from your sacred vials pour your graces Upon my daughter’s head.—Tell me, mine own, Where hast thou been preserved? Where lived? How found Thy father’s court? For thou shalt hear that I, Knowing by Paulina that the oracle Gave hope thou wast in being, have preserved Myself to see the issue.
PAULINA	There’s time enough for that, Lest they desire upon this push to trouble Your joys with like relation. Go together, You precious winners all; your exultation Partake to everyone. I, an old turtle, Will wing me to some withered bough, and there My mate, that’s never to be found again, Lament till I am lost.
LEONTES	O peace, Paulina! Thou shouldst a husband take by my consent, As I by thine a wife. This is a match, And made between’s by vows. Thou hast found mine, But how is to be questioned, for I saw her, As I thought, dead, and have in vain said many A prayer upon her grave. I’ll not seek far— For him, I partly know his mind—to find thee An honourable husband. Come, Camillo, And take her by the hand, whose worth and honesty Is richly noted, and here justified By us, a pair of kings. Let’s from this place. (To Hermione) What, look upon my brother. Both your pardons, That e’er I put between your holy looks My ill suspicion. This’ your son-in-law And son unto the King, whom heavens directing Is troth-plight to your daughter. Good Paulina, Lead us from hence, where we may leisurely Each one demand and answer to his part Performed in this wide gap of time since first We were dissevered. Hastily lead away.
(didascalia)	Exeunt
THE TRAGEDY OF KING	LEAR
THE	text of King Lear given here represents the revision made probably three or four years after the first version had been written and performed; it is based on the text printed in the 1623 Folio. This is the more obviously theatrical text. It makes a number of significant cuts, amounting to some 300 lines. The most conspicuous ones are the dialogue in which Lear’s Fool implicitly calls his master a fool (Quarto Sc. 4, 136―51); Kent’s account of the French invasion of England (Quarto Sc. 8, 21―33); Lear’s mock-trial, in his madness, of his daughters (Quarto Sc. 13, 13―52); Edgar’s generalizing couplets at the end of that scene (Quarto Sc. 13, 97―110); the brief, compassionate dialogue of two of Gloucester’s servants after his blinding (Quarto Sc. 14, 97―106); parts of Albany’s protest to Goneril about the sisters’ treatment of Lear (in Quarto Sc. 16); the entire scene (Quarto Sc. 17) in which a Gentleman tells Kent of Cordelia’s grief on hearing of her father’s condition; the presence of the Doctor and the musical accompaniment to the reunion of Lear and Cordelia (Quarto Sc. 21); and Edgar’s account of his meeting with Kent in which Kent’s ’strings of life | Began to crack’ (Quarto Sc. 24, 201―18). The Folio also adds about 100 lines that are not in the Quarto—mostly in short passages, including Kent’s statement that Albany and Cornwall have servants who are in the pay of France (3.1.13―20), Merlin’s prophecy spoken by the Fool at the end of 3.2, and the last lines of both the Fool and Lear. In addition, several speeches are differently assigned, and there are many variations in wording. The reasons for these variations, and their effect on the play, are to some extent matters of speculation and of individual interpretation. Certainly they streamline the play’s action, removing some reflective passages, particularly at the ends of scenes. They affect the characterization of, especially, Edgar, Albany, and Kent, and there are significant differences in the play’s closing passages. Structurally the principal differences lie in the presentation of the military actions in the later part of the play; in the Folio-based text Cordelia is more clearly in charge of the forces that come to Lear’s assistance, and they are less clearly a French invasion force. The absence from this text of passages that appeared in the 1608 text implies no criticism of them in themselves. The play’s revision may have been dictated in whole or in part by theatrical exigencies, or it may have emerged from Shakespeare’s own dissatisfaction with what he had first written. Each version has its own integrity, which is distorted by the practice, traditional since the early eighteenth century, of conflation.
THE PERSONS OF THE	PLAY LEAR, King of Britain GONERIL, Lear’s eldest daughter Duke of ALBANY, her husband REGAN, Lear’s second daughter Duke of CORNWALL, her husband CORDELIA, Lear’s youngest daughter Earl of KENT, later disguised as Caius Earl of GLOUCESTER EDGAR, elder son of Gloucester, later disguised as Tom o’ Bedlam EDMOND, bastard son of Gloucester
OLD	MAN, Gloucester’s tenant CURAN, Gloucester’s retainer Lear’s FOOL OSWALD, Goneril’s steward A SERVANT of Cornwall A KNIGHT A HERALD A CAPTAIN Gentlemen, servants, soldiers, attendants, messengers

Chi parla	Battuta
(didascalia)	Entrano Leonte, Polissene, Florizello, Perdita, Camillo, Paulina, Signori e attendenti
LEONTE	O grave e buona Paulina, quale gran conforto ho avuto da te!
PAULINA	Che, sovrano signore, se non feci bene, intesi bene. Tutti i miei servigi li avete ripagati fino in fondo; ma che vi siate degnato, col vostro coronato fratello e questi giovani fidanzati eredi dei vostri regni, di visitare la mia povera casa, è un soprappiù della vostra grazia a cui mai la mia vita potrà durare a rispondere.
LEONTE	O Paulina, vi onoriamo con un disturbo. Ma siamo venuti a vedere la statua della nostra regina. La vostra galleria l’abbiamo attraversata, non senza molto diletto in molte singolarità; ma non vedemmo quello che mia figlia è venuta a contemplare, la statua di sua madre.
PAULINA	Come ella visse senza pari, così credo bene che la sua effigie di morta superi quanto voi abbiate mai guardato, o mano d’uomo abbia fatto. Perciò la tengo sola, in disparte. Ma eccola. Preparatevi a vedere la vita imitata così al vivo come mai il quieto sonno imitò la morte. Guardate, e dite che sta bene. Tira una tenda e scopre la figura di Ermione, ritta come una statua Mi piace il vostro silenzio; tanto più mette in mostra la vostra meraviglia. Ma pure parlate; prima voi, mio sovrano. Non ci s’avvicina alquanto?
LEONTE	La sua postura naturale. Rimproverami, cara pietra, ch’io possa dire davvero che tu sei Ermione; o piuttosto, tu sei lei nel tuo non rimproverare, perché ella era tenera come l’infanzia e la grazia. Ma pure, Paulina, Ermione non era così rugosa, non era affatto così invecchiata come questa sembra.
POLISSENE	Oh, di molto no.
PAULINA	Tanto maggiore l’eccellenza del nostro scultore, che lascia passare qualche sedici anni, e la fa come se vivesse ora.
LEONTE	Come ora avrebbe potuto essere, tanto a mio buon conforto quanto ora è trafittura per la mia anima. Oh, così stava, proprio con tale vita di maestà—calda vita, come ora freddamente sta—quando la corteggiai la prima volta. Mi vergogno. Non mi rimprovera la pietra d’essere io più pietra di lei? O regale opera! C’è magia nella tua maestà, che ha evocato al ricordo i miei mali, e ha tolto gli spiriti alla tua figlia ammirante, che sta come pietra insieme a te.
PERDITA	E datemi licenza, e non dite che è superstizione, che io m’inginocchi e implori la sua benedizione. Signora, cara Regina, che finiste quando io appena cominciavo, datemi quella vostra mano da baciare.
PAULINA	Oh, pazienza! La statua è stata fissata da poco; il colore non è asciutto.
CAMILLO	(a Leonte) Mio signore, il vostro dolore fu posto troppo aspramente, se sedici inverni non lo possono spazzare via, né altrettante estati asciugare. A stento alcuna gioia visse mai così a lungo; nessun dolore che non si uccidesse assai prima.
POLISSENE	(a Leonte) Caro fratello mio, lasciate che colui che fu causa di ciò abbia il potere di togliervi tanto dolore quanto egli ne raccoglierà su di sé.
PAULINA	(a Leonte) In verità, mio signore, se avessi pensato che la vista della mia povera immagine vi avrebbe così colpito—perché la pietra è mia— non ve l’avrei mostrata. Fa per tirare la tenda
LEONTE	Non tirare la tenda.
PAULINA	Non la guarderete più a lungo, perché la vostra fantasia non pensi fra poco che si muova.
LEONTE	Lasciate stare, lasciate stare! Vorrei essere morto, se non che già mi pare… Chi fu colui che la fece? Guardate, mio signore, non giudichereste che respiri, e che quelle vene portino davvero sangue?
POLISSENE	Fatto da maestro. La vita stessa pare calda sulle sue labbra.
LEONTE	La fissità del suo occhio ha in sé movimento, tanto siamo beffati dall’arte.
PAULINA	Tirerò la tenda. Il mio signore è quasi trasportato al punto che fra poco penserà che vive.
LEONTE	O dolce Paulina, fammelo pensare vent’anni di seguito. Nessun senno assestato del mondo può eguagliare il piacere di quella follia. Lasciala stare.
PAULINA	Mi dispiace, signore, d’avervi turbato fin qui; ma potrei affliggervi ancora di più.
LEONTE	Fallo, Paulina, perché questa afflizione ha un sapore dolce quanto ogni cordiale conforto. Ancora mi pare che venga da lei un alito. Quale fine scalpello poté mai intagliare il respiro? Nessuno mi derida, perché voglio baciarla.
PAULINA	Mio buon signore, trattenetevi. Il rossore sulle sue labbra è umido. Lo guasterete se lo baciate, e macchierete le vostre di pittura oleosa. Devo tirare la tenda?
LEONTE	No, non per questi vent’anni.
PERDITA	Altrettanto a lungo potrei io starmene qui a guardare.
PAULINA	O trattenetevi, lasciate subito la cappella, o disponetevi a maggiore stupore. Se potete sostenerlo, farò che la statua si muova davvero, che scenda, e vi prenda per mano. Ma allora penserete— e io lo nego—che io sia assistita da potenze malvagie.
LEONTE	Ciò che potete farle fare sono contento di guardarlo; ciò che potete farle dire, sono contento d’udirlo; perché è altrettanto facile farla parlare quanto muovere.
PAULINA	È richiesto che destiate la vostra fede. Allora, tutti stiano fermi. O quelli che credono che sia opera illecita quella che intraprendo, se ne vadano.
LEONTE	Procedete. Nessun piede si muoverà.
(didascalia)	Musica; svegliatela; attaccate!
(didascalia)	Musica
PAULINA	(A Ermione) È tempo. Scendi. Non essere più pietra. Avvicinati. Colpisci di meraviglia tutti quelli che ti guardano. Vieni, riempirò io la tua tomba. Muoviti. Su, vieni via. Lascia in eredità alla morte il tuo torpore, perché da lei la cara vita ti riscatta. (A Leonte) Vedete bene che si muove. Ermione scende lentamente Non trasalite. I suoi atti saranno santi quanto udite che è lecito il mio incantesimo. Non fuggitela finché non la vediate morire di nuovo, perché allora la uccidereste due volte. Su, porgetele la mano. Quando era giovane, voi la corteggiaste. Ora, in età, è ella divenuta la corteggiatrice?
LEONTE	Oh, è calda! Se questa è magia, sia un’arte lecita quanto il mangiare.
POLISSENE	Lo abbraccia.
CAMILLO	Gli si stringe al collo. Se appartiene alla vita, che parli anche.
POLISSENE	Sì, e renda manifesto dove ha vissuto, o come sia stata sottratta ai morti.
PAULINA	Che ella sia viva, se ve lo dicessero soltanto, sarebbe fischiato come una vecchia favola. Ma appare che vive, benché ancora non parli. Osservate un poco. (A Perdita) Vi piaccia interporvi, bella signora. Inginocchiatevi, e implorate la benedizione di vostra madre.—Voltatevi, buona signora, la nostra Perdita è ritrovata.
ERMIONE	Voi dèi, guardate quaggiù, e dalle vostre sacre ampolle versate le vostre grazie sul capo di mia figlia.—Dimmi, creatura mia, dove sei stata custodita? Dove hai vissuto? Come hai trovato la corte di tuo padre? Perché udrai che io, sapendo da Paulina che l’oracolo dava speranza che tu fossi in vita, ho conservato me stessa per vederne l’esito.
PAULINA	C’è tempo abbastanza per questo, perché non desiderino in questo slancio turbare le vostre gioie con simile racconto. Andate insieme, voi tutti preziosi vincitori; la vostra esultanza partecipatela a ciascuno. Io, vecchia tortora, volerò a qualche ramo secco, e là il mio compagno, che mai più sarà ritrovato, piangerò finché sarò perduta.
LEONTE	Oh, pace, Paulina! Tu devi prendere marito col mio consenso, come io col tuo una moglie. Questo è un patto, e stretto fra noi con voti. Tu hai ritrovato la mia, ma come, resta da chiedersi, perché io la vidi, come credevo, morta, e ho invano detto più d’una preghiera sulla sua tomba. Non cercherò lontano— quanto a lui, in parte conosco la sua mente—per trovarti un onorevole marito. Vieni, Camillo, e prendila per mano, tu il cui valore e la cui onestà sono riccamente noti, e qui garantiti da noi, una coppia di re. Andiamo via da questo luogo. (A Ermione) Suvvia, guarda mio fratello. Il perdono d’entrambi, per aver io mai messo fra i vostri sguardi santi il mio malvagio sospetto. Questi è vostro genero e figlio del Re, il quale, per volere dei cieli, è promesso in fede a vostra figlia. Buona Paulina, conducici via di qui, dove con agio potremo ciascuno chiedere e rispondere della propria parte recitata in questo ampio squarcio di tempo da quando la prima volta fummo divisi. Conducici via in fretta.
(didascalia)	Escono
LA TRAGEDIA DI RE	LEAR