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? the 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’s nothing,
     My wife is nothing!

The character of Hermione is as much distinguished by its saint-like resignation and patient forbearance, as that of Paulina is by her zealous and spirited remonstrances against the injustice done to the queen, and by her devoted attachment to her misfortunes.  Hermione’s restoration to her husband and her child, after her long separation from them, is as affecting in itself as it is striking in the representation.  Camillo, and the old shepherd and his son, are subordinate but not uninteresting instruments in the development of the plot, and though last, not least, comes Autolycus, a very pleasant, thriving rogue; and (what is the best feather in the cap of all knavery) he escapes with impunity in the end.

The winter’s tale is one of the best-acting of our author’s plays.  We remember seeing it with great pleasure many years ago.  It was on the night that King took leave of the stage, when he and Mrs. Jordan played together in the after-piece of The Wedding-day.  Nothing could go off with more eclat, with more spirit, and grandeur of effect.  Mrs. Siddons played Hermione, and in the last scene acted the painted statue to the life—­with true monumental dignity and noble passion; Mr. Kemble, in Leontes, worked himself up into a very fine classical frenzy; and Bannister, as Autolycus, roared as loud for pity as a sturdy beggar could do who felt none of the pain he counterfeited, and was sound of wind and limb.  We shall never see these parts so acted again; or if we did, it would be in vain.  Actors grow old, or no longer surprise us by their novelty.  But true poetry, like nature, is always young; and we still read the courtship of Florizel and Perdita, as we welcome the return of spring, with the’ same feelings as ever.

   Florizel.  Thou dearest Perdita,
     With these forc’d thoughts, I prithee, darken not
     The mirth o’ the feast:  or, I’ll be thine, my fair,
     Or not my father’s:  for I cannot be
     Mine own, nor anything to any, if
     I be not thine.  To this I am most constant,
     Tho’ destiny say.  No.  Be merry, gentle;
     Strangle such thoughts as these, with anything
     That you behold the while.  Your guests are coming: 
     Lift up your countenance; as it were the day
     Of celebration of that nuptial which
     We two have sworn shall come.