Leontes. 
                     Is whispering nothing? 
Is leaning cheek to cheek? is meeting noses? 
Kissing with inside lip?  Stopping the career
Of laughter with a sigh?—­a note infallible
Of breaking honesty;—­horsing foot on foot? 
Skulking in corners? wishing clocks more swift;
Hours, minutes; noon, midnight? and all eyes
Blind with the pin and web but theirs, theirs only,
That would unseen be wicked?—­is this nothing? 
Why, then the world and all that’s in’t is nothing;
The covering sky is nothing; Bohemia nothing;
My is nothing; nor nothing have these nothings,
If this be nothing.

Camillo. 
                    Good my lord, be cur’d
Of this diseas’d opinion, and betimes;
For ’tis most dangerous.

Leontes. 
                         Say it be, ’tis true.

Camillo. 
No, no, my lord.

Leontes. 
                 It is; you lie, you lie: 
I say thou liest, Camillo, and I hate thee;
Pronounce thee a gross lout, a mindless slave;
Or else a hovering temporizer, that
Canst with thine eyes at once see good and evil,
Inclining to them both.—­Were my wife’s liver
Infected as her life, she would not live
The running of one glass.

Camillo. 
                          Who does infect her?

Leontes. 
Why, he that wears her like her medal, hanging
About his neck, Bohemia:  who—­if I
Had servants true about me, that bare eyes
To see alike mine honour as their profits,
Their own particular thrifts,—­they would do that
Which should undo more doing:  ay, and thou,
His cupbearer,—­whom I from meaner form
Have bench’d and rear’d to worship; who mayst see,
Plainly as heaven sees earth and earth sees heaven,
How I am galled,—­mightst bespice a cup,
To give mine enemy a lasting wink;
Which draught to me were cordial.

Camillo. 
                                  Sir, my lord,
I could do this; and that with no rash potion,
But with a ling’ring dram, that should not work
Maliciously like poison:  but I cannot
Believe this crack to be in my dread mistress,
So sovereignly being honourable. 
I have lov’d thee,—­

Leontes. 
            Make that thy question, and go rot! 
Dost think I am so muddy, so unsettled,
To appoint myself in this vexation; sully
The purity and whiteness of my sheets,—­
Which to preserve is sleep; which being spotted
Is goads, thorns, nettles, tails of wasps;
Give scandal to the blood o’ the prince, my son,—­
Who I do think is mine, and love as mine,—­
Without ripe moving to’t?—­Would I do this? 
Could man so blench?

Camillo. 
                     I must believe you, sir: 
I do; and will fetch off Bohemia for’t;
Provided that, when he’s remov’d, your highness
Will take again your queen as yours at first,
Even for your son’s sake; and thereby for sealing
The injury of tongues in courts and kingdoms
Known and allied to yours.