Camillo. 
Business, my lord!  I think most understand
Bohemia stays here longer.

Leontes. 
                           Ha!

Camillo. 
                               Stays here longer.

Leontes. 
Ay, but why?

Camillo. 
To satisfy your highness, and the entreaties
Of our most gracious mistress.

Leontes. 
                               Satisfy
Th’ entreaties of your mistress!—­satisfy!—­
Let that suffice.  I have trusted thee, Camillo,
With all the nearest things to my heart, as well
My chamber-councils, wherein, priest-like, thou
Hast cleans’d my bosom; I from thee departed
Thy penitent reform’d:  but we have been
Deceiv’d in thy integrity, deceiv’d
In that which seems so.

Camillo. 
                        Be it forbid, my lord!

Leontes. 
To bide upon’t,—­thou art not honest; or,
If thou inclin’st that way, thou art a coward,
Which hoxes honesty behind, restraining
From course requir’d; or else thou must be counted
A servant grafted in my serious trust,
And therein negligent; or else a fool
That seest a game play’d home, the rich stake drawn,
And tak’st it all for jest.

Camillo. 
                            My gracious lord,
I may be negligent, foolish, and fearful;
In every one of these no man is free,
But that his negligence, his folly, fear,
Among the infinite doings of the world,
Sometime puts forth:  in your affairs, my lord,
If ever I were wilful-negligent,
It was my folly; if industriously
I play’d the fool, it was my negligence,
Not weighing well the end; if ever fearful
To do a thing, where I the issue doubted,
Whereof the execution did cry out
Against the non-performance, ’twas a fear
Which oft affects the wisest:  these, my lord,
Are such allow’d infirmities that honesty
Is never free of.  But, beseech your grace,
Be plainer with me; let me know my trespass
By its own visage:  if I then deny it,
’Tis none of mine.

Leontes. 
                   Have not you seen, Camillo,—­
But that’s past doubt:  you have, or your eye-glass
Is thicker than a cuckold’s horn,—­or heard,—­
For, to a vision so apparent, rumour
Cannot be mute,—­or thought,—­for cogitation
Resides not in that man that does not think it,—­
My wife is slippery?  If thou wilt confess,—­
Or else be impudently negative,
To have nor eyes nor ears nor thought,—­then say
My wife’s a hobby-horse; deserves a name
As rank as any flax-wench that puts to
Before her troth-plight:  say’t and justify’t.

Camillo. 
I would not be a stander-by to hear
My sovereign mistress clouded so, without
My present vengeance taken:  ’shrew my heart,
You never spoke what did become you less
Than this; which to reiterate were sin
As deep as that, though true.