I want. Offer me no money, I pray you; that kills my heart.

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Clown. What manner of fellow was he that robbed you? Autolycus. A fellow, sir, that I have known to go about with troll-my-dames. I knew him once a servant of the prince; I cannot tell, good sir, for which of his virtues it was, but he was certainly whipped out of the court.

Clown. His vices, you would say; there's no virtue whipped out of the court: they cherish it to make it stay there; and yet it will no more but abide.

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Autolycus. Vices, I would say, sir. I know this man well : he hath been since an ape-bearer; then a process-server, a bailiff; then he compassed a motion of the Prodigal Son, and married a tinker's wife within a mile where my land and living lies; and, having flown over many knavish professions, he settled only in rogue: some call him Autolycus.

Clown. Out upon him! prig, for my life, prig; he haunts wakes, fairs, and bear-baitings.

Autolycus. Very true, sir; he, sir, he; that's the rogue that put me into this apparel.

Clown. Not a more cowardly rogue in all Bohemia; if you had but looked big and spit at him, he 'd have run.

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Autolycus. I must confess to you, sir, I am no fighter: I am false of heart that way; and that he knew, I warrant him. Clown. How do you now?

Autolycus. Sweet sir, much better than I was; I can stand and walk. I will even take my leave of you, and pace softly towards my kinsman's.

Clown. Shall I bring thee on the way?

Autolycus. No, good-faced sir; no, sweet sir.

Clown. Then fare thee well; I must go buy spices for our sheep-shearing.

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Autolycus. Prosper you, sweet sir!-[Exit Clown.] Your purse is not hot enough to purchase your spice. I'll be with you at your sheep - shearing too; if I make not this

cheat bring out another and the shearers prove sheep, let me be unroll'd and my name put in the book of virtue ! [Sings] Fog on, jog on, the foot-path way,

And merrily hent the stile-a;

A merry heart goes all the day,

Your sad tires in a mile-a.

SCENE IV. The Shepherd's Cottage.

Enter FLORIZEL and PERDITA.

[Exit.

Florizel. These your unusual weeds to each part of you Do give a life; no shepherdess, but Flora

Peering in April's front. This your sheep-shearing
Is as a meeting of the petty gods,

And you the queen on 't.

Sir, my gracious lord,

Perdita.
To chide at your extremes it not becomes me;
O, pardon, that I name them! Your high self,
The gracious mark o' the land, you have obscur'd
With a swain's wearing, and me, poor lowly maid,
Most goddess-like prank'd up. But that our feasts
In every mess have folly and the feeders
Digest it with a custom, I should blush
To see you so attir'd, sworn, I think,
To show myself a glass.

Florizel.

I bless the time

When my good falcon made her flight across

Thy father's ground.

Perdita.
To me the difference forges dread; your greatness
Hath not been us'd to fear. Even now I tremble

Now Jove afford you cause!

To think your father, by some accident,
Should pass this way as you did. O, the Fates!
How would he look, to see his work so noble
Vilely bound up? What would he say? Or how
G

Should I, in these my borrow'd flaunts, behold
The sternness of his presence?

Florizel.

Apprehend
Nothing but jollity. The gods themselves,
Humbling their deities to love, have taken
The shapes of beasts upon them: Jupiter
Became a bull, and bellow'd; the green Neptune
A ram, and bleated; and the fire-rob'd god,
Golden Apollo, a poor humble swain,
As I seem now. Their transformations
Were never for a piece of beauty rarer,
Nor in a way so chaste,—since my desires
Run not before mine honour, nor my lusts
Burn hotter than my faith.

Your resolution cannot hold, when 't is

Oppos'd, as it must be, by the power of the king;

One of these two must be necessities,

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Which then will speak,-that you must change this purpose, Or I my life.

With these forc'd thoughts, I prithee, darken not
The mirth o' the feast. Or I'll be thine, my fair,
Or not my father's. For I cannot be

Mine own, nor any thing to any, if

I be not thine. To this I am most constant,
Though destiny say no. Be merry, gentle;

Strangle such thoughts as these with any thing
That you behold the while. Your guests are coming;
Lift up your countenance, as it were the day

Of celebration of that nuptial which

We two have sworn shall come.

Perdita.

Stand you auspicious!

Florizel.

O lady Fortune,

See, your guests approach;

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Address yourself to entertain them sprightly,

And let's be red with mirth.

Enter Shepherd, Clown, MOPSA, DORCAS, and others, with POLIXENES and CAMILLO disguised.

Shepherd. Fie, daughter! when my old wife liv'd, upon
This day she was both pantler, butler, cook,

Both dame and servant; welcom'd all, serv'd all;
Would sing her song and dance her turn; now here,
At upper end o' the table, now i' the middle;
On his shoulder, and his; her face o' fire
With labour; and the thing she took to quench it,
She would to each one sip. You are retir'd,
As if you were a feasted one, and not
The hostess of the meeting. Pray you, bid
These unknown friends to 's welcome; for it is
A way to make us better friends, more known.
Come, quench your blushes and present yourself
That which you are, mistress o' the feast; come on,
And bid us welcome to your sheep-shearing,

As your good flock shall prosper.

Perdita.

[To Polixenes] Sir, welcome!

It is my father's will I should take on me

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The hostess-ship o' the day.-[To Camillo] You 're welcome,

sir.

Give me those flowers there, Dorcas.-Reverend sirs,

For you there's rosemary and rue; these keep

Seeming and savour all the winter long:

Grace and remembrance be to you both,

And welcome to our shearing!

Polixenes.

Shepherdess,

A fair one are you-well you fit our ages
With flowers of winter.

Perdita.

Sir, the year growing ancient,

Not yet on summer's death, nor on the birth

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Of trembling winter,-the fairest flowers o' the season

Are our carnations and streak'd gillyvors,

Which some call nature's bastards: of that kind

Our rustic garden 's barren; and I care not

To get slips of them.

Polixenes.

Do you neglect them?

Perdita.

Wherefore, gentle maiden,

For I have heard it said

There is an art which in their piedness shares

With great creating nature.

Polixenes.

Say there be;

Yet nature is made better by no mean

But nature makes that mean: so, over that art

Which you say

adds to nature, is an art

That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry

A gentler scion to the wildest stock,

And make conceive a bark of baser kind

Which does mend nature,-change it rather; but

Polixenes. Then make your garden rich in gillyvors, And do not call them bastards.

Perdita.

I'll not put

The dibble in earth to set one slip of them;

No more than were I painted I would wish
This youth should say 't were well and only therefore
Desire to breed by me.-Here 's flowers for you:
Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram ;

The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun
And with him rises weeping: these are flowers

Of middle summer, and I think they are given
To men of middle age. You're very welcome.
Camillo. I should leave grazing, were I of your flock,
And only live by gazing.

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