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Enter Florizel and Perdita.

Flo. These your unusual weeds to each part of


Do give a life: no shepherdess; but Flora,

Peering in April's front. This your sheep-shear


Is as a meeting of the petty gods,

And you the queen on't.


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'the land, you have obscur'd
With a swain's wearing; and me, poor lowly maid,
Most goddesslike 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 attired; sworn, I think,
To show myself a glass.


I bless the time,

When my good falcon made her flight across

Thy father's ground.


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 borrow'd flaunts, behold
The sternness of his presence?


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.


O but, dear sir,

Your resolution cannot hold, when 'tis

Oppos'd, as it must be, by the power o'the king: One of these two must be necessities,

Which then will speak; that you must change this purpose,

Or I my life.


Thou dearest Perdita,

With these forc'd thoughts, I pr'ythee, 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.


Stand you auspicious!

O lady fortune,

Enter Shepherd, with Polixenes, and Camillo, disguised; Clown, Mopsa, Dorcas, and others.


See, your guests approach: Address yourself to entertain them sprightly, And let's be red with mirth.

Shep. Fye, daughter! when my old wife liv'd,


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 us 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


And bid us welcome to your sheep-shearing,
As your good flock shall prosper.


Welcome, sir! [To Pol.

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

The hostessship o'the day:-You're welcome, sir!

[To Camillo.

Give me those flowers there, Dorcas.-Reverend


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!



(A fair one are you,) well you fit our ages With flowers of winter.


Sir, the year growing ancient,— Not yet on summer's death, nor on the birth Of trembling winter,-the fairest flowers o'the


Are our carnations, and streak'd gillyflowers,
Which some call, nature's bastards: of that kind
Our rustick garden's barren; and I care not
To get slips of them,


Do you neglect them?


Wherefore, gentle maiden,

For I have heard it said,

There is an art, which, in their piedness, shares

With great creating nature.


Say, there be;

Yet nature is made better by no mean,

But nature makes that mean: so, o'er 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.

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Pol. Then make your garden rich in gillyflowers, And do not call them bastards.


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 there-

Desire to breed by me.-Here's flowers for you;
Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram;

The marigold, that goes to bed with 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 are very welcome.
Cam. I should leave grazing, were I of your flock,
And only live by gazing.


Out, alas!

You'd be so lean, that blasts of January

Would blow you through and through.-Now, my fairest friend,

I would, I had some flowers o'the spring, that might
Become your time of day; and yours, and yours;
That wear upon your virgin branches yet
Your maidenheads growing:-O Proserpina,
For 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

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