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The Winter's Tale by William Shakespeare [Collins edition]

Part 3 out of 3

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Age, thou hast lost thy labour.

Why, sir?

The king is not at the palace; he is gone aboard a new ship to
purge melancholy and air himself: for, if thou beest capable of
things serious, thou must know the king is full of grief.

So 'tis said, sir,--about his son, that should have married a
shepherd's daughter.

If that shepherd be not in hand-fast, let him fly: the curses he
shall have, the tortures he shall feel, will break the back of
man, the heart of monster.

Think you so, sir?

Not he alone shall suffer what wit can make heavy and vengeance
bitter; but those that are germane to him, though removed fifty
times, shall all come under the hangman: which, though it be
great pity, yet it is necessary. An old sheep-whistling rogue, a
ram-tender, to offer to have his daughter come into grace! Some
say he shall be stoned; but that death is too soft for him, say
I. Draw our throne into a sheep-cote!--all deaths are too few,
the sharpest too easy.

Has the old man e'er a son, sir, do you hear, an't like you, sir?

He has a son,--who shall be flayed alive; then 'nointed over with
honey, set on the head of a wasp's nest; then stand till he be
three quarters and a dram dead; then recovered again with
aqua-vitae or some other hot infusion; then, raw as he is, and in
the hottest day prognostication proclaims, shall he be set
against a brick wall, the sun looking with a southward eye upon
him,--where he is to behold him with flies blown to death. But
what talk we of these traitorly rascals, whose miseries are to be
smiled at, their offences being so capital? Tell me,--for you
seem to be honest plain men, what you have to the king: being
something gently considered, I'll bring you where he is aboard,
tender your persons to his presence, whisper him in your behalfs;
and if it be in man besides the king to effect your suits, here
is man shall do it.

He seems to be of great authority: close with him, give him gold;
and though authority be a stubborn bear, yet he is oft led by the
nose with gold: show the inside of your purse to the outside of
his hand, and no more ado. Remember,--ston'd and flayed alive.

An't please you, sir, to undertake the business for us, here is
that gold I have: I'll make it as much more, and leave this young
man in pawn till I bring it you.

After I have done what I promised?

Ay, sir.

Well, give me the moiety. Are you a party in this business?

In some sort, sir: but though my case be a pitiful one, I hope I
shall not be flayed out of it.

O, that's the case of the shepherd's son. Hang him, he'll be made
an example.

Comfort, good comfort! We must to the king and show our strange
sights. He must know 'tis none of your daughter nor my sister; we
are gone else. Sir, I will give you as much as this old man does,
when the business is performed; and remain, as he says, your pawn
till it be brought you.

I will trust you. Walk before toward the sea-side; go on the
right-hand; I will but look upon the hedge, and follow you.

We are blessed in this man, as I may say, even blessed.

Let's before, as he bids us: he was provided to do us good.

[Exeunt Shepherd and Clown.]

If I had a mind to be honest, I see Fortune would not suffer me:
she drops booties in my mouth. I am courted now with a double
occasion,--gold, and a means to do the prince my master good;
which who knows how that may turn back to my advancement? I will
bring these two moles, these blind ones, aboard him: if he think
it fit to shore them again, and that the complaint they have to
the king concerns him nothing, let him call me rogue for being so
far officious; for I am proof against that title, and what shame
else belongs to't. To him will I present them: there may be
matter in it.



SCENE I. Sicilia. A Room in the palace of LEONTES.


Sir, you have done enough, and have perform'd
A saint-like sorrow: no fault could you make
Which you have not redeem'd; indeed, paid down
More penitence than done trespass: at the last,
Do as the heavens have done,forget your evil;
With them, forgive yourself.

Whilst I remember
Her and her virtues, I cannot forget
My blemishes in them; and so still think of
The wrong I did myself: which was so much
That heirless it hath made my kingdom, and
Destroy'd the sweet'st companion that e'er man
Bred his hopes out of.

True, too true, my lord;
If, one by one, you wedded all the world,
Or from the all that are took something good,
To make a perfect woman, she you kill'd
Would be unparallel'd.

I think so.--Kill'd!
She I kill'd! I did so: but thou strik'st me
Sorely, to say I did: it is as bitter
Upon thy tongue as in my thought: now, good now,
Say so but seldom.

Not at all, good lady;
You might have spoken a thousand things that would
Have done the time more benefit, and grac'd
Your kindness better.

You are one of those
Would have him wed again.

If you would not so,
You pity not the state, nor the remembrance
Of his most sovereign name; consider little
What dangers, by his highness' fail of issue,
May drop upon his kingdom, and devour
Incertain lookers-on. What were more holy
Than to rejoice the former queen is well?
What holier than,--for royalty's repair,
For present comfort, and for future good,--
To bless the bed of majesty again
With a sweet fellow to't?

There is none worthy,
Respecting her that's gone. Besides, the gods
Will have fulfill'd their secret purposes;
For has not the divine Apollo said,
Is't not the tenour of his oracle,
That king Leontes shall not have an heir
Till his lost child be found? which that it shall,
Is all as monstrous to our human reason
As my Antigonus to break his grave
And come again to me; who, on my life,
Did perish with the infant. 'Tis your counsel
My lord should to the heavens be contrary,
Oppose against their wills.--[To LEONTES.] Care not for issue;
The crown will find an heir: great Alexander
Left his to the worthiest; so his successor
Was like to be the best.

Good Paulina,--
Who hast the memory of Hermione,
I know, in honour,--O that ever I
Had squar'd me to thy counsel!--then, even now,
I might have look'd upon my queen's full eyes,
Have taken treasure from her lips,--

And left them
More rich for what they yielded.

Thou speak'st truth.
No more such wives; therefore, no wife: one worse,
And better us'd, would make her sainted spirit
Again possess her corpse; and on this stage,--
Where we offend her now,--appear soul-vexed,
And begin 'Why to me?'

Had she such power,
She had just cause.

She had; and would incense me
To murder her I married.

I should so.
Were I the ghost that walk'd, I'd bid you mark
Her eye, and tell me for what dull part in't
You chose her: then I'd shriek, that even your ears
Should rift to hear me; and the words that follow'd
Should be 'Remember mine!'

Stars, stars,
And all eyes else dead coals!--fear thou no wife;
I'll have no wife, Paulina.

Will you swear
Never to marry but by my free leave?

Never, Paulina; so be bless'd my spirit!

Then, good my lords, bear witness to his oath.

You tempt him over-much.

Unless another,
As like Hermione as is her picture,
Affront his eye.

Good madam,--

I have done.
Yet, if my lord will marry,--if you will, sir,
No remedy but you will,--give me the office
To choose you a queen: she shall not be so young
As was your former; but she shall be such
As, walk'd your first queen's ghost, it should take joy
To see her in your arms.

My true Paulina,
We shall not marry till thou bidd'st us.

Shall be when your first queen's again in breath;
Never till then.

[Enter a GENTLEMAN.]

One that gives out himself Prince Florizel,
Son of Polixenes, with his princess,--she
The fairest I have yet beheld,--desires access
To your high presence.

What with him? he comes not
Like to his father's greatness: his approach,
So out of circumstance and sudden, tells us
'Tis not a visitation fram'd, but forc'd
By need and accident. What train?

But few,
And those but mean.

His princess, say you, with him?

Ay; the most peerless piece of earth, I think,
That e'er the sun shone bright on.

O Hermione,
As every present time doth boast itself
Above a better gone, so must thy grave
Give way to what's seen now! Sir, you yourself
Have said and writ so,--but your writing now
Is colder than that theme,--'She had not been,
Nor was not to be equall'd'; thus your verse
Flow'd with her beauty once; 'tis shrewdly ebb'd,
To say you have seen a better.

Pardon, madam:
The one I have almost forgot,--your pardon;--
The other, when she has obtain'd your eye,
Will have your tongue too. This is a creature,
Would she begin a sect, might quench the zeal
Of all professors else; make proselytes
Of who she but bid follow.

How! not women?

Women will love her that she is a woman
More worth than any man; men, that she is
The rarest of all women.

Go, Cleomenes;
Yourself, assisted with your honour'd friends,
Bring them to our embracement.--

[Exeunt CLEO, Lords, and Gent.]

Still, 'tis strange
He thus should steal upon us.

Had our prince,--
Jewel of children,--seen this hour, he had pair'd
Well with this lord: there was not full a month
Between their births.

Pr'ythee no more; cease; Thou know'st
He dies to me again when talk'd of: sure,
When I shall see this gentleman, thy speeches
Will bring me to consider that which may
Unfurnish me of reason.--They are come.--

[Re-enter CLEOMENES, with FLORIZEL, PERDITA, and Attendants.]

Your mother was most true to wedlock, prince;
For she did print your royal father off,
Conceiving you: were I but twenty-one,
Your father's image is so hit in you,
His very air, that I should call you brother,
As I did him, and speak of something wildly
By us perform'd before. Most dearly welcome!
And your fair princess,--goddess! O, alas!
I lost a couple that 'twixt heaven and earth
Might thus have stood, begetting wonder, as
You, gracious couple, do! And then I lost,--
All mine own folly,--the society,
Amity too, of your brave father, whom,
Though bearing misery, I desire my life
Once more to look on him.

By his command
Have I here touch'd Sicilia, and from him
Give you all greetings that a king, at friend,
Can send his brother: and, but infirmity,--
Which waits upon worn times,--hath something seiz'd
His wish'd ability, he had himself
The lands and waters 'twixt your throne and his
Measur'd, to look upon you; whom he loves,
He bade me say so,--more than all the sceptres
And those that bear them, living.

O my brother,--
Good gentleman!--the wrongs I have done thee stir
Afresh within me; and these thy offices,
So rarely kind, are as interpreters
Of my behind-hand slackness!--Welcome hither,
As is the spring to the earth. And hath he too
Expos'd this paragon to the fearful usage,--
At least ungentle,--of the dreadful Neptune,
To greet a man not worth her pains, much less
The adventure of her person?

Good, my lord,
She came from Libya.

Where the warlike Smalus,
That noble honour'd lord, is fear'd and lov'd?

Most royal sir, from thence; from him whose daughter
His tears proclaim'd his, parting with her: thence,--
A prosperous south-wind friendly, we have cross'd,
To execute the charge my father gave me,
For visiting your highness: my best train
I have from your Sicilian shores dismiss'd;
Who for Bohemia bend, to signify
Not only my success in Libya, sir,
But my arrival and my wife's in safety
Here, where we are.

The blessed gods
Purge all infection from our air whilst you
Do climate here! You have a holy father,
A graceful gentleman; against whose person,
So sacred as it is, I have done sin:
For which the heavens, taking angry note,
Have left me issueless; and your father's bless'd,--
As he from heaven merits it,--with you,
Worthy his goodness. What might I have been,
Might I a son and daughter now have look'd on,
Such goodly things as you!

[Enter a Lord.]

Most noble sir,
That which I shall report will bear no credit,
Were not the proof so nigh. Please you, great sir,
Bohemia greets you from himself by me;
Desires you to attach his son, who has,--
His dignity and duty both cast off,--
Fled from his father, from his hopes, and with
A shepherd's daughter.

Where's Bohemia? speak.

Here in your city; I now came from him:
I speak amazedly; and it becomes
My marvel and my message. To your court
Whiles he was hast'ning,--in the chase, it seems,
Of this fair couple,--meets he on the way
The father of this seeming lady and
Her brother, having both their country quitted
With this young prince.

Camillo has betray'd me;
Whose honour and whose honesty, till now,
Endur'd all weathers.

Lay't so to his charge;
He's with the king your father.

Who? Camillo?

Camillo, sir; I spake with him; who now
Has these poor men in question. Never saw I
Wretches so quake: they kneel, they kiss the earth;
Forswear themselves as often as they speak:
Bohemia stops his ears, and threatens them
With divers deaths in death.

O my poor father!--
The heaven sets spies upon us, will not have
Our contract celebrated.

You are married?

We are not, sir, nor are we like to be;
The stars, I see, will kiss the valleys first:--
The odds for high and low's alike.

My lord,
Is this the daughter of a king?

She is,
When once she is my wife.

That once, I see by your good father's speed,
Will come on very slowly. I am sorry,
Most sorry, you have broken from his liking,
Where you were tied in duty; and as sorry
Your choice is not so rich in worth as beauty,
That you might well enjoy her.

Dear, look up:
Though Fortune, visible an enemy,
Should chase us with my father, power no jot
Hath she to change our loves.--Beseech you, sir,
Remember since you ow'd no more to time
Than I do now: with thought of such affections,
Step forth mine advocate; at your request
My father will grant precious things as trifles.

Would he do so, I'd beg your precious mistress,
Which he counts but a trifle.

Sir, my liege,
Your eye hath too much youth in't: not a month
'Fore your queen died, she was more worth such gazes
Than what you look on now.

I thought of her
Even in these looks I made.--[To FLORIZEL.] But your petition
Is yet unanswer'd. I will to your father.
Your honour not o'erthrown by your desires,
I am friend to them and you: upon which errand
I now go toward him; therefore, follow me,
And mark what way I make. Come, good my lord.


SCENE II. The same. Before the Palace.

[Enter AUTOLYCUS and a Gentleman.]

Beseech you, sir, were you present at this relation?

I was by at the opening of the fardel, heard the old shepherd
deliver the manner how he found it: whereupon, after a little
amazedness, we were all commanded out of the chamber; only this,
methought I heard the shepherd say he found the child.

I would most gladly know the issue of it.

I make a broken delivery of the business; but the changes I
perceived in the king and Camillo were very notes of admiration:
They seem'd almost, with staring on one another, to tear the
cases of their eyes; there was speech in their dumbness, language
in their very gesture; they looked as they had heard of a world
ransomed, or one destroyed: a notable passion of wonder appeared
in them; but the wisest beholder, that knew no more but seeing
could not say if the importance were joy or sorrow;--but in the
extremity of the one, it must needs be. Here comes a gentleman
that happily knows more.

[Enter a Gentleman.]

The news, Rogero?

Nothing but bonfires: the oracle is fulfilled: the king's
daughter is found: such a deal of wonder is broken out within
this hour that ballad-makers cannot be able to express it.
Here comes the Lady Paulina's steward: he can deliver you more.

[Enter a third Gentleman.]

How goes it now, sir? This news, which is called true, is so like
an old tale that the verity of it is in strong suspicion. Has the
king found his heir?

Most true, if ever truth were pregnant by circumstance. That
which you hear you'll swear you see, there is such unity in the
proofs. The mantle of Queen Hermione; her jewel about the neck of
it; the letters of Antigonus, found with it, which they know to
be his character; the majesty of the creature in resemblance of
the mother; the affection of nobleness, which nature shows above
her breeding; and many other evidences,--proclaim her with all
certainty to be the king's daughter. Did you see the meeting of
the two kings?


Then you have lost a sight which was to be seen, cannot be spoken
of. There might you have beheld one joy crown another, so and in
such manner that it seemed sorrow wept to take leave of them; for
their joy waded in tears. There was casting up of eyes, holding
up of hands, with countenance of such distraction that they were
to be known by garment, not by favour. Our king, being ready to
leap out of himself for joy of his found daughter, as if that joy
were now become a loss, cries 'O, thy mother, thy mother!' then
asks Bohemia forgiveness; then embraces his son-in-law; then
again worries he his daughter with clipping her; now he thanks
the old shepherd, which stands by like a weather-bitten conduit
of many kings' reigns. I never heard of such another encounter,
which lames report to follow it, and undoes description to do it.

What, pray you, became of Antigonus, that carried hence the

Like an old tale still, which will have matter to rehearse,
though credit be asleep and not an ear open. He was torn to
pieces with a bear: this avouches the shepherd's son, who has not
only his innocence,--which seems much,--to justify him, but a
handkerchief and rings of his, that Paulina knows.

What became of his bark and his followers?

Wrecked the same instant of their master's death, and in the view
of the shepherd: so that all the instruments which aided to
expose the child were even then lost when it was found. But, O,
the noble combat that 'twixt joy and sorrow was fought in
Paulina! She had one eye declined for the loss of her husband,
another elevated that the oracle was fulfilled: she lifted the
princess from the earth, and so locks her in embracing, as if she
would pin her to her heart, that she might no more be in danger
of losing.

The dignity of this act was worth the audience of kings and
princes; for by such was it acted.

One of the prettiest touches of all, and that which angled for
mine eyes,--caught the water, though not the fish,--was, when at
the relation of the queen's death, with the manner how she came
to it,--bravely confessed and lamented by the king,--how
attentivenes wounded his daughter; till, from one sign of dolour
to another, she did with an 'Alas!'--I would fain say, bleed
tears; for I am sure my heart wept blood. Who was most marble
there changed colour; some swooned, all sorrowed: if all the
world could have seen it, the woe had been universal.

Are they returned to the court?

No: the princess hearing of her mother's statue, which is in the
keeping of Paulina,--a piece many years in doing and now newly
performed by that rare Italian master, Julio Romano, who, had he
himself eternity, and could put breath into his work, would
beguile nature of her custom, so perfectly he is her ape: he so
near to Hermione hath done Hermione that they say one would speak
to her and stand in hope of answer:--thither with all greediness
of affection are they gone; and there they intend to sup.

I thought she had some great matter there in hand; for she hath
privately twice or thrice a day, ever since the death of
Hermione, visited that removed house. Shall we thither, and with
our company piece the rejoicing?

Who would be thence that has the benefit of access? every wink of
an eye some new grace will be born: our absence makes us
unthrifty to our knowledge. Let's along.


Now, had I not the dash of my former life in me, would preferment
drop on my head. I brought the old man and his son aboard the
prince; told him I heard them talk of a fardel and I know not
what; but he at that time over-fond of the shepherd's
daughter,--so he then took her to be,--who began to be much
sea-sick, and himself little better, extremity of weather
continuing, this mystery remained undiscover'd. But 'tis all one
to me; for had I been the finder-out of this secret, it would not
have relish'd among my other discredits. Here come those I have
done good to against my will, and already appearing in the
blossoms of their fortune.

[Enter Shepherd and Clown.]

Come, boy; I am past more children, but thy sons and daughters
will be all gentlemen born.

You are well met, sir: you denied to fight with me this other
day, because I was no gentleman born. See you these clothes? say
you see them not and think me still no gentleman born: you were
best say these robes are not gentlemen born. Give me the lie, do;
and try whether I am not now a gentleman born.

I know you are now, sir, a gentleman born.

Ay, and have been so any time these four hours.

And so have I, boy!

So you have:--but I was a gentleman born before my father; for
the king's son took me by the hand and called me brother; and
then the two kings called my father brother; and then the prince,
my brother, and the princess, my sister, called my father father;
and so we wept; and there was the first gentleman-like tears that
ever we shed.

We may live, son, to shed many more.

Ay; or else 'twere hard luck, being in so preposterous estate as
we are.

I humbly beseech you, sir, to pardon me all the faults I have
committed to your worship, and to give me your good report to the
prince my master.

Pr'ythee, son, do; for we must be gentle, now we are gentlemen.

Thou wilt amend thy life?

Ay, an it like your good worship.

Give me thy hand: I will swear to the prince thou art as honest a
true fellow as any is in Bohemia.

You may say it, but not swear it.

Not swear it, now I am a gentleman? Let boors and franklins say
it, I'll swear it.

How if it be false, son?

If it be ne'er so false, a true gentleman may swear it in the
behalf of his friend.--And I'll swear to the prince thou art a
tall fellow of thy hands and that thou wilt not be drunk; but I
know thou art no tall fellow of thy hands and that thou wilt be
drunk: but I'll swear it; and I would thou wouldst be a tall
fellow of thy hands.

I will prove so, sir, to my power.

Ay, by any means, prove a tall fellow: if I do not wonder how
thou darest venture to be drunk, not being a tall fellow, trust
me not.--Hark! the kings and the princes, our kindred, are going
to see the queen's picture. Come, follow us: we'll be thy good


SCENE III. The same. A Room in PAULINA's house.

Lords and Attendants.]

O grave and good Paulina, the great comfort
That I have had of thee!

What, sovereign sir,
I did not well, I meant well. All my services
You have paid home: but that you have vouchsaf'd,
With your crown'd brother and these your contracted
Heirs of your kingdoms, my poor house to visit,
It is a surplus of your grace which never
My life may last to answer.

O Paulina,
We honour you with trouble:--but we came
To see the statue of our queen: your gallery
Have we pass'd through, not without much content
In many singularities; but we saw not
That which my daughter came to look upon,
The statue of her mother.

As she liv'd peerless,
So her dead likeness, I do well believe,
Excels whatever yet you look'd upon
Or hand of man hath done; therefore I keep it
Lonely, apart. But here it is: prepare
To see the life as lively mock'd as ever
Still sleep mock'd death: behold; and say 'tis well.

[PAULINA undraws a curtain, and discovers HERMIONE, standing as a

I like your silence,--it the more shows off
Your wonder: but yet speak;--first, you, my liege.
Comes it not something near?

Her natural posture!--
Chide me, dear stone, that I may say indeed
Thou art Hermione; or rather, thou art she
In thy not chiding; for she was as tender
As infancy and grace.--But yet, Paulina,
Hermione was not so much wrinkled; nothing
So aged, as this seems.

O, not by much!

So much the more our carver's excellence;
Which lets go by some sixteen years, and makes her
As she liv'd now.

As now she might have done,
So much to my good comfort, as it is
Now piercing to my soul. O, thus she stood,
Even with such life of majesty,--warm life,
As now it coldly stands,--when first I woo'd her!
I am asham'd: does not the stone rebuke me
For being more stone than it?--O royal piece,
There's magic in thy majesty; which has
My evils conjur'd to remembrance; and
From thy admiring daughter took the spirits,
Standing like stone with thee!

And give me leave;
And do not say 'tis superstition, that
I kneel, and then implore her blessing.--Lady,
Dear queen, that ended when I but began,
Give me that hand of yours to kiss.

O, patience!
The statue is but newly fix'd, the colour's
Not dry.

My lord, your sorrow was too sore laid on,
Which sixteen winters cannot blow away,
So many summers dry; scarce any joy
Did ever so long live; no sorrow
But kill'd itself much sooner.

Dear my brother,
Let him that was the cause of this have power
To take off so much grief from you as he
Will piece up in himself.

Indeed, my lord,
If I had thought the sight of my poor image
Would thus have wrought you,--for the stone is mine,--
I'd not have show'd it.

Do not draw the curtain.

No longer shall you gaze on't; lest your fancy
May think anon it moves.

Let be, let be.--
Would I were dead, but that, methinks, already--
What was he that did make it? See, my lord,
Would you not deem it breath'd, and that those veins
Did verily bear blood?

Masterly done:
The very life seems warm upon her lip.

The fixture of her eye has motion in't,
As we are mock'd with art.

I'll draw the curtain:
My lord's almost so far transported that
He'll think anon it lives.

O sweet Paulina,
Make me to think so twenty years together!
No settled senses of the world can match
The pleasure of that madness. Let 't alone.

I am sorry, sir, I have thus far stirr'd you: but
I could afflict you further.

Do, Paulina;
For this affliction has a taste as sweet
As any cordial comfort.--Still, methinks,
There is an air comes from her: what fine chisel
Could ever yet cut breath? Let no man mock me,
For I will kiss her!

Good my lord, forbear:
The ruddiness upon her lip is wet;
You'll mar it if you kiss it; stain your own
With oily painting. Shall I draw the curtain?

No, not these twenty years.

So long could I
Stand by, a looker on.

Either forbear,
Quit presently the chapel, or resolve you
For more amazement. If you can behold it,
I'll make the statue move indeed, descend,
And take you by the hand, but then you'll think,--
Which I protest against,--I am assisted
By wicked powers.

What you can make her do
I am content to look on: what to speak,
I am content to hear; for 'tis as easy
To make her speak as move.

It is requir'd
You do awake your faith. Then all stand still;
Or those that think it is unlawful business
I am about, let them depart.

No foot shall stir.

Music, awake her: strike.--[Music.]
'Tis time; descend; be stone no more; approach;
Strike all that look upon with marvel. Come;
I'll fill your grave up: stir; nay, come away;
Bequeath to death your numbness, for from him
Dear life redeems you.--You perceive she stirs.

[HERMIONE comes down from the pedestal.]

Start not; her actions shall be holy as
You hear my spell is lawful: do not shun her
Until you see her die again; for then
You kill her double. Nay, present your hand:
When she was young you woo'd her; now in age
Is she become the suitor.

O, she's warm!
[Embracing her.]
If this be magic, let it be an art
Lawful as eating.

She embraces him.

She hangs about his neck:
If she pertain to life, let her speak too.

Ay, and make it manifest where she has liv'd,
Or how stol'n from the dead.

That she is living,
Were it but told you, should be hooted at
Like an old tale; but it appears she lives,
Though yet she speak not. Mark a little while.--
Please you to interpose, fair madam: kneel,
And pray your mother's blessing.--Turn, good lady;
Our Perdita is found.

[Presenting PERDITA, who kneels to HERMIONE.]

You gods, look down,
And from your sacred vials pour your graces
Upon my daughter's head!--Tell me, mine own,
Where hast thou been preserv'd? where liv'd? how found
Thy father's court? for thou shalt hear that I,--
Knowing by Paulina that the oracle
Gave hope thou wast in being,--have preserv'd
Myself to see the issue.

There's time enough for that;
Lest they desire upon this push to trouble
Your joys with like relation.--Go together,
You precious winners all; your exultation
Partake to every one. I, an old turtle,
Will wing me to some wither'd bough, and there
My mate, that's never to be found again,
Lament till I am lost.

O peace, Paulina!
Thou shouldst a husband take by my consent,
As I by thine a wife: this is a match,
And made between's by vows. Thou hast found mine;
But how, is to be question'd: for I saw her,
As I thought, dead; and have, in vain, said many
A prayer upon her grave. I'll not seek far,--
For him, I partly know his mind,--to find thee
An honourable husband.--Come, Camillo,
And take her by the hand, whose worth and honesty
Is richly noted, and here justified
By us, a pair of kings.--Let's from this place.--
What! look upon my brother:--both your pardons,
That e'er I put between your holy looks
My ill suspicion.--This your son-in-law,
And son unto the king, whom heavens directing,
Is troth-plight to your daughter.--Good Paulina,
Lead us from hence; where we may leisurely
Each one demand, and answer to his part
Perform'd in this wide gap of time, since first
We were dissever'd: hastily lead away.!


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