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In every one of these no man is free,
But that his negligence, his folly, fear,
Amongit 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 cry out
Against the non-performance, 'twas a fear
Which oft infects the wiseft: these, my lord,
Are fuch allow'd infirmities, that honefty
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
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 do's not think it ;)
My wife is slippery? if thou wilt, confess;
(Or else be impudently negative,
To have nor eyes nor ears; nor thought,) then fay,
My wife's a hobby-horse, deserves a name
As rank as any fax-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 fo, without

Sometimes puts forth in your Affairs, my Lord.) Most accurate Pointing This, and fine Nonfenfe the Result of it! The old Folio's firft bluoder'd thus, and Mr. Rowe by Inadvertence (if he read the Sheets at all,) overlook'd the Fault. Mr. Pope, like a moft obsequious Editor, has taken the Passage 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 Obscurity, and recon. cil'd it to the Author's Meaning,


My present vengeance taken; 'Shrew my heart,
You never spoke what did become you less
Than this ; which to reiterate, were fin
As deep as that, tho' true.

Leo. Is whispering nothing?
Is leaning cheek to cheek? is meating noses?
Kifling with inside lip? stopping the career
Of laughter with a sigh? (a note infallible
Of breaking honesty:) horfing 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, 'tis true.
Cam. No, no, my lord.

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, hangiog About his neck; Bohemia; -who, if I Had servants true about me, that bare eyes To fee alike mine honour, as their profits, 'Their own particular thriftss they would do That Which should undo more Doing : I, and thou His cup-bearer, (whom I from meaner forme Have bench'd, and rear'd to worship; who may't see Plainly, as heav'n fees earth, and earth sees heay'n,


How I am gallid ;) thou might't 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 (4)
Believe this crack to be in my dread mistress,
So sovereignly being honourable.

Leo. I've lov'd thee. -Make't thy Question, and
Do'st think, I am so muddy, so unsettled,
To appoint my self in this vexation? Sully
The purity and whiteness of my sheets,
(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 so blench?

go rot:


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

I have lov'd thee:Leo. Make that thy Question and go rot.)' This passage wants very little weighing, to determine safely upon it, that the laft Hemiftich assign'd to Camillo, must have been mistakenly placed to him. It is a strange Instance of Disrespect and lasolence in Camillo to his King and Master, to tell him that He has once lov'd him.

-But Sense and Reason will easily aoquit our Poet from such an Impropriety. I have ventur'd at a Transposition, which seems self-evident. Camillo will not be perfuaded into a Suspicion of the Disoyalty imputed to his MiArels. The King, who believes Nothing but his Jealousy, 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 Res. peat 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..

Cam. I must believe you, Sir ;
I do, and will fetch off Bohemia for't :
Provided, that, when he's remov'd, your Highness
Will take again your Queen, as yours at first,
Even for your son's fake, and thereby. for fealing
The injury of tongues, in Courts and Kingdoms
Known and ally'd to yours.

Leo. Thou doft advise me,
Even so as I mine own course have set 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 hast 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.

Cam. O miserable lady! but, for me,
What cafe stand I in? I must be the poisoner
Of good Polixenes, and my ground to do't
Is the obedience to a mafter ; one,
Who, in rebellion with himself, will have
All that are his, fo too. To do this deed,
Promotion follows. If I could find example
Of thousands, that had ftruck anointed Kings,
And Aourish'd after, I'd not do't: but since
Nor brass, nor stone, nor parchment, bears not one;
Let villany it self forfwear't. I must
Forsake the Court; to do't, or no, is certain
To me a break-neck. Happy ítar reign now!
Here comes Bobemia.

Enter Polixenes.
Pol. This is ftrange! 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 lost some province, and a region
Lov'd, as he loves himself: even now I met him
With customary compliment, when he,
Wafting his eyes to th' contrary, and falling
A lip of much contempt, speeds from me, and
So leaves me to confider what is breeding,
That changes thus his manners.

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

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

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

that yet are well.
Pol. How caught of me?
Make me not fighted like the basilisk.
I've look’d on thousands, who have sped the better
By my regard, but kill'd none fo: Camillo,
As you are certainly a gentleman,
Clerk-like experienc'd, (which no less adorns
Our gentry, than our parents' noble names,
In whose success we are gentle :) I beseech you,
If you know aught, which does behove my knowledge
Thereof to be inform’d, imprison't not
In ignorant concealment.

Cam. I may not answer.

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

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