Page 867 - Shakespeare - Vol. 4

O patience!
The statue is but newly fix’d, the colour’s
Not dry.

CAMILLO
My lord, your sorrow was too sore laid on,
Which sixteen winters cannot blow away, [50]

So many summers dry: scarce any joy
Did ever so long live; no sorrow
But kill’d itself much sooner.

POLIXENES
Dear my brother,

Let him that was the cause of this have power
To take off so much grief from you as he [55]
Will piece up in himself.

PAULINA
Indeed, my lord,
If I had thought the sight of my poor image

Would thus have wrought you − for the stone is mine −
I’d not have show’d it.

LEONTES
Do not draw the curtain.

PAULINA
No longer shall you gaze on’t, lest your fancy [60]

May think anon it moves.

LEONTES

Let be, let be!
Would I were dead, but that methinks already −
What was he that did make it? − See, my lord,
Would you not deem it breath’d? and that those veins

Did verily bear blood?