My chamber-councels, wherein, priest like, thou Gam. Be it forbid, my lord Leo. To bide upon't;- Thou art not honeft; or, If thou inclin'ft that way, thou art a coward; Which hoxes honefty behind, restraining From courfe requir'd: or elfe thou must be counted A fervant grafted in my ferious Truft, And therein negligent; or elfe a fool, That feeft a game plaid home, the rich stake drawn, And tak'ft it all for jeft. I Cam. My gracious lord, may be negligent, foolish and fearful; (5) In every one of these no man is free, But that his negligence, his folly, fear, It was my folly; if industriously I play'd the fool, it was my negligence, (5) I may be negligent, foolish, and fearful; But that his Negligence, his Folly, Fear, Sometimes puts forth in your Affairs, my Lord.] Moft accurate Pointing This, and fine Nonsense the Refult 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 moft obfequious Editor, has taken the Paffage on Content, and pursued the Track of Stupidity. I dare fay, every understanding Reader will allow, my Reformation of the Pointing has entirely retriev'd the Place from Obfcurity, and reconcil'd it to the Author's Meaning. Is never free of. But, befeech your Grace, Leo. Ha'not you feen, Camillo, (But that's paft doubt, you have; or your eye-glafs Cannot be mute;) or thought, (for cogitation To have nor eyes, nor ears, nor thought,) then fay, Leo. Is whispering nothing? Is leaning cheek to cheek? is meating nofes? Cam. Good my lord, be cur'd Of this difeas'd opinion, and betimes; For 'tis most dangerous. Leo. Say it be, 'tis true. Cam. No, no, my lord. Lea, Leo. It is; you lie, you lie: I fay, thou lieft, Camillo, and I hate thee; Canft with thine eyes at once fee good and evil, Cam. Who do's infect her? Leo. Why he, that wears her like his medal, hanging To fee alike mine honour, as their profits, Have bench'd, and rear'd to worship; who may'st see Which draught to me were cordial. I could do this, and that with no rash potion, (6) but I cannot Believe this Crack to be in my dread Mistress, I have lov'd thee.. Leo. Make that thy Question and go rot.] This Paffage wants very little weighing, to determine fafely upon it, that the last Hemiftich af fign'd to Camillo, muft have been mittakenly placed to him. It is a ftrange Inftance of Difrefpect and Infolence in Camillo to his King and Mafter, to tell him that He has once lov'd him. But Senfe and Reafon will eafily acquit our Poet from fuch an Impropriety. I have ventur'd at a Tranfpofition, which feems self-evident. Camillo will not be perfuaded into a Sufpicion of the Disloyalty imputed to his Miftrefs. The King, who believes Nothing but his Jealouly, provok'd that Camillo is fo obftinately diffident, finely starts into a Rage and cries; Ive lov'd thee. Make't thy Queftion, and go rot. i. e. I have tender'd thee well, Camillo, but I here cancel all former Refpect at once. If Thou any longer make a Queftion of my Wife's Difloyalty; go from my Prefence, and Perdition overtake thee for thy Stubbornnefs. Believe Believe this crack to be in my dread miftrefs, go rot: Make't thy Queftion, and Do'ft think, I am fo muddy, so unfettled, To appoint my felf in this vexation? Sully (Which to preserve, is fleep; which being spotted, Cam. I must believe you, Sir; I do, and will fetch off Bohemia for't: Provided, that, when he's remov'd, your Highness Leo. Thou dost advise me, Even fo as I mine own courfe have fet down: Go then; and with a countenance as clear As friendship wears at feafts, keep with Bohemia, Leo. I will feem friendly, as thou haft advis'd me. Cam. O miferable lady! but for me, What cafe ftand I in? I must be the poisoner [Exit. All All that are his, fo too. To do this deed, Nor brafs, nor ftone, nor parchment, bears not one; Forfake the Court; to do't, or no, is certain Enter Polixenes. Pol. This is strange! methinks, My favour here begins to warp. Not speak? Cam. Hail, most royal Sir! Pol. What is the news i'th' Court? Pol. The King hath on him fuch a countenance, 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 felf, what you do know, you must, A My felf thus alter'd with it. Cam. There is a fickness Which puts fome of us in diftemper; but Pol. |