_Cleo. Dion._ All this we swear. _Leon._ Break up the seals and read. _Off._ [_reads_] Hermione is chaste; Polixenes blameless; 130 Camillo a true subject; Leontes a jealous tyrant; his innocent babe truly begotten; and the king shall live without an heir, if that which is lost be not found. _Lords._ Now blessed be the great Apollo! _Her._ Praised! _Leon._ Hast thou read truth? _Off._ Ay, my lord; even so 135 As it is here set down. _Leon._ There is no truth at all i' the oracle: The sessions shall proceed: this is mere falsehood. _Enter_ Servant. _Serv._ My lord the king, the king! _Leon._ What is the business? _Serv._ O sir, I shall be hated to report it! 140 The prince your son, with mere conceit and fear Of the queen's speed, is gone. _Leon._ How! gone! _Serv._ Is dead. _Leon._ Apollo's angry; and the heavens themselves Do strike at my injustice. [_Hermione faints._] How now there! _Paul._ This news is mortal to the queen: look down 145 And see what death is doing. _Leon._ Take her hence: Her heart is but o'ercharged; she will recover: I have too much believed mine own suspicion: Beseech you, tenderly apply to her Some remedies for life. [_Exeunt Paulina and Ladies, with Hermione._ Apollo, pardon 150 My great profaneness 'gainst thine oracle! I'll reconcile me to Polixenes; New woo my queen; recall the good Camillo, Whom I proclaim a man of truth, of mercy; For, being transported by my jealousies 155 To bloody thoughts and to revenge, I chose Camillo for the minister to poison My friend Polixenes: which had been done, But that the good mind of Camillo tardied My swift command, though I with death and with 160 Reward did threaten and encourage him, Not doing it and being done: he, most humane And fill'd with honour, to my kingly guest Unclasp'd my practice, quit his fortunes here, Which you knew great, and to the hazard 165 Of all incertainties himself commended, No richer than his honour: how he glisters Thorough my rust! and how his piety Does my deeds make the blacker! _Re-enter_ PAULINA. _Paul._ Woe the while! O, cut my lace, lest my heart, cracking it, Break too! 170 _First Lord._ What fit is this, good lady?