_Leon._ Is whispering nothing? Is leaning cheek to cheek? is meeting noses? 285 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 290 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 wife is nothing; nor nothing have these nothings, 295 If this be nothing. _Cam._ Good my lord, be cured Of this diseased opinion, and betimes; For 'tis most dangerous. _Leon._ Say it be, 'tis true. _Cam._ No, no, my lord. _Leon._ It is; you lie, you lie: I say thou liest, Camillo, and I hate thee, 300 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 305 The running of one glass. _Cam._ Who does infect her? _Leon._ 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, 310 Their own particular thrifts, they would do that Which should undo more doing: ay, and thou, His cup-bearer,--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, 315 How I am gall'd,--mightst bespice a cup, To give mine enemy a lasting wink; Which draught to me were cordial. _Cam._ Sir, my lord, I could do this, and that with no rash potion, But with a lingering dram, that should not work 320 Maliciously like poison: but I cannot Believe this crack to be in my dread mistress, So sovereignly being honourable. I have loved thee,-- _Leon._ Make that thy question, and go rot! Dost think I am so muddy, so unsettled, 325 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, 330 Who I do think is mine and love as mine, Without ripe moving to't? Would I do this? Could man so blench?