What studied torments, tyrant, hast for me?
What wheels? racks? fires? What flaying? boiling
In leads or oils? What old or newer torture
Must I receive, whose every word deserves
To taste of thy most worst? Thy tyranny,
Together working with thy jealousies
(Fancies too weak for boys, too green and idle
For girls of nine), O, think what they have done,
And then run mad indeed—stark mad! for all
Thy by-gone fooleries were but spices of it.
That thou betrayedst Polixenes, ’twas nothing—
That did but show thee, of a fool, inconstant,
And damnable ingrateful; nor was’t much
Thou wouldst have poison’d good Camillo’s honor,
To have him kill a king—poor trespasses,
More monstrous standing by; whereof I reckon
The casting forth to crows thy baby-daughter
To be or none or little—though a devil
Would have shed water out of fire ere done’t;
Nor is’t directly laid to thee, the death
Of the young Prince, whose honorable thoughts
(Thoughts high for one so tender) cleft the heart
That could conceive a gross and foolish sire
Blemish’d his gracious dam; this is not, no,
Laid to thy answer: but the last—O lords,
When I have said, cry “Woe!”—the Queen, the Queen,
The sweet’st, dear’st creature’s dead, and vengeance for’t
Not dropp’d down yet.
I say she’s dead; I’ll swear’t. If word nor oath
Prevail not, go and see. If you can bring
Tincture or lustre in her lip, her eye,
Heat outwardly or breath within, I’ll serve you
As I would do the gods. But, O thou tyrant!
Do not repent these things, for they are heavier
Than all thy woes can stir; therefore betake thee
To nothing but despair. A thousand knees,
Ten thousand years together, naked, fasting,
Upon a barren mountain, and still winter
In storm perpetual, could not move the gods
To look that way thou wert.