Take't vp, I say: giue't to thy Croane

Paul. For euer
Vnvenerable be thy hands, if thou
Tak'st vp the Princesse, by that forced basenesse
Which he ha's put vpon't

Leo. He dreads his Wife

Paul. So I would you did: then 'twere past all doubt
Youl'd call your children, yours

Leo. A nest of Traitors

Ant. I am none, by this good light

Pau. Nor I: nor any
But one that's heere: and that's himselfe: for he,
The sacred Honor of himselfe, his Queenes,
His hopefull Sonnes, his Babes, betrayes to Slander,
Whose sting is sharper then the Swords; and will not
(For as the case now stands, it is a Curse
He cannot be compell'd too't) once remoue
The Root of his Opinion, which is rotten,
As euer Oake, or Stone was sound

Leo. A Callat
Of boundlesse tongue, who late hath beat her Husband,
And now bayts me: This Brat is none of mine,
It is the Issue of Polixenes.