Hermione. 
                          That’s true enough;
Though ’tis a saying, sir, not due to me.

Leontes. 
You will not own it.

Hermione. 
                     More than mistress of
Which comes to me in name of fault, I must not
At all acknowledge.  For Polixenes,—­
With whom I am accus’d,—­I do confess
I lov’d him, as in honour he requir’d;
With such a kind of love as might become
A lady like me; with a love even such,
So and no other, as yourself commanded: 
Which not to have done, I think had been in me
Both disobedience and ingratitude
To you and toward your friend; whose love had spoke,
Ever since it could speak, from an infant, freely,
That it was yours.  Now for conspiracy,
I know not how it tastes; though it be dish’d
For me to try how:  all I know of it
Is that Camillo was an honest man;
And why he left your court, the gods themselves,
Wotting no more than I, are ignorant.

Leontes. 
You knew of his departure, as you know
What you have underta’en to do in ’s absence.

Hermione. 
Sir,
You speak a language that I understand not: 
My life stands in the level of your dreams,
Which I’ll lay down.

Leontes. 
                     Your actions are my dreams;
You had a bastard by Polixenes,
And I but dream’d it:—­as you were past all shame,—­
Those of your fact are so,—­so past all truth: 
Which to deny concerns more than avails; for as
Thy brat hath been cast out, like to itself,
No father owning it,—­which is, indeed,
More criminal in thee than it,—­so thou
Shalt feel our justice; in whose easiest passage
Look for no less than death.

Hermione. 
                             Sir, spare your threats: 
The bug which you would fright me with, I seek. 
To me can life be no commodity: 
The crown and comfort of my life, your favour,
I do give lost; for I do feel it gone,
But know not how it went:  my second joy,
And first-fruits of my body, from his presence
I am barr’d, like one infectious:  my third comfort,
Starr’d most unluckily, is from my breast,—­
The innocent milk in its most innocent mouth,—­
Hal’d out to murder:  myself on every post
Proclaim’d a strumpet; with immodest hatred
The child-bed privilege denied, which ’longs
To women of all fashion; lastly, hurried
Here to this place, i’ the open air, before
I have got strength of limit.  Now, my liege,
Tell me what blessings I have here alive,
That I should fear to die.  Therefore proceed. 
But yet hear this; mistake me not;—­no life,—­
I prize it not a straw,—­but for mine honour
(Which I would free), if I shall be condemn’d
Upon surmises—­all proofs sleeping else,
But what your jealousies awake—­I tell you
’Tis rigour, and not law.—­Your honours all,
I do refer me to the oracle: 
Apollo be my judge!