Leontes. 
Thou want’st a rough pash, and the shoots that I have,
To be full like me:—­yet they say we are
Almost as like as eggs; women say so,
That will say anything:  but were they false
As o’er-dy’d blacks, as wind, as waters,—­false
As dice are to be wish’d by one that fixes
No bourn ’twixt his and mine; yet were it true
To say this boy were like me.—­Come, sir page,
Look on me with your welkin eye:  sweet villain! 
Most dear’st! my collop!—­Can thy dam?—­may’t be? 
Affection! thy intention stabs the centre: 
Thou dost make possible things not so held,
Communicat’st with dreams;—­how can this be?—­
With what’s unreal thou co-active art,
And fellow’st nothing:  then ’tis very credent
Thou mayst co-join with something; and thou dost,—­
And that beyond commission; and I find it,—­
And that to the infection of my brains
And hardening of my brows.

Polixenes. 
                           What means Sicilia?

Hermione. 
He something seems unsettled.

Polixenes. 
                              How! my lord! 
What cheer?  How is’t with you, best brother?

Hermione. 
                              You look
As if you held a brow of much distraction: 
Are you mov’d, my lord?

Leontes. 
                        No, in good earnest.—­
How sometimes nature will betray its folly,
Its tenderness, and make itself a pastime
To harder bosoms!  Looking on the lines
Of my boy’s face, methoughts I did recoil
Twenty-three years; and saw myself unbreech’d,
In my green velvet coat; my dagger muzzled,
Lest it should bite its master, and so prove,
As ornaments oft do, too dangerous. 
How like, methought, I then was to this kernel,
This squash, this gentleman.—­Mine honest friend,
Will you take eggs for money?

Mamillius. 
No, my lord, I’ll fight.

Leontes. 
You will?  Why, happy man be ’s dole!—­My brother,
Are you so fond of your young prince as we
Do seem to be of ours?

Polixenes. 
                       If at home, sir,
He’s all my exercise, my mirth, my matter: 
Now my sworn friend, and then mine enemy;
My parasite, my soldier, statesman, all: 
He makes a July’s day short as December;
And with his varying childness cures in me
Thoughts that would thick my blood.

Leontes. 
                  So stands this squire
Offic’d with me.  We two will walk, my lord,
And leave you to your graver steps.—­Hermione,
How thou lov’st us show in our brother’s welcome;
Let what is dear in Sicily be cheap: 
Next to thyself and my young rover, he’s
Apparent to my heart.

Hermione. 
                      If you would seek us,
We are yours i’ the garden.  Shall ’s attend you there?