Paulina. 
                               Nor I; nor any,
But one that’s here; and that’s himself:  for he
The sacred honour of himself, his queen’s,
His hopeful son’s, his babe’s, betrays to slander,
Whose sting is sharper than the sword’s; and will not,—­
For, as the case now stands, it is a curse
He cannot be compell’d to’t,—­once remove
The root of his opinion, which is rotten
As ever oak or stone was sound.

Leontes. 
                                A callat
Of boundless tongue, who late hath beat her husband,
And now baits me!—­This brat is none of mine;
It is the issue of Polixenes: 
Hence with it! and together with the dam,
Commit them to the fire.

Paulina. 
                         It is yours! 
And, might we lay the old proverb to your charge,
So like you ’tis the worse.—­Behold, my lords,
Although the print be little, the whole matter
And copy of the father,—­eye, nose, lip,
The trick of his frown, his forehead; nay, the valley,
The pretty dimples of his chin and cheek; his smiles;
The very mould and frame of hand, nail, finger:—­
And thou, good goddess Nature, which hast made it
So like to him that got it, if thou hast
The ordering of the mind too, ’mongst all colours
No yellow in’t, lest she suspect, as he does,
Her children not her husband’s!

Leontes. 
                                A gross hag! 
And, losel, thou art worthy to be hang’d
That wilt not stay her tongue.

Antigonus. 
                               Hang all the husbands
That cannot do that feat, you’ll leave yourself
Hardly one subject.

Leontes. 
                    Once more, take her hence.

Paulina. 
A most unworthy and unnatural lord
Can do no more.

Leontes. 
                I’ll have thee burn’d.

Paulina. 
                                       I care not. 
It is an heretic that makes the fire,
Not she which burns in’t.  I’ll not call you tyrant
But this most cruel usage of your queen,—­
Not able to produce more accusation
Than your own weak-hing’d fancy,—­something savours
Of tyranny, and will ignoble make you,
Yea, scandalous to the world.

Leontes. 
                              On your allegiance,
Out of the chamber with her!  Were I a tyrant,
Where were her life?  She durst not call me so,
If she did know me one.  Away with her!

Paulina. 
I pray you, do not push me; I’ll be gone.—­
Look to your babe, my lord; ’tis yours:  Jove send her
A better guiding spirit!—­What needs these hands? 
You that are thus so tender o’er his follies,
Will never do him good, not one of you. 
So, so:—­farewell; we are gone.

[Exit.]