Thou dotard, thou art woman-tyr'd; unroofted Paul. For ever Unvenerable be thy hands, if thou Tak'st up the Princefs, by that forced baseness Leo. He dreads his wife. Paul. So, I would, you did: then 'twere past all doubt, You'd call your children yours. Leo. A neft of traytors! Ant. I am none, by this good light. Paul. Nor I; nor any But one, that's here; and that's himself. For he His hopeful fon's, his babe's, betrays to flander, Whofe fting is fharper than the fword's; and will not (For as the cafe now ftands, it is a curfe He cannot be compell'd to't) once remove As ever oak or ftone was found. Leo. A callat Of boundless tongue, who late hath beat her husband, Hence with it, and together with the dam, Paul. It is yours; And, might we lay th' old proverb to your charge, The trick of's frown, his forehead, nay, the valley, 5 Unvenerable be thy hands, if thou Tak'ft up the Princess by that forced bafenefs] Leontes had ordered Antigonus to take up the baftard; Paulina forbids him to touch the Princefs under that appellation. Forced is falfe, uttered with violence to truth. The The pretty dimples of his chin, and cheek, his smiles, The ordering of the mind too, 'mongst all colours Leo. A grofs hag! And, lozel, thou art worthy to be hang'd, Ant. Hang all the husbands, That cannot do that feat, you'll leave yourself. Leo. Once more, take her hence. Paul. A most unworthy and unnatural Lord Can do no more. Leo. I'll ha' thee burnt. Paul. I care not; It is an heretick that makes the fire, Not the which burns in't. I'll not call you tyrant ; But this most cruel ufage of your Queen Not able to produce more accufation Than your own weak-hing'd fancy, fomething favours Of tyranny; and will ignoble make you, Yea, fcandalous to the world. Leo. On your allegiance, Out of the chamber with her. Were I a tyrant, Paul. I pray you, do not pufh me, I'll be gone. -Look to your babe, my Lord, 'tis yours; Jove fend her A better guiding fpirit!--What need thefe hands?- So, fo: farewel, we are gone. [Exit. SCENE 6 No yellow in't-] Yellow is the colour of jealoufy. SCENE VI Leo. Thou, traitor, haft fet on thy wife to this. Even thou, and none but thou. Take it up straight: Ant. I did not, Sir: These lords, my noble fellows, if they please, Lord. We can. My royal Liege, He is not guilty of her coming hither Lord. 'Befeech your Highness, give us better credit We've always truly ferv'd you, and beseech you So to esteem of us: and on our knees we beg (As recompence of our dear fervices Paft, and to come) that you do change this purpose, Which being fo horrible, fo bloody, must Lead on to fome foul iffue. We all kneel [they kneel Leo. I am a feather for each wind that blows: Shall I live on, to fee this bastard kneel Than curfe it then. But be it; let it live: -It fhall not neither.-You, Sir, come you hither; [To Antigonus. You, that have been fo tenderly officious So So fure as this beard's grey) what will you adventure To fave this brat's life? Ant. Any thing, my Lord, That my ability may undergo, And noblenefs impofe; at least, thus much Ant. I will, my Lord. Leo. Mark and perform it; feest thou? for the fail Of any point in't shall not only be Death to thyfelf, but to thy lewd-tongu'd wife, -Poor thing condemn'd to lofs.-[Exit, with the Child. Another's iffue. 7 commend it firangely to fome place,] Commit to fome place, as a stranger, with out more provifion. Enter Enter a Messenger. Mef. Please your Highness, pofts, Being well arriv'd from Delphos, are both landed, Lord. So please you, Sir, their speed Hath been beyond account. Leo. Twenty-three days They have been abfent: this good speed foretels, The truth of this appear. Prepare you, lords, ACT III. Leave me, [Exeunt feverally. SCENE I. A Part of Sicily, near the Sea-fide.. Enter Cleomines and Dion, with Attendants. THE CLEOMINE S. HE climate's delicate, the air most sweet, Fertile the isle, the temple much furpaffing The common praise it bears. Fertile the ifle,] But the temple of Apollo at Delphi was not in an island, but in Phocis, on the continent. Either Dion. Shakespeare, or his Editors, had their heads running on Delos, an ifland of the Cyclades. If it was the Editor's blunder, then Shake Speare |