Section 12:
ACT IV, SCENE IV, Lines 1-440 The same. A 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' 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; 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 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.

PERDITA.:

O, but, sir,

Your resolution cannot hold when 'tis

Oppos'd, as it must be, by the power 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 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 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' 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 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' 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

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.:

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, 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.

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 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're 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 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,

From the flowers now, that, frighted, thou lett'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 flower-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 flowers;

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 ordering your affairs,

To sing them too: when you do dance, I wish you

A wave o' the 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 it,

Do plainly give you out an unstained 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 anything; 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' the rainbow; points,

more than all the lawyers in Bohemia can learnedly handle, though

they come to him by the 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.:

Pr'ythee bring him in; and let him approach singing.

PERDITA.:

Forewarn him that he use no scurrilous words in his 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 enthralled 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 promised you more than that, or there be liars.

MOPSA.:

He hath paid you all he promised 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 whispering. Clamour your tongues, and

not a word more.

MOPSA.:

I have done. Come, you promised me a tawdry lace, and a pair

of sweet gloves.

CLOWN.:

Have I not told thee how I was cozened 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 carbonadoed.

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 more 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 turned into a cold

fish for she would not exchange flesh with one that loved 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 the 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.:

[Aside.] And you shall pay well for 'em.

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.

[Exeunt Clown, AUT., DOR., and MOP.]

[Re-enter Servant.]

SERVANT.:

Master, there is three carters, three shepherds, three

neat-herds, three swine-herds, 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' the 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 danced

before the king; and not the worst of the three but jumps twelve

foot and a half by the squire.

SHEPHERD.:

Leave your prating: since these good men are pleased, let

them come in; but quickly now.

SERVANT.:

Why, they stay at door, sir.

[Exit.]

[Enter Twelve Rustics, habited like Satyrs. They dance, and thenexeunt.]

POLIXENES.:

O, father, you'll know more of that hereafter.—

Is it not too far gone?—'Tis time to part them.—

He's simple and tells much.[Aside.]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, who, 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 the 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 the 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' the 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 altering 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.:

Pr'ythee 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 acknowledged: 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,

Far 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.]