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My chamber-councels, wherein, priest like, thou
Haft cleans'd my bosom: I from thee departed
Thy Penitene reform’d; but we have been
Deceiv'd in thy integrity; deceiv'd
In that, which seems so.

Cam. Be it forbid, my lord

Leo. To bide upon't;~ Thou art not honeft; or,
If thou inclin'st that way, thou art a coward;
Which hoxes honefty behind, restraining
From courfe requir'd: or else thou must be counted
A servant grafted in my serious Trust,
And therein negligent; or else a fool,
That feeft a game plaid home, the rich stake drawn,
And tak’ft it all for jest.

Cam. My gracious lord,
I may be negligent, foolish and fearful; (5)
In every one of these no man is free,
But that his negligence, his folly, fear,
Amongst the infinite doings of the world,
Sometime puts forth. In your affairs, my lord,
If ever I were wilful negligent,
It was my folly, if industriously
I play'd 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
Against the non-performance, 'twas a fear
Which oft infects the wiseft: these, my lord,
Are such allow'd infirmities, that honesty

cry out

(5) I may be negligent, foolis, and fearful;
In

every one of these ne Man is free,
But that his Negligence, his Folly, Fear,
Among the infinite Doings of the World

Sometimes puts forth in your Affairs, my Lord.] Moft accurate Pointing This, and fine Nonsense the Result of it! The old Folio's first blunder'd thus, and Mr. Rowe by Inadvertence (if he read the Sheets at all,) overlook'd the Fault. Mr. Pope, like a most obsequious Editor, has taken the Passage on Content, and pursued the Track of Stupidity. I dare say, every understanding Reader will allow, my Reformation of the Pointing has entirely retriev'd the Place from Obscurity, and reconcil'd it to the Author's Meaning.

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.

Leo. Ha'not you seen, Camillo,
(But that's past doubt, you have; or your eye-glass
Ìs chicker than a cuckold's, horn;) or heard,
(For to a vision fo apparent, rumour
Cannot be mute;) or thought, (for cogitation
Resides not in that man, chat do's not think it ;)
My wife is flippery ? if thou wilt, confess;
(Or else be impudently negative,
To have nor eyes, nor ears, nor thought,) then say,
My wife's a hobby-horse, deserves a name
As rank as any flax-wench, that puts to
Before her troth-plight: fay't, and justify't.

Cam. 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, tho' true.

Leo. Is whispering nothing?
Is leaning cheek to cheek? is meating noses?
Kisling with inside lip? stopping the career
Of laughter with a figh? (a note infallible
Of breaking honesty :) horsing foot on foot ?
Skulking in corners? wishing clocks more swift?
Hours, minutes? the 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

Cam. Good my lord, be cur'd
Of this diseas'd opinion, and betimes;
For 'tis most dangerous,

Leo. Say it be, 'ris true.
Cam. No, no, my lord.

Lea,

Leo. It is; you lie, you lie:
I say, thou liest, Camillo, and I hate thee;
Pronounce thee a gross lowt, a mindless Nave,
Or elle a hovering temporizer, that
Canft 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.

Cam. Who do's infect her?

Leo. Why he, that wears her like his 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 : I, and thou
His cup-bearer, (whom I from meaner form
Have bench'd, and rear'd to worship; who may'st see
Plainly, as heav'n sees earth, and earth sees heav'n,
How I am gallid ;) thou might'st be-spice a cup,
To give mine enemy a lasting wink ;
Which draught to me were cordial.

Cam. Sir, my lord,
I could do this, and that with no rash potion,
But with a lingring dram, that should not work,
Maliciously, like poison : but I cannot (6)
(6)

but I cannot
Believe this Crack to be in my dread Mistress,
So fovereignly being honourable.

I have lov'd chee. Leo. Make that thy Question and go rot.] This Passage wants very little weighing, to determine fafely upon it, that the last Hemistich alfign'd to Camillo, must have been mittakenly placed to him. It is a ftrange Instance of Disrespect and Infolence in Camillo to his King and Maiter, to tell him that He has once lov'd him. But Sense and Reason will easily acquit our Poet from such an Impropriety. I have ventur'd at a Transposition, which seems self-evident. Camillo will not be persuaded into a Sufpicion of the Difloyalty imputed to his Mistress. The King, who believes Nothing but his Jealouty, provok'd that Camillo is so obftinately diffident, finely starts into a Rage and cries;

I've lov'd thee. Make't thy Question, and go rot. i. e. I have tender'd thee well, Camillo, but I here cancel all former Respect at once. If Thou any longer make a Question of my Wife's Disloyalty ; go from my Presence, and Perdition overtake thee for thy Stubbornness.

Believe go rot:

1

Believe this crack to be in my dread mistress,
So soveraignly being honourable.

Leo. I've lov'd thee. ---Make't thy Question, and
Do'st think, I am fo muddy, so unfettled,
To appoint my self in this vexation? Sully
The purity and whitenefs of my fheets,
(Which to preserve; is fleep, 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 fo blench?

Cam. I must believe you, Sir;
I do, and will fetch off Bohemia fort:
Provided, that, when he's remov’d, your Highness
Will take again your Queen, as yours at firft,
Even for your son's fake, and thereby for fealing
The injury of tongues, in Courts and Kingdom's
Known and ally'd to yours.

Leo. Thou doft advise me,
Even so as I mine own course have fet down:
I'll give no blemish to her honour, none.

Cam. My lord,
Go then ; and with a countenance as clear
As friendship wears at feasts, keep with Bohemia,
And with your Queen: I am his cup-bearer;
If from me he have wholesome beveridge,
Account me not your

servant.
Leo. This is all;
Do't, and thou haft the one half of my heart;
Do't not, thou split'st thine own.

Cam. I'll do't, my lord.
Leo. I will seem friendly, as thou hast advis'd me.

[Exit.
Cam. O miserable lady! but for me,
What case stand I in? I must be the poisoner
Of good Polixenes, and my ground to do's
Is the obedience to a master ; one,
Who, in rebellion with himself, will have

All

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 flourish'd after, I'd not do'r: but since
Nor brass, nor stone, nor parchment, bears not one ;
Let villany it self forswear't. I must
Forsake the Court; to do't, or no, is certain
To me a break-neck. Happy star, reign now!
Here comes Bohemia.

Enter Polixenes.
Pol. This is strange! methinks;
My favour here begins to warp. Not speak?
Good day, Camillo.

Cam. Hail, most royal Sir!
Pol. What is the news i'th' Court?
Cam. None rare, my lord.
Pol. The King hath

on him such a countenance,
As he had loft Tome Province, and a region
Lov’d, as he loves himself: even now I mer him
With customary compliment, when hez
Wafting his eyes to tħ' 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.

Cam. I dare not know, my lord.
Pol. How, dare not? do not? do you know, and

dare not?
Be intelligent to me, 'tis thereabouts :
For to your self, what you do know, you must,
And cannot say, you dare not. Good Camillo,
Your chang’d complexions are to me a mirror,
Which shews me mine chang'd too; for I must be
A party in this alteration, finding
My self thus alter'd with it.

Cam. There is a sickness
Which puts some of us in distemper; but
I cannot name the disease, and it is caught
Of

you that yet are well.

Pol.

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