1 Lord.

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

I'the boldness of your speech.

Paul.

I am sorry for't:

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

The rashness of a woman: he is touch'd

To the noble heart.

What's gone, and what's past

help,

Should be past grief: Do not receive affliction ; At my petition, I beseech you, rather

Let me be punish'd, that have minded you

Of what you should forget. Now, good my liege, Sir, royal sir, forgive a foolish woman:

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,

Take your patience to you,

Who is lost too :
And I'll say nothing.

Leon.

Thou didst speak but well,

When most the truth, which I receive much better
Than to be pitied of thee. Pr'ythee, bring me
To the dead bodies of my queen, and son.
One grave shall be for both: upon them shall
The causes of their death appear, unto
Our shame perpetual. Once a day I'll visit
The chapel where they lie; and tears shed there
Shall be my recreation : So long as nature

Will bear up with this exercise, so long

I daily vow to use it.
To these sorrows.

Come, and lead me

[Exeunt

ere done't:

And damnable ungrateful: nor was't much,
Thou would'st have poison'd good Camillo's honour
To have him kill a king; poor trespasses,
More monstrous standing by! whereof I reckon
The casting forth to crows thy baby daughter,
To be or nonė, or little; though a devil
Would have shed water out of fire,15
Nor is't directly laid to thee, the death
Of the young prince; whose honourable thoughts
(Thoughts high for one so tender) cleft the heart
That could conceive a gross and foolish sire
Blemish'd his gracious dam: this is not, no,
Laid to thy answer: But the last,

O, lords! When I have said, cry woe! - the queen, the queen, The sweet'st, dear'st creature's dead; and vengeance

for't

Not dropp'd down yet.

1 Lord.

Paul. I

The higher powers forbid!

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.

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

15 That is, a devil would have shed tears of pity, ere he would have perpetrated such an action.

1 Lord.

Say no more:

Howe'er the business goes, you have made fault
I'the boldness of your speech.

Paul.

I am sorry for❜t:

All faults I make, when I shall come to know them, Alas! I have show'd too much

I do repent.

The rashness of a woman: he is touch'd

To the noble heart.

What's gone,

and what's past

help,

Should be past grief:

Do not receive affliction;

At my petition, I beseech you,

rather

Let me be punish'd, that have minded you

Of what you should forget. Now, good my liege, Sir, royal sir, forgive a foolish woman:

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.

Leon.

Thou didst speak but well,

When most the truth, which I receive much better Than to be pitied of thee. Pr'ythee, bring me

To the dead bodies of my queen, and son.

One grave shall be for both: upon them shall
The causes of their death appear, unto
Our shame perpetual. Once a day I'll visit
The chapel where they lie; and tears shed there
Shall be my recreation: So long as nature

Will bear up with this
I daily vow to use it.
To these sorrows.

exercise, so long

Come, and lead me

[Exeunt

SCENE III. Bohemia.

A desert Country near the Sea.

Enter ANTIGONUS, with the Babe; and a Mariner.

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

upon

The deserts of Bohemia?

Mar. 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 us.

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

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

I have heard (but not believ'd) the spirits o' the dead
May walk again: if such thing be, thy mother
Appear'd to me last night; for ne'er was dream
So like a waking. To me comes a creature,
Sometinies her head on one side, some another;
I never saw a vessel of like sorrow,

So fill'd, and so becoming: in pure white robes,

That is, well assured.

Like very sanctity, she did approach

My cabin where I lay; thrice bow'd before me;
And, gasping to begin some speech, her eyes
Became two spouts: the fury spent, anon
Did this break from her : -"Good Antigonus,
Since fate, against thy better disposition,
Hath made thy person for the thrower-out
Of my poor babe, according to thine oath,
Places remote enough are in Bohemia,

There weep, and leave it crying; and, for the babe
Is counted lost forever, Perdita,

I pr'ythee, call't: for this ungentle business,
Put on thee by my lord, thou ne'er shalt see
Thy wife Paulina more: "— and so, with shrieks,
She melted into air. Affrighted much,

I did in time collect myself, and thought
This was so, and no slumber. Dreams are toys;
Yet for this once, yea, superstitiously,

I will be squar'd by this. I do believe
Hermione hath suffer'd death; and that
Apollo would, this being indeed the issue
Of king Polixenes, it should here be laid,
Either for life or death, upon the earth
Of its right father.

Blossom, speed thee well!
[Laying down the Babe.

[Laying down a bundle.

There lie; and there thy character: there these;

Which may, if fortune please, both breed thee, pretty, And still rest thine.

wretch,

- The storm begins: —

That for thy mother's fault art thus expos'd

- Poor

To loss, and what may follow!— Weep I cannot, But my heart bleeds; and most accurs'd am I,

2 That is, description. The writing afterward discovered with

Perdita.