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Should yet fay, "Sir, no going: verily,
Not like a gueft? fo you fhall pay your fees,
When you depart, and fave your thanks. How fay you?
Pol. Your gueft then, madam :
To be your prifoner, fhould import offending;
Than you to punish.
Her. Not your goaler then,
But your kind hoftefs; come, I'll queftion you
Pol. We were, fair Queen,
Two lads, that thought there was no more behind,
And to be boy eternal.
Her. Was not my Lord
The verier wag o'th' two?
Pol. We were as twinn'd lambs, that did frisk i'th' fun, And bleat the one at th' other: what we chang'd,
Was innocence for innocence; we knew not
The doctrine of in-doing; no, nor dream'd,
And our weak fpirits ne'er been higher rear'd
With ftronger blood, we fhould have answer'd heaven Boldly, Not guilty; th' impofition clear'd (3), Hereditary ours.
Her. By this we gather,
You have tript fince.
Pol. O my moft facred Lady,
Temptations have fince then been born to's: for
tb' impofition clear'd,
Hereditary ours.] i. e. fetting afide original fin: bating that im pofition from the offence of our firft parents, we might have boldly protefted our innocence to heaven, against any guilt committed y Qurfelves.
In thofe unfledg'd days was my wife a girl;
Her. Grace to boot!
Of this make no conclufion, left you say,
Leo. Is he won yet?
Her. He'll stay, my Lord.
Leo. At my request he would not: Hermione, my dearest, thou ne'er spok'st To better purpose.
Leo. Never, but once.
Her. What? have I twice faid well ? when was't before?
Or 1 mistake you;, would her name were Grace!
Nay, let me hav't; I long.
Leo. Why, that was when
Three crabbed months had fower'd themselves to death,
Ere I could make thee open thy white hand,
And clepe thyfelf my love; then didft thou utter,
"I am yours
Her. 'Tis grace, indeed.
Why, lo you now; I've fpoke to th' purpofe twice;
Th' other, for fome while a friend.
Leo. Too hot, too hot
To mingle friendship far, is mingling bloods.
I have tremor cordis on me--my heart dances;
From heartiness, from bounty, fertile bofom,
Mam. Ay, my good Lord.
Leon. I' fecks!
Why, that's my bawcock; what? haft fmutch'd thy nofe?
Are all call'd neat.
[Obferving Polixenes and Hermione. Upon his palm?- -how now, you wanton calf !
Art thou my calf?
Mam. Yes, if you will, my Lord.
Leo. Thou want'ft a rough pash, and the shoots that I Yet they fay, we are
To be full like me.
Almost as like as eggs; women say so,
That will fay any thing ;- but were they falfe,
No bourne 'twixt his and mine; yet were it true
And feilow'ft nothing. Then 'tis very credent,
(4) The mort o' th' deer.] To blow a mort, is a hunting phrase, ignifying, to found a particular air, call'd a mort, to give notice that the deer, which was hunted, is run down, and killing, or kill'd.
Thou may'ft co-join with fomething, and thou doft,
Pol. What means Sicilia ?
Her. He fomething feems unfettled.
Pol. How my Lord?
Leo. What cheer? how is't with you, best brother?
As if you held a brow of much diftraction.
How fometimes nature will betray its folly!
How like, methought, I then was to this kernel,
Mam. No, my Lord, I'll fight.
Leo. You will! why, happy man he's dole.-My brother, you fo fond of your young Prince, as we Do feem to be of ours?
Pol. If at home, Sir,
He's all my exercife, my mirth, my matter;
Leo. So ftands this Squire
Offic'd with me; we two will walk, my Lord,
Next to thyfelf, and my young rover, he's
Apparent to my heart.
Her. If you will feek us,
We are yours i'th' garden: fhall's attend you there?
Tho' you perceive me not, how I give line;
[Afide, obferving Her. How the holds up the neb! the bill to him! And arms her with the boldness of a wife
[Exe. Polix. Her. and Attendants. Manent Leo. Mam. and Cam.
To her allowing hufband. Gone already,
Inch thick, knee deep; o'er head and ears, a fork'd one.
Go, play, boy, play
thy mother plays, and I
Play too; but fo difgrac'd a part, whofe iffue
Will hifs me to my grave: contempt and clamour
And many a man there is, even at this prefent,
Where 'tis predominant; and 'tis powerful: think it.
It will let in and out the enemy,
With bag and baggage: many a thousand of's
Have the disease, and feel't not.
Mam. I am like you, they say.
Leo. Why that's fome comfort.
What, Camillo there?
Cam. Ay, my good Lord.
How now, boy?
Leo. Go play, Mamillius-thou'rt an honest man:
[Exit Mamil. Camille,