Hermione. 
                            What is this? sport?

Leontes. 
Bear the boy hence; he shall not come about her;
Away with him!—­and let her sport herself
With that she’s big with;—­for ’tis Polixenes
Has made thee swell thus.

[Exit Mamillius, with some of the Guards.]

Hermione. 
                          But I’d say he had not,
And I’ll be sworn you would believe my saying,
Howe’er you learn the nayward.

Leontes. 
                               You, my lords,
Look on her, mark her well; be but about
To say, ‘she is a goodly lady’ and
The justice of your hearts will thereto add,
‘’Tis pity she’s not honest, honourable’: 
Praise her but for this her without-door form,—­
Which, on my faith, deserves high speech,—­and straight
The shrug, the hum or ha,—­these petty brands
That calumny doth use:—­O, I am out,
That mercy does; for calumny will sear
Virtue itself:—­these shrugs, these hum’s, and ha’s,
When you have said ‘she’s goodly,’ come between,
Ere you can say ‘she’s honest’:  but be it known,
From him that has most cause to grieve it should be,
She’s an adultress!

Hermione. 
                    Should a villain say so,
The most replenish’d villain in the world,
He were as much more villain:  you, my lord,
Do but mistake.

Leontes. 
                You have mistook, my lady,
Polixenes for Leontes:  O thou thing,
Which I’ll not call a creature of thy place,
Lest barbarism, making me the precedent,
Should a like language use to all degrees,
And mannerly distinguishment leave out
Betwixt the prince and beggar!—­I have said,
She’s an adultress; I have said with whom: 
More, she’s a traitor; and Camillo is
A federary with her; and one that knows
What she should shame to know herself
But with her most vile principal, that she’s
A bed-swerver, even as bad as those
That vulgars give boldest titles; ay, and privy
To this their late escape.

Hermione. 
                           No, by my life,
Privy to none of this.  How will this grieve you,
When you shall come to clearer knowledge, that
You thus have publish’d me!  Gentle my lord,
You scarce can right me throughly then, to say
You did mistake.

Leontes. 
                 No; if I mistake
In those foundations which I build upon,
The centre is not big enough to bear
A school-boy’s top.—­Away with her to prison! 
He who shall speak for her is afar off guilty
But that he speaks.

Hermione. 
                    There’s some ill planet reigns: 
I must be patient till the heavens look
With an aspect more favourable.—­Good my lords,
I am not prone to weeping, as our sex
Commonly are; the want of which vain dew
Perchance shall dry your pities; but I have
That honourable grief lodg’d here, which burns
Worse than tears drown:  beseech you all, my lords,
With thoughts so qualified as your charities
Shall best instruct you, measure me;—­and so
The king’s will be perform’d!