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The Winter's Tale

ACT IV. SCENE I

Enter TIME, the CHORUS

  TIME. I, that please some, try all, both joy and terror
    Of good and bad, that makes and unfolds error,
    Now take upon me, in the name of Time,
    To use my wings. Impute it not a crime
    To me or my swift passage that I slide
    O'er sixteen years, and leave the growth untried
    Of that wide gap, since it is in my pow'r
    To o'erthrow law, and in one self-born hour
    To plant and o'erwhelm custom. Let me pass
    The same I am, ere ancient'st order was
    Or what is now receiv'd. I witness to
    The times that brought them in; so shall I do
    To th' freshest things now reigning, and make stale
    The glistering of this present, as my tale
    Now seems to it. Your patience this allowing,
    I turn my glass, and give my scene such growing
    As you had slept between. Leontes leaving-
    Th' effects of his fond jealousies so grieving
    That he shuts up himself- imagine me,
    Gentle spectators, that I now may be
    In fair Bohemia; and remember well
    I mention'd a son o' th' King's, which Florizel
    I now name to you; and with speed so pace
    To speak of Perdita, now grown in grace
    Equal with wond'ring. What of her ensues
    I list not prophesy; but let Time's news
    Be known when 'tis brought forth. A shepherd's daughter,
    And what to her adheres, which follows after,
    Is th' argument of Time. Of this allow,
    If ever you have spent time worse ere now;
    If never, yet that Time himself doth say
    He wishes earnestly you never may. Exit

SCENE II. Bohemia. The palace of POLIXENES

Enter POLIXENES and CAMILLO

POLIXENES. I pray thee, good Camillo, be no more importunate: 'tis a sickness denying thee anything; a death to grant this. CAMILLO. It is fifteen years since I saw my country; though I have for the most part been aired abroad, I desire to lay my bones there. Besides, the penitent King, my master, hath sent for me; to whose feeling sorrows I might be some allay, or I o'erween to think so, which is another spur to my departure. POLIXENES. As thou lov'st me, Camillo, wipe not out the rest of thy services by leaving me now. The need I have of thee thine own goodness hath made. Better not to have had thee than thus to want thee; thou, having made me businesses which none without thee can sufficiently manage, must either stay to execute them thyself, or take away with thee the very services thou hast done; which if I have not enough considered- as too much I cannot- to be more thankful to thee shall be my study; and my profit therein the heaping friendships. Of that fatal country Sicilia, prithee, speak no more; whose very naming punishes me with the remembrance of that penitent, as thou call'st him, and reconciled king, my brother; whose loss of his most precious queen and children are even now to be afresh lamented. Say to me, when saw'st thou the Prince Florizel, my son? Kings are no less unhappy, their issue not being gracious, than they are in losing them when they have approved their virtues. CAMILLO. Sir, it is three days since I saw the Prince. What his happier affairs may be are to me unknown; but I have missingly noted he is of late much retired from court, and is less frequent to his princely exercises than formerly he hath appeared. POLIXENES. I have considered so much, Camillo, and with some care, so far that I have eyes under my service which look upon his removedness; from whom I have this intelligence, that he is seldom from the house of a most homely shepherd- a man, they say, that from very nothing, and beyond the imagination of his neighbours, is grown into an unspeakable estate. CAMILLO. I have heard, sir, of such a man, who hath a daughter of most rare note. The report of her is extended more than can be thought to begin from such a cottage. POLIXENES. That's likewise part of my intelligence; but, I fear, the angle that plucks our son thither. Thou shalt accompany us to the place; where we will, not appearing what we are, have some question with the shepherd; from whose simplicity I think it not uneasy to get the cause of my son's resort thither. Prithee be my present partner in this business, and lay aside the thoughts of Sicilia. CAMILLO. I willingly obey your command. POLIXENES. My best Camillo! We must disguise ourselves. Exeunt

SCENE III. Bohemia. A road near the SHEPHERD'S cottage

Enter AUTOLYCUS, singing

      When daffodils begin to peer,
        With heigh! the doxy over the dale,
      Why, then comes in the sweet o' the year,
        For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale.

      The white sheet bleaching on the hedge,
        With heigh! the sweet birds, O, how they sing!
      Doth set my pugging tooth on edge,
        For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.

      The lark, that tirra-lirra chants,
        With heigh! with heigh! the thrush and the jay,
      Are summer songs for me and my aunts,
        While we lie tumbling in the hay.

    I have serv'd Prince Florizel, and in my time wore
three-pile;
    but now I am out of service.

      But shall I go mourn for that, my dear?
        The pale moon shines by night;
      And when I wander here and there,
        I then do most go right.

      If tinkers may have leave to live,
        And bear the sow-skin budget,
      Then my account I well may give
        And in the stocks avouch it.

    My traffic is sheets; when the kite builds, look to lesser
linen.
    My father nam'd me Autolycus; who, being, I as am, litter'd
under
    Mercury, was likewise a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles.
With
    die and drab I purchas'd this caparison; and my revenue is
the
    silly-cheat. Gallows and knock are too powerful on the
highway;
    beating and hanging are terrors to me; for the life to come,
I
    sleep out the thought of it. A prize! a prize!

Enter CLOWN

CLOWN. Let me see: every 'leven wether tods; every tod yields pound and odd shilling; fifteen hundred shorn, what comes the wool to? AUTOLYCUS. [Aside] If the springe hold, the cock's mine. CLOWN. I cannot do 't without counters. Let me see: what am I to buy for our sheep-shearing feast? Three pound of sugar, five pound of currants, rice- what will this sister of mine do with rice? But my father hath made her mistress of the feast, and she lays it on. She hath made me four and twenty nosegays for the shearers- three-man song-men all, and very good ones; but they are most of them means and bases; but one Puritan amongst them, and he sings psalms to hornpipes. I must have saffron to colour the warden pies; mace; dates- none, that's out of my note; nutmegs, seven; race or two of ginger, but that I may beg; four pound of prunes, and as many of raisins o' th' sun. AUTOLYCUS. [Grovelling on the ground] O that ever I was born! CLOWN. I' th' name of me! AUTOLYCUS. O, help me, help me! Pluck but off these rags; and then, death, death! CLOWN. Alack, poor soul! thou hast need of more rags to lay on thee, rather than have these off. AUTOLYCUS. O sir, the loathsomeness of them offend me more than the stripes I have received, which are mighty ones and millions. CLOWN. Alas, poor man! a million of beating may come to a great matter. AUTOLYCUS. I am robb'd, sir, and beaten; my money and apparel ta'en from me, and these detestable things put upon me. CLOWN. What, by a horseman or a footman? AUTOLYCUS. A footman, sweet sir, a footman. CLOWN. Indeed, he should be a footman, by the garments he has left with thee; if this be a horseman's coat, it hath seen very hot service. Lend me thy hand, I'll help thee. Come, lend me thy hand. [Helping him up] AUTOLYCUS. O, good sir, tenderly, O! CLOWN. Alas, poor soul! AUTOLYCUS. O, good sir, softly, good sir; I fear, sir, my shoulder blade is out. CLOWN. How now! Canst stand? AUTOLYCUS. Softly, dear sir [Picks his pocket]; good sir, softly. You ha' done me a charitable office. CLOWN. Dost lack any money? I have a little money for thee. AUTOLYCUS. No, good sweet sir; no, I beseech you, sir. I have a kinsman not past three quarters of a mile hence, unto whom I was going; I shall there have money or anything I want. Offer me no money, I pray you; that kills my heart. CLOWN. What manner of fellow was he that robb'd 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 whipt out of the court. CLOWN. His vices, you would say; there's no virtue whipt out of the court. They cherish it to make it stay there; and yet it will no more but abide. 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 compass'd 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 look'd big and spit at him, he'd have run. 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-fac'd sir; no, sweet sir. CLOWN. Then fare thee well. I must go buy spices for our sheep-shearing. 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] Jog on, jog on, the footpath way, And merrily hent the stile-a; A merry heart goes all the day, Your sad tires in a mile-a. Exit

SCENE IV. Bohemia. The SHEPHERD'S cottage

Enter FLORIZEL and PERDITA

  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.
  PERDITA. Sir, my gracious lord,
    To chide at your extremes it not becomes me-
    O, pardon that I name them! Your high self,
    The gracious mark o' th' 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; swoon, 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. Now Jove afford you cause!
    To me the difference forges dread; your greatness
    Hath not been us'd to fear. Even now I tremble
    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
    Should I, in these my borrowed 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.
  PERDITA. O, but, sir,
    Your resolution cannot hold when 'tis
    Oppos'd, as it must be, by th' pow'r of the King.
    One of these two must be necessities,
    Which then will speak, that you must change this purpose,
    Or I my life.
  FLORIZEL. Thou dearest Perdita,
    With these forc'd thoughts, I prithee, darken not
    The mirth o' th' feast. Or I'll be thine, my fair,
    Or not my father's; for I cannot be
    Mine own, nor anything 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. O Lady Fortune,
    Stand you auspicious!
  FLORIZEL. See, your guests approach.
    Address yourself to entertain them sprightly,
    And let's be red with mirth.

Enter SHEPHERD, with POLIXENES and CAMILLO, disguised; CLOWN, MOPSA, DORCAS, with OTHERS

  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' th' table, now i' th' 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 retired,
    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' th' 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
    The hostess-ship o' th' day. [To CAMILLO]
    You're welcome, sir.
    Give me those flow'rs 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 flow'rs of winter.
  PERDITA. Sir, the year growing ancient,
    Not yet on summer's death nor on the birth
    Of trembling winter, the fairest flow'rs o' th' 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. Wherefore, gentle maiden,
    Do you neglect them?
  PERDITA. 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
    By bud of nobler race. This is an art
    Which does mend nature- change it rather; but
    The art itself is nature.
  PERDITA. So it is.
  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 'twere well, and only therefore
    Desire to breed by me. Here's flow'rs for you:
    Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram;
    The marigold, that goes to bed wi' th' sun,
    And with him rises weeping; these are flow'rs
    Of middle summer, and I think they are given
    To men of middle age. Y'are very welcome.
  CAMILLO. I should leave grazing, were I of your flock,
    And only live by gazing.
  PERDITA. Out, alas!
    You'd be so lean that blasts of January
    Would blow you through and through. Now, my fair'st friend,
    I would I had some flow'rs o' th' spring that might
    Become your time of day- and yours, and yours,
    That wear upon your virgin branches yet
    Your maidenheads growing. O Proserpina,
    From the flowers now that, frighted, thou let'st fall
    From Dis's waggon! – daffodils,
    That come before the swallow dares, and take
    The winds of March with beauty; violets, dim
    But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes
    Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses,
    That die unmarried ere they can behold
    Bright Phoebus in his strength- a malady
    Most incident to maids; bold oxlips, and
    The crown-imperial; lilies of all kinds,
    The flow'r-de-luce being one. O, these I lack
    To make you garlands of, and my sweet friend
    To strew him o'er and o'er!
  FLORIZEL. What, like a corse?
  PERDITA. No; like a bank for love to lie and play on;
    Not like a corse; or if- not to be buried,
    But quick, and in mine arms. Come, take your flow'rs.
    Methinks I play as I have seen them do
    In Whitsun pastorals. Sure, this robe of mine
    Does change my disposition.
  FLORIZEL. What you do
    Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet,
    I'd have you do it ever. When you sing,
    I'd have you buy and sell so; so give alms;
    Pray so; and, for the ord'ring your affairs,
    To sing them too. When you do dance, I wish you
    A wave o' th' sea, that you might ever do
    Nothing but that; move still, still so,
    And own no other function. Each your doing,
    So singular in each particular,
    Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds,
    That all your acts are queens.
  PERDITA. O Doricles,
    Your praises are too large. But that your youth,
    And the true blood which peeps fairly through't,
    Do plainly give you out an unstain'd shepherd,
    With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles,
    You woo'd me the false way.
  FLORIZEL. I think you have
    As little skill to fear as I have purpose
    To put you to't. But, come; our dance, I pray.
    Your hand, my Perdita; so turtles pair
    That never mean to part.
  PERDITA. I'll swear for 'em.
  POLIXENES. This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever
    Ran on the green-sward; nothing she does or seems
    But smacks of something greater than herself,
    Too noble for this place.
  CAMILLO. He tells her something
    That makes her blood look out. Good sooth, she is
    The queen of curds and cream.
  CLOWN. Come on, strike up.
  DORCAS. Mopsa must be your mistress; marry, garlic,
    To mend her kissing with!
  MOPSA. Now, in good time!
  CLOWN. Not a word, a word; we stand upon our manners.
    Come, strike up. [Music]

Here a dance Of SHEPHERDS and SHEPHERDESSES

  POLIXENES. Pray, good shepherd, what fair swain is this
    Which dances with your daughter?
  SHEPHERD. They call him Doricles, and boasts himself
    To have a worthy feeding; but I have it
    Upon his own report, and I believe it:
    He looks like sooth. He says he loves my daughter;
    I think so too; for never gaz'd the moon
    Upon the water as he'll stand and read,
    As 'twere my daughter's eyes; and, to be plain,
    I think there is not half a kiss to choose
    Who loves another best.
  POLIXENES. She dances featly.
  SHEPHERD. So she does any thing; though I report it
    That should be silent. If young Doricles
    Do light upon her, she shall bring him that
    Which he not dreams of.

Enter a SERVANT

  SERVANT. O master, if you did but hear the pedlar at the door,
you
    would never dance again after a tabor and pipe; no, the
bagpipe
    could not move you. He sings several tunes faster than you'll
    tell money; he utters them as he had eaten ballads, and all
men's
    ears grew to his tunes.
  CLOWN. He could never come better; he shall come in. I love a
    ballad but even too well, if it be doleful matter merrily set
    down, or a very pleasant thing indeed and sung lamentably.
  SERVANT. He hath songs for man or woman of all sizes; no
milliner
    can so fit his customers with gloves. He has the prettiest
    love-songs for maids; so without bawdry, which is strange;
with
    such delicate burdens of dildos and fadings, 'jump her and
thump
    her'; and where some stretch-mouth'd rascal would, as it
were,
    mean mischief, and break a foul gap into the matter, he makes
the
    maid to answer 'Whoop, do me no harm, good man'– puts him
off,
    slights him, with 'Whoop, do me no harm, good man.'
  POLIXENES. This is a brave fellow.
  CLOWN. Believe me, thou talkest of an admirable conceited
fellow.
    Has he any unbraided wares?
  SERVANT. He hath ribbons of all the colours i' th' rainbow;
points,
    more than all the lawyers in Bohemia can learnedly handle,
though
    they come to him by th' gross; inkles, caddisses, cambrics,
    lawns. Why he sings 'em over as they were gods or goddesses;
you
    would think a smock were she-angel, he so chants to the
    sleeve-hand and the work about the square on't.
  CLOWN. Prithee bring him in; and let him approach singing.
  PERDITA. Forewarn him that he use no scurrilous words in's
tunes.
                                                    Exit SERVANT
  CLOWN. You have of these pedlars that have more in them than
you'd
    think, sister.
  PERDITA. Ay, good brother, or go about to think.

Enter AUTOLYCUS, Singing

           Lawn as white as driven snow;
           Cypress black as e'er was crow;
           Gloves as sweet as damask roses;
           Masks for faces and for noses;
           Bugle bracelet, necklace amber,
           Perfume for a lady's chamber;
           Golden quoifs and stomachers,
           For my lads to give their dears;
           Pins and poking-sticks of steel-
           What maids lack from head to heel.
           Come, buy of me, come; come buy, come buy;
           Buy, lads, or else your lasses cry.
           Come, buy.

  CLOWN. If I were not in love with Mopsa, thou shouldst take no
    money of me; but being enthrall'd as I am, it will also be
the
    bondage of certain ribbons and gloves.
  MOPSA. I was promis'd them against the feast; but they come not
too
    late now.
  DORCAS. He hath promis'd you more than that, or there be liars.
  MOPSA. He hath paid you all he promis'd you. May be he has paid
you
    more, which will shame you to give him again.
  CLOWN. Is there no manners left among maids? Will they wear
their
    plackets where they should bear their faces? Is there not
    milking-time, when you are going to bed, or kiln-hole, to
whistle
    off these secrets, but you must be tittle-tattling before all
our
    guests? 'Tis well they are whisp'ring. Clammer your tongues,
and
    not a word more.
  MOPSA. I have done. Come, you promis'd me a tawdry-lace, and a
pair
    of sweet gloves.
  CLOWN. Have I not told thee how I was cozen'd by the way, and
lost
    all my money?
  AUTOLYCUS. And indeed, sir, there are cozeners abroad;
therefore it
    behoves men to be wary.
  CLOWN. Fear not thou, man; thou shalt lose nothing here.
  AUTOLYCUS. I hope so, sir; for I have about me many parcels of
    charge.
  CLOWN. What hast here? Ballads?
  MOPSA. Pray now, buy some. I love a ballad in print a-life, for
    then we are sure they are true.
  AUTOLYCUS. Here's one to a very doleful tune: how a usurer's
wife
    was brought to bed of twenty money-bags at a burden, and how
she
    long'd to eat adders' heads and toads carbonado'd.
  MOPSA. Is it true, think you?
  AUTOLYCUS. Very true, and but a month old.
  DORCAS. Bless me from marrying a usurer!
  AUTOLYCUS. Here's the midwife's name to't, one Mistress
Taleporter,
    and five or six honest wives that were present. Why should I
    carry lies abroad?
  MOPSA. Pray you now, buy it.
  CLOWN. Come on, lay it by; and let's first see moe ballads;
we'll
    buy the other things anon.
  AUTOLYCUS. Here's another ballad, of a fish that appeared upon
the
    coast on Wednesday the fourscore of April, forty thousand
fathom
    above water, and sung this ballad against the hard hearts of
    maids. It was thought she was a woman, and was turn'd into a
cold
    fish for she would not exchange flesh with one that lov'd
her.
    The ballad is very pitiful, and as true.
  DORCAS. Is it true too, think you?
  AUTOLYCUS. Five justices' hands at it; and witnesses more than
my
    pack will hold.
  CLOWN. Lay it by too. Another.
  AUTOLYCUS. This is a merry ballad, but a very pretty one.
  MOPSA. Let's have some merry ones.
  AUTOLYCUS. Why, this is a passing merry one, and goes to the
tune
    of 'Two maids wooing a man.' There's scarce a maid westward
but
    she sings it; 'tis in request, I can tell you.
  MOPSA. can both sing it. If thou'lt bear a part, thou shalt
hear;
    'tis in three parts.
  DORCAS. We had the tune on't a month ago.
  AUTOLYCUS. I can bear my part; you must know 'tis my
occupation.
    Have at it with you.

SONG

  AUTOLYCUS. Get you hence, for I must go
             Where it fits not you to know.
  DORCAS. Whither?
  MOPSA. O, whither?
  DORCAS. Whither?
  MOPSA. It becomes thy oath full well
             Thou to me thy secrets tell.
  DORCAS. Me too! Let me go thither
  MOPSA. Or thou goest to th' grange or mill.
  DORCAS. If to either, thou dost ill.
  AUTOLYCUS. Neither.
  DORCAS. What, neither?
  AUTOLYCUS. Neither.
  DORCAS. Thou hast sworn my love to be.
  MOPSA. Thou hast sworn it more to me.
             Then whither goest? Say, whither?

  CLOWN. We'll have this song out anon by ourselves; my father
and
    the gentlemen are in sad talk, and we'll not trouble them.
Come,
    bring away thy pack after me. Wenches, I'll buy for you both.
    Pedlar, let's have the first choice. Follow me, girls.
                                      Exit with DORCAS and MOPSA
  AUTOLYCUS. And you shall pay well for 'em.
                                         Exit AUTOLYCUS, Singing

             Will you buy any tape,
             Or lace for your cape,
           My dainty duck, my dear-a?
             Any silk, any thread,
             Any toys for your head,
           Of the new'st and fin'st, fin'st wear-a?
             Come to the pedlar;
             Money's a meddler
           That doth utter all men's ware-a.

Re-enter SERVANT

  SERVANT. Master, there is three carters, three shepherds, three
    neat-herds, three swineherds, that have made themselves all
men
    of hair; they call themselves Saltiers, and they have dance
which
    the wenches say is a gallimaufry of gambols, because they are
not
    in't; but they themselves are o' th' mind, if it be not too
rough
    for some that know little but bowling, it will please
    plentifully.
  SHEPHERD. Away! We'll none on't; here has been too much homely
    foolery already. I know, sir, we weary you.
  POLIXENES. You weary those that refresh us. Pray, let's see
these
    four threes of herdsmen.
  SERVANT. One three of them, by their own report, sir, hath
danc'd
    before the King; and not the worst of the three but jumps
twelve
    foot and a half by th' squier.
  SHEPHERD. Leave your prating; since these good men are pleas'd,
let
    them come in; but quickly now.
  SERVANT. Why, they stay at door, sir. Exit

Here a dance of twelve SATYRS

  POLIXENES. [To SHEPHERD] O, father, you'll know more of that
      hereafter.
    [To CAMILLO] Is it not too far gone? 'Tis time to part them.
    He's simple and tells much. [To FLORIZEL] How now, fair
      shepherd!
    Your heart is full of something that does take
    Your mind from feasting. Sooth, when I was young
    And handed love as you do, I was wont
    To load my she with knacks; I would have ransack'd
    The pedlar's silken treasury and have pour'd it
    To her acceptance: you have let him go
    And nothing marted with him. If your lass
    Interpretation should abuse and call this
    Your lack of love or bounty, you were straited
    For a reply, at least if you make a care
    Of happy holding her.
  FLORIZEL. Old sir, I know
    She prizes not such trifles as these are.
    The gifts she looks from me are pack'd and lock'd
    Up in my heart, which I have given already,
    But not deliver'd. O, hear me breathe my life
    Before this ancient sir, whom, it should seem,
    Hath sometime lov'd. I take thy hand- this hand,
    As soft as dove's down and as white as it,
    Or Ethiopian's tooth, or the fann'd snow that's bolted
    By th' northern blasts twice o'er.
  POLIXENES. What follows this?
    How prettily the young swain seems to wash
    The hand was fair before! I have put you out.
    But to your protestation; let me hear
    What you profess.
  FLORIZEL. Do, and be witness to't.
  POLIXENES. And this my neighbour too?
  FLORIZEL. And he, and more
    Than he, and men- the earth, the heavens, and all:
    That, were I crown'd the most imperial monarch,
    Thereof most worthy, were I the fairest youth
    That ever made eye swerve, had force and knowledge
    More than was ever man's, I would not prize them
    Without her love; for her employ them all;
    Commend them and condemn them to her service
    Or to their own perdition.
  POLIXENES. Fairly offer'd.
  CAMILLO. This shows a sound affection.
  SHEPHERD. But, my daughter,
    Say you the like to him?
  PERDITA. I cannot speak
    So well, nothing so well; no, nor mean better.
    By th' pattern of mine own thoughts I cut out
    The purity of his.
  SHEPHERD. Take hands, a bargain!
    And, friends unknown, you shall bear witness to't:
    I give my daughter to him, and will make
    Her portion equal his.
  FLORIZEL. O, that must be
    I' th' virtue of your daughter. One being dead,
    I shall have more than you can dream of yet;
    Enough then for your wonder. But come on,
    Contract us fore these witnesses.
  SHEPHERD. Come, your hand;
    And, daughter, yours.
  POLIXENES. Soft, swain, awhile, beseech you;
    Have you a father?
  FLORIZEL. I have, but what of him?
  POLIXENES. Knows he of this?
  FLORIZEL. He neither does nor shall.
  POLIXENES. Methinks a father
    Is at the nuptial of his son a guest
    That best becomes the table. Pray you, once more,
    Is not your father grown incapable
    Of reasonable affairs? Is he not stupid
    With age and alt'ring rheums? Can he speak, hear,
    Know man from man, dispute his own estate?
    Lies he not bed-rid, and again does nothing
    But what he did being childish?
  FLORIZEL. No, good sir;
    He has his health, and ampler strength indeed
    Than most have of his age.
  POLIXENES. By my white beard,
    You offer him, if this be so, a wrong
    Something unfilial. Reason my son
    Should choose himself a wife; but as good reason
    The father- all whose joy is nothing else
    But fair posterity- should hold some counsel
    In such a business.
  FLORIZEL. I yield all this;
    But, for some other reasons, my grave sir,
    Which 'tis not fit you know, I not acquaint
    My father of this business.
  POLIXENES. Let him know't.
  FLORIZEL. He shall not.
  POLIXENES. Prithee let him.
  FLORIZEL. No, he must not.
  SHEPHERD. Let him, my son; he shall not need to grieve
    At knowing of thy choice.
  FLORIZEL. Come, come, he must not.
    Mark our contract.
  POLIXENES. [Discovering himself] Mark your divorce, young
sir,
    Whom son I dare not call; thou art too base
    To be acknowledg'd- thou a sceptre's heir,
    That thus affects a sheep-hook! Thou, old traitor,
    I am sorry that by hanging thee I can but
    Shorten thy life one week. And thou, fresh piece
    Of excellent witchcraft, who of force must know
    The royal fool thou cop'st with-
  SHEPHERD. O, my heart!
  POLIXENES. I'll have thy beauty scratch'd with briers and made
    More homely than thy state. For thee, fond boy,
    If I may ever know thou dost but sigh
    That thou no more shalt see this knack- as never
    I mean thou shalt- we'll bar thee from succession;
    Not hold thee of our blood, no, not our kin,
    Farre than Deucalion off. Mark thou my words.
    Follow us to the court. Thou churl, for this time,
    Though full of our displeasure, yet we free thee
    From the dead blow of it. And you, enchantment,
    Worthy enough a herdsman- yea, him too
    That makes himself, but for our honour therein,
    Unworthy thee- if ever henceforth thou
    These rural latches to his entrance open,
    Or hoop his body more with thy embraces,
    I will devise a death as cruel for thee
    As thou art tender to't. Exit
  PERDITA. Even here undone!
    I was not much afeard; for once or twice
    I was about to speak and tell him plainly
    The self-same sun that shines upon his court
    Hides not his visage from our cottage, but
    Looks on alike. [To FLORIZEL] Will't please you, sir, be
gone?
    I told you what would come of this. Beseech you,
    Of your own state take care. This dream of mine-
    Being now awake, I'll queen it no inch farther,
    But milk my ewes and weep.
  CAMILLO. Why, how now, father!
    Speak ere thou diest.
  SHEPHERD. I cannot speak nor think,
    Nor dare to know that which I know. [To FLORIZEL] O sir,
    You have undone a man of fourscore-three
    That thought to fill his grave in quiet, yea,
    To die upon the bed my father died,
    To lie close by his honest bones; but now
    Some hangman must put on my shroud and lay me
    Where no priest shovels in dust. [To PERDITA] O cursed
wretch,
    That knew'st this was the Prince, and wouldst adventure
    To mingle faith with him! – Undone, undone!
    If I might die within this hour, I have liv'd
    To die when I desire. Exit
  FLORIZEL. Why look you so upon me?
    I am but sorry, not afeard; delay'd,
    But nothing alt'red. What I was, I am:
    More straining on for plucking back; not following
    My leash unwillingly.
  CAMILLO. Gracious, my lord,
    You know your father's temper. At this time
    He will allow no speech- which I do guess
    You do not purpose to him- and as hardly
    Will he endure your sight as yet, I fear;
    Then, till the fury of his Highness settle,
    Come not before him.
  FLORIZEL. I not purpose it.
    I think Camillo?
  CAMILLO. Even he, my lord.
  PERDITA. How often have I told you 'twould be thus!
    How often said my dignity would last
    But till 'twere known!
  FLORIZEL. It cannot fail but by
    The violation of my faith; and then
    Let nature crush the sides o' th' earth together
    And mar the seeds within! Lift up thy looks.
    From my succession wipe me, father; I
    Am heir to my affection.
  CAMILLO. Be advis'd.
  FLORIZEL. I am- and by my fancy; if my reason
    Will thereto be obedient, I have reason;
    If not, my senses, better pleas'd with madness,
    Do bid it welcome.
  CAMILLO. This is desperate, sir.
  FLORIZEL. So call it; but it does fulfil my vow:
    I needs must think it honesty. Camillo,
    Not for Bohemia, nor the pomp that may
    Be thereat glean'd, for all the sun sees or
    The close earth wombs, or the profound seas hides
    In unknown fathoms, will I break my oath
    To this my fair belov'd. Therefore, I pray you,
    As you have ever been my father's honour'd friend,
    When he shall miss me- as, in faith, I mean not
    To see him any more- cast your good counsels
    Upon his passion. Let myself and Fortune
    Tug for the time to come. This you may know,
    And so deliver: I am put to sea
    With her who here I cannot hold on shore.
    And most opportune to her need I have
    A vessel rides fast by, but not prepar'd
    For this design. What course I mean to hold
    Shall nothing benefit your knowledge, nor
    Concern me the reporting.
  CAMILLO. O my lord,
    I would your spirit were easier for advice.
    Or stronger for your need.
  FLORIZEL. Hark, Perdita. [Takes her aside]
    [To CAMILLO] I'll hear you by and by.
  CAMILLO. He's irremovable,
    Resolv'd for flight. Now were I happy if
    His going I could frame to serve my turn,
    Save him from danger, do him love and honour,
    Purchase the sight again of dear Sicilia
    And that unhappy king, my master, whom
    I so much thirst to see.
  FLORIZEL. Now, good Camillo,
    I am so fraught with curious business that
    I leave out ceremony.
  CAMILLO. Sir, I think
    You have heard of my poor services i' th' love
    That I have borne your father?
  FLORIZEL. Very nobly
    Have you deserv'd. It is my father's music
    To speak your deeds; not little of his care
    To have them recompens'd as thought on.
  CAMILLO. Well, my lord,
    If you may please to think I love the King,
    And through him what's nearest to him, which is
    Your gracious self, embrace but my direction.
    If your more ponderous and settled project
    May suffer alteration, on mine honour,
    I'll point you where you shall have such receiving
    As shall become your Highness; where you may
    Enjoy your mistress, from the whom, I see,
    There's no disjunction to be made but by,
    As heavens forfend! your ruin- marry her;
    And with my best endeavours in your absence
    Your discontenting father strive to qualify,
    And bring him up to liking.
  FLORIZEL. How, Camillo,
    May this, almost a miracle, be done?
    That I may call thee something more than man,
    And after that trust to thee.
  CAMILLO. Have you thought on
    A place whereto you'll go?
  FLORIZEL. Not any yet;
    But as th' unthought-on accident is guilty
    To what we wildly do, so we profess
    Ourselves to be the slaves of chance and flies
    Of every wind that blows.
  CAMILLO. Then list to me.
    This follows, if you will not change your purpose
    But undergo this flight: make for Sicilia,
    And there present yourself and your fair princess-
    For so, I see, she must be- fore Leontes.
    She shall be habited as it becomes
    The partner of your bed. Methinks I see
    Leontes opening his free arms and weeping
    His welcomes forth; asks thee there 'Son, forgiveness!'
    As 'twere i' th' father's person; kisses the hands
    Of your fresh princess; o'er and o'er divides him
    'Twixt his unkindness and his kindness- th' one
    He chides to hell, and bids the other grow
    Faster than thought or time.
  FLORIZEL. Worthy Camillo,
    What colour for my visitation shall I
    Hold up before him?
  CAMILLO. Sent by the King your father
    To greet him and to give him comforts. Sir,
    The manner of your bearing towards him, with
    What you as from your father shall deliver,
    Things known betwixt us three, I'll write you down;
    The which shall point you forth at every sitting
    What you must say, that he shall not perceive
    But that you have your father's bosom there
    And speak his very heart.
  FLORIZEL. I am bound to you.
    There is some sap in this.
  CAMILLO. A course more promising
    Than a wild dedication of yourselves
    To unpath'd waters, undream'd shores, most certain
    To miseries enough; no hope to help you,
    But as you shake off one to take another;
    Nothing so certain as your anchors, who
    Do their best office if they can but stay you
    Where you'll be loath to be. Besides, you know
    Prosperity's the very bond of love,
    Whose fresh complexion and whose heart together
    Affliction alters.
  PERDITA. One of these is true:
    I think affliction may subdue the cheek,
    But not take in the mind.
  CAMILLO. Yea, say you so?
    There shall not at your father's house these seven years
    Be born another such.
  FLORIZEL. My good Camillo,
    She is as forward of her breeding as
    She is i' th' rear o' our birth.
  CAMILLO. I cannot say 'tis pity
    She lacks instructions, for she seems a mistress
    To most that teach.
  PERDITA. Your pardon, sir; for this
    I'll blush you thanks.
  FLORIZEL. My prettiest Perdita!
    But, O, the thorns we stand upon! Camillo-
    Preserver of my father, now of me;
    The medicine of our house- how shall we do?
    We are not furnish'd like Bohemia's son;
    Nor shall appear in Sicilia.
  CAMILLO. My lord,
    Fear none of this. I think you know my fortunes
    Do all lie there. It shall be so my care
    To have you royally appointed as if
    The scene you play were mine. For instance, sir,
    That you may know you shall not want- one word.
                                               [They talk aside]