« PreviousContinue »
THE SAME. A SHEPHERD'S COTTAGE.
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;
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
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,
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;
And bid us welcome to your sheep-shearing,
Welcome, sir! [To Pol.
It is my father's will, I should take on me
The hostessship o'the day:-You're welcome, sir!
Give me those flowers there, Dorcas.-Reverend
For you there's rosemary, and rue; these keep
(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,
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.
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:
Desire to breed by me.-Here's flowers for you;
The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun,
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
That come before the swallow dares, and take