Apollo, pardon
My great profaneness ’gainst thine oracle!—­
I’ll reconcile me to Polixenes;
New woo my queen; recall the good Camillo—­
Whom I proclaim a man of truth, of mercy;
For, being transported by my jealousies
To bloody thoughts and to revenge, I chose
Camillo for the minister to poison
My friend Polixenes:  which had been done,
But that the good mind of Camillo tardied
My swift command, though I with death and with
Reward did threaten and encourage him,
Not doing it and being done:  he, most humane,
And fill’d with honour, to my kingly guest
Unclasp’d my practice; quit his fortunes here,
Which you knew great; and to the certain hazard
Of all incertainties himself commended,
No richer than his honour:—­how he glisters
Thorough my rust!  And how his piety
Does my deeds make the blacker!

[Re-enter Paulina.]

Paulina. 
                                Woe the while! 
O, cut my lace, lest my heart, cracking it,
Break too!

First lord. 
What fit is this, good lady?

Paulina. 
What studied torments, tyrant, hast for me? 
What wheels? racks? fires? what flaying? boiling
In leads or oils? what old or newer torture
Must I receive, whose every word deserves
To taste of thy most worst?  Thy tyranny
Together working with thy jealousies,—­
Fancies too weak for boys, too green and idle
For girls of nine,—­O, think what they have done,
And then run mad indeed,—­stark mad! for all
Thy by-gone fooleries were but spices of it. 
That thou betray’dst Polixenes, ’twas nothing;
That did but show thee, of a fool, inconstant,
And damnable ingrateful; nor was’t much
Thou wouldst have poison’d good Camillo’s honour,
To have him kill a king; poor trespasses,—­
More monstrous standing by:  whereof I reckon
The casting forth to crows thy baby daughter,
To be or none or little, though a devil
Would have shed water out of fire ere done’t;
Nor is’t directly laid to thee, the death
Of the young prince, whose honourable thoughts,—­
Thoughts high for one so tender,—­cleft the heart
That could conceive a gross and foolish sire
Blemish’d his gracious dam:  this is not,—­no,
Laid to thy answer:  but the last,—­O lords,
When I have said, cry Woe!—­the queen, the queen,
The sweetest, dearest creature’s dead; and vengeance for’t
Not dropp’d down yet.

First lord. 
                      The higher powers forbid!

Paulina. 
I say she’s dead:  I’ll swear’t.  If word nor oath
Prevail not, go and see:  if you can bring
Tincture, or lustre, in her lip, her eye,
Heat outwardly or breath within, I’ll serve you
As I would do the gods.—­But, O thou tyrant! 
Do not repent these things; for they are heavier
Than all thy woes can stir; therefore betake thee
To nothing but despair.  A thousand knees
Ten thousand years together, naked, fasting,
Upon a barren mountain, and still winter
In storm perpetual, could not move the gods
To look that way thou wert.