Florizel. 
Most royal sir, from thence; from him whose daughter
His tears proclaim’d his, parting with her:  thence,—­
A prosperous south-wind friendly, we have cross’d,
To execute the charge my father gave me,
For visiting your highness:  my best train
I have from your Sicilian shores dismiss’d;
Who for Bohemia bend, to signify
Not only my success in Libya, sir,
But my arrival, and my wife’s, in safety
Here, where we are.

Leontes. 
                    The blessed gods
Purge all infection from our air whilst you
Do climate here!  You have a holy father,
A graceful gentleman; against whose person,
So sacred as it is, I have done sin: 
For which the heavens, taking angry note,
Have left me issueless; and your father’s bless’d,—­
As he from heaven merits it,—­with you
Worthy his goodness.  What might I have been,
Might I a son and daughter now have look’d on,
Such goodly things as you!

[Enter a Lord.]

Lord. 
                           Most noble sir,
That which I shall report will bear no credit,
Were not the proof so nigh.  Please you, great sir,
Bohemia greets you from himself by me;
Desires you to attach his son, who has,—­
His dignity and duty both cast off,—­
Fled from his father, from his hopes, and with
A shepherd’s daughter.

Leontes. 
                       Where’s Bohemia? speak.

Lord. 
Here in your city; I now came from him: 
I speak amazedly; and it becomes
My marvel and my message.  To your court
Whiles he was hast’ning,—­in the chase, it seems,
Of this fair couple,—­meets he on the way
The father of this seeming lady and
Her brother, having both their country quitted
With this young prince.

Florizel. 
                        Camillo has betray’d me;
Whose honour and whose honesty, till now,
Endur’d all weathers.

Lord. 
                      Lay’t so to his charge;
He’s with the king your father.

Leontes. 
                                Who?  Camillo?

Lord. 
Camillo, sir; I spake with him; who now
Has these poor men in question.  Never saw I
Wretches so quake:  they kneel, they kiss the earth;
Forswear themselves as often as they speak: 
Bohemia stops his ears, and threatens them
With divers deaths in death.

Perdita. 
                             O my poor father!—­
The heaven sets spies upon us, will not have
Our contract celebrated.

Leontes. 
                         You are married?

Florizel. 
We are not, sir, nor are we like to be;
The stars, I see, will kiss the valleys first:—­
The odds for high and low’s alike.

Leontes. 
                                   My lord,
Is this the daughter of a king?