.

[Giving her hand to POLIXENES.]

LEONTES.
[Aside.]
Too hot, too hot!
To mingle friendship far is mingling bloods.
I have _tremor cordis_ on me;--my heart dances;
But not for joy,--not joy.--This entertainment
May a free face put on; derive a liberty
From heartiness, from bounty, fertile bosom,
And well become the agent:'t may, I grant:
But to be paddling palms and pinching fingers,
As now they are; and making practis'd smiles
As in a looking-glass; and then to sigh, as 'twere
The mort o' the deer: O, that is entertainment
My bosom likes not, nor my brows,--Mamillius,
Art thou my boy?

MAMILLIUS.
Ay, my good lord.

LEONTES.
I' fecks!
Why, that's my bawcock. What! hast smutch'd thy nose?--
They say it is a copy out of mine. Come, captain,
We must be neat;--not neat, but cleanly, captain:
And yet the steer, the heifer, and the calf,
Are all call'd neat.--

[Observing POLIXENES and HERMIONE]

Still virginalling
Upon his palm?--How now, you wanton calf!
Art thou my calf?

MAMILLIUS.
Yes, if you will, my lord.

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 tender