[222]: Winter's Tale, acte I, scène i.
[223]: Il y a ici un calembour intraduisible.
What, hast smutch'd thy nose?—
They say it's a copy out of mine. Come, captain,
We must be neat; not neat, but cleanly, captain:...
Come, sir page, look on me with your welkin eye: sweet villain!
Most dear'st! my collop! Looking on the lines
Of my boy's face, methought, I did recoil
Twenty-three years, and saw myself unbreech'd
In my green velvet coat, my dagger muzzled
Lest it should bite its master....
How like, methought, I then was to this kernel,
This squash, this gentleman:...
My brother, are you so fond of your prince,
As we do seem to be of ours?
POLYXENES.
If at home, sir,
He's all my exercise, my mirth, my matter:
Now my sworn friend, and then mine enemy;
My parasite, my soldier, statesman, all!
He makes a July's day short as December;
And, with his varying childness, cures in me
Thoughts that would thick my blood.
How now! how now, chop-logic? What is this?
Proud,—and I thank you,—and I thank you not;—
And yet not proud:—mistress minion, you,
Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds;
But settle your fine joints 'gainst Thursday next,
To go with Paris to Saint Peter's church,
Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither.
Out, you green sick carrion! out, you baggage,
You tallow-face!
JULIET.