Been both at Delphos, and from thence have brought This seal’d-up oracle, by the hand deliver’d Of great Apollo’s priest; and that since then, You have not dar’d to break the holy seal, Nor read the secrets in’t.
CLEOMENES, DION.
All this we swear.
LEONTES.
Break up the seals and read.
OFFICER.
[Reads.] ‘Hermione is chaste; Polixenes blameless; Camillo a true subject; Leontes a jealous tyrant; his innocent babe truly begotten; and the king shall live without an heir, if that which is lost be not found.’
LORDS.
Now blessed be the great Apollo!
HERMIONE.
Praised!
LEONTES.
Hast thou read truth?
OFFICER.
Ay, my lord; even so
As it is here set down.
LEONTES.
There is no truth at all i’ the oracle: The sessions shall proceed: this is mere falsehood!
[Enter a Servant hastily.]
SERVANT.
My lord the king, the king!
LEONTES.
What is the business?
SERVANT.
O sir, I shall be hated to report it: The prince your son, with mere conceit and fear Of the queen’s speed, is gone.
LEONTES.
How! gone?
SERVANT.
Is dead.
LEONTES.
Apollo’s angry; and the heavens themselves Do strike at my injustice. [HERMIONE faints.] How now there!
PAULINA.
This news is mortal to the queen:–Look down And see what death is doing.
LEONTES.
Take her hence:
Her heart is but o’ercharg’d; she will recover.– I have too much believ’d mine own suspicion:– Beseech you tenderly apply to her
Some remedies for life.–Apollo, pardon
[Exeunt PAULINA and Ladies with HERMIONE.]
My great profaneness ‘gainst thine oracle!– I’ll reconcile me to Polixenes;
New woo my queen; recall the good Camillo– Whom I proclaim a man of truth, of mercy; For, being transported by my jealousies
To bloody thoughts and to revenge, I chose Camillo for the minister to poison
My friend Polixenes: which had been done, But that the good mind of Camillo tardied My swift command, though I with death and with Reward did threaten and encourage him,
Not doing it and being done: he, most humane, And fill’d with honour, to my kingly guest Unclasp’d my practice; quit his fortunes here, Which you knew great; and to the certain hazard Of all incertainties himself commended,
No richer than his honour:–how he glisters Thorough my rust! And how his piety
Does my deeds make the blacker!
[Re-enter PAULINA.]
PAULINA.
Woe the while!
O, cut my lace, lest my heart, cracking it, Break too!
FIRST LORD.
What fit is this, good lady?
PAULINA.
What studied torments, tyrant, hast for me? What wheels? racks? fires? what flaying? boiling In leads or oils? what old or newer torture Must I receive, whose every word deserves To taste of thy most worst? Thy tyranny
Together working with thy jealousies,– Fancies too weak for boys, too green and idle For girls of nine,–O, think what they have done, And then run mad indeed,–stark mad! for all Thy by-gone fooleries were but spices of it. That thou betray’dst Polixenes, ’twas nothing; That did but show thee, of a fool, inconstant, And damnable ingrateful; nor was’t much
Thou wouldst have poison’d good Camillo’s honour, To have him kill a king; poor trespasses,– More monstrous standing by: whereof I reckon The casting forth to crows thy baby daughter, To be or none or little, though a devil
Would have shed water out of fire ere done’t; Nor is’t directly laid to thee, the death Of the young prince, whose honourable thoughts,– Thoughts high for one so tender,–cleft the heart That could conceive a gross and foolish sire Blemish’d his gracious dam: this is not,–no, Laid to thy answer: but the last,–O lords, When I have said, cry Woe!,–the queen, the queen, The sweetest, dearest creature’s dead; and vengeance for’t Not dropp’d down yet.
FIRST LORD.
The higher powers forbid!
PAULINA.
I say she’s dead: I’ll swear’t. If word nor oath Prevail not, go and see: if you can bring Tincture, or lustre, in her lip, her eye, Heat outwardly or breath within, I’ll serve you As I would do the gods.–But, O thou tyrant! Do not repent these things; for they are heavier Than all thy woes can stir; therefore betake thee To nothing but despair. A thousand knees Ten thousand years together, naked, fasting, Upon a barren mountain, and still winter In storm perpetual, could not move the gods To look that way thou wert.
LEONTES.
Go on, go on:
Thou canst not speak too much; I have deserv’d All tongues to talk their bitterest!
FIRST LORD.
Say no more:
Howe’er the business goes, you have made fault I’ the boldness of your speech.
PAULINA.
I am sorry for’t:
All faults I make, when I shall come to know them, I do repent. Alas, I have show’d too much The rashness of a woman: he is touch’d
To th’ noble heart–What’s gone and what’s past help, Should be past grief: do not receive affliction At my petition; I beseech you, rather
Let me be punish’d, that have minded you Of what you should forget. Now, good my liege, Sir, royal sir, forgive a foolish woman: The love I bore your queen,–lo, fool again!– I’ll speak of her no more, nor of your children; I’ll not remember you of my own lord,
Who is lost too: take your patience to you, And I’ll say nothing.
LEONTES.
Thou didst speak but well,
When most the truth; which I receive much better Than to be pitied of thee. Pr’ythee, bring me To the dead bodies of my queen and son:
One grave shall be for both; upon them shall The causes of their death appear, unto
Our shame perpetual. Once a day I’ll visit The chapel where they lie; and tears shed there Shall be my recreation: so long as nature Will bear up with this exercise, so long I daily vow to use it.–Come, and lead me To these sorrows.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE III. Bohemia. A desert Country near the Sea.
[Enter ANTIGONUS with the Child, and a Mariner.]
ANTIGONUS.
Thou art perfect, then our ship hath touch’d upon The deserts of Bohemia?
MARINER.
Ay, my lord; and fear
We have landed in ill time: the skies look grimly, And threaten present blusters. In my conscience, The heavens with that we have in hand are angry, And frown upon ‘s.
ANTIGONUS.
Their sacred wills be done!–Go, get aboard; Look to thy bark: I’ll not be long before I call upon thee.
MARINER.
Make your best haste; and go not
Too far i’ the land: ’tis like to be loud weather; Besides, this place is famous for the creatures Of prey that keep upon’t.
ANTIGONUS.
Go thou away:
I’ll follow instantly.
MARINER.
I am glad at heart
To be so rid o’ th’ business.
[Exit.]
ANTIGONUS.
Come, poor babe:–
I have heard (but not believ’d), the spirits of the dead May walk again: if such thing be, thy mother Appear’d to me last night; for ne’er was dream So like a waking. To me comes a creature, Sometimes her head on one side, some another: I never saw a vessel of like sorrow,
So fill’d and so becoming: in pure white robes, Like very sanctity, she did approach
My cabin where I lay: thrice bow’d before me; And, gasping to begin some speech, her eyes Became two spouts: the fury spent, anon
Did this break from her: ‘Good Antigonus, Since fate, against thy better disposition, Hath made thy person for the thrower-out Of my poor babe, according to thine oath,– Places remote enough are in Bohemia,
There weep, and leave it crying; and, for the babe Is counted lost for ever, Perdita
I pr’ythee call’t. For this ungentle business, Put on thee by my lord, thou ne’er shalt see Thy wife Paulina more’: so, with shrieks, She melted into air. Affrighted much,
I did in time collect myself; and thought This was so and no slumber. Dreams are toys; Yet, for this once, yea, superstitiously, I will be squar’d by this. I do believe
Hermione hath suffer’d death, and that Apollo would, this being indeed the issue Of King Polixenes, it should here be laid, Either for life or death, upon the earth Of its right father. Blossom, speed thee well! [Laying down the child.]
There lie; and there thy character: there thes; [Laying down a bundle.]
Which may if fortune please, both breed thee, pretty, And still rest thine.–The storm begins:–poor wretch, That for thy mother’s fault art thus expos’d To loss and what may follow!–Weep I cannot, But my heart bleeds: and most accurs’d am I To be by oath enjoin’d to this.–Farewell! The day frowns more and more:–thou’rt like to have A lullaby too rough:–I never saw
The heavens so dim by day. A savage clamour!– Well may I get aboard!–This is the chace: I am gone for ever.
[Exit, pursued by a bear.]
[Enter an old SHEPHERD.]
SHEPHERD.
I would there were no age between ten and three-and-twenty, or that youth would sleep out the rest; for there is nothing in the between but getting wenches with child, wronging the ancientry, stealing, fighting.–Hark you now! Would any but these boiled brains of nineteen and two-and-twenty hunt this weather? They have scared away two of my best sheep, which I fear the wolf will sooner find than the master: if any where I have them, ’tis by the sea-side, browsing of ivy.–Good luck, an’t be thy will! what have we here? [Taking up the child.] Mercy on’s, a bairn: A very pretty bairn! A boy or a child, I wonder? A pretty one; a very pretty one: sure, some scape: though I am not bookish, yet I can read waiting-gentlewoman in the scape. This has been some stair-work, some trunk-work, some behind-door-work; they were warmer that got this than the poor thing is here. I’ll take it up for pity: yet I’ll tarry till my son comes; he hallaed but even now.–Whoa, ho hoa!
CLOWN.
[Within.] Hilloa, loa!
SHEPHERD.
What, art so near? If thou’lt see a thing to talk on when thou art dead and rotten, come hither.
[Enter CLOWN.]
What ail’st thou, man?
CLOWN.
I have seen two such sights, by sea and by land!–but I am not to say it is a sea, for it is now the sky: betwixt the firmament and it, you cannot thrust a bodkin’s point.
SHEPHERD.
Why, boy, how is it?
CLOWN.
I would you did but see how it chafes, how it rages, how it takes up the shore! But that’s not to the point. O, the most piteous cry of the poor souls! sometimes to see ’em, and not to see ’em; now the ship boring the moon with her mainmast, and anon swallowed with yest and froth, as you’d thrust a cork into a hogshead. And then for the land service,–to see how the bear tore out his shoulder-bone; how he cried to me for help, and said his name was Antigonus, a nobleman.–But to make an end of the ship,–to see how the sea flap-dragon’d it:–but first, how the poor souls roared, and the sea mocked them;–and how the poor gentleman roared, and the bear mocked him,–both roaring louder than the sea or weather.
SHEPHERD.
Name of mercy! when was this, boy?
CLOWN.
Now, now; I have not winked since I saw these sights: the men are not yet cold under water, nor the bear half dined on the gentleman; he’s at it now.
SHEPHERD.
Would I had been by to have helped the old man!
CLOWN.
I would you had been by the ship-side, to have helped her: there your charity would have lacked footing.
SHEPHERD.
Heavy matters, heavy matters! [Aside.] But look thee here, boy. Now bless thyself: thou mettest with things dying, I with things new-born. Here’s a sight for thee; look thee, a bearing-cloth for a squire’s child! look thee here; take up, take up, boy; open’t. So, let’s see:–it was told me I should be rich by the fairies: this is some changeling:–open’t. What’s within, boy?
CLOWN.
You’re a made old man; if the sins of your youth are forgiven you, you’re well to live. Gold! all gold!
SHEPHERD.
This is fairy-gold, boy, and ’twill prove so: up with it, keep it close: home, home, the next way! We are lucky, boy: and to be so still requires nothing but secrecy–Let my sheep go:– come, good boy, the next way home.
CLOWN.
Go you the next way with your findings. I’ll go see if the bear be gone from the gentleman, and how much he hath eaten: they are never curst but when they are hungry: if there be any of him left, I’ll bury it.
SHEPHERD.
That’s a good deed. If thou mayest discern by that which is left of him what he is, fetch me to the sight of him.
CLOWN.
Marry, will I; and you shall help to put him i’ the ground.
SHEPHERD.
‘Tis a lucky day, boy; and we’ll do good deeds on’t.
[Exeunt.]
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
[Enter Time, as Chorus.]
TIME.
I,–that please some, try all; both joy and terror Of good and bad; that make and unfold 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 power 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 received: I witness to The times that brought them in; so shall I do To the 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 The 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’ the king’s, which Florizel I now name to you; and with speed so pace To speak of Perdita, now grown in grace
Equal with wondering: 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 the 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. A Room in 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 lovest 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, pr’ythee, 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 sawest 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. Pr’ythee, 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. The same. A Road near the Shepherd’s cottage.
[Enter AUTOLYCUS, singing.]
When daffodils begin to peer,–
With, hey! 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, hey! 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, hey! with, hey! 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 named me Autolycus; who being, I as am, littered under Mercury, was likewise a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles. With die and drab I purchased 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; a race or two of ginger’,–but that I may beg; ‘four pound of prunes, and as many of raisins o’ the sun’.
AUTOLYCUS.
[Grovelling on the ground.] O that ever I was born!
CLOWN.
I’ the 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 robbed 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 whipped out of the court.
CLOWN.
His vices, you would say; there’s no virtue whipped 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 compassed 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 looked 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-faced 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 enrolled, 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. 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 then exeunt.]
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.]
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 further, 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’ the 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 hide 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’ the 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 the 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, the son, forgiveness, As ’twere i’ the father’s person; kisses the hands Of your fresh princess; o’er and o’er divides him ‘Twixt his unkindness and his kindness,–the 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’ the rear our birth.
CAMILLO.
I cannot say ’tis pity
She lacks instruction; 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.]
[Re-enter AUTOLYCUS.]
AUTOLYCUS.
Ha, ha! what a fool Honesty is! and Trust, his sworn brother, a very simple gentleman! I have sold all my trumpery; not a counterfeit stone, not a riband, glass, pomander, brooch, table-book, ballad, knife, tape, glove, shoe-tie, bracelet, horn-ring, to keep my pack from fasting;–they throng who should buy first, as if my trinkets had been hallowed, and brought a benediction to the buyer: by which means I saw whose purse was best in picture; and what I saw, to my good use I remembered. My clown (who wants but something to be a reasonable man) grew so in love with the wenches’ song that he would not stir his pettitoes till he had both tune and words; which so drew the rest of the herd to me that all their other senses stuck in ears: you might have pinched a placket,–it was senseless; ’twas nothing to geld a codpiece of a purse; I would have filed keys off that hung in chains: no hearing, no feeling, but my sir’s song, and admiring the nothing of it. So that, in this time of lethargy, I picked and cut most of their festival purses; and had not the old man come in with whoobub against his daughter and the king’s son, and scared my choughs from the chaff, I had not left a purse alive in the whole army.
[CAMILLO, FLORIZEL, and PERDITA come forward.]
CAMILLO.
Nay, but my letters, by this means being there So soon as you arrive, shall clear that doubt.
FLORIZEL.
And those that you’ll procure from king Leontes,–
CAMILLO.
Shall satisfy your father.
PERDITA.
Happy be you!
All that you speak shows fair.
CAMILLO.
[seeing AUTOLYCUS.] Who have we here? We’ll make an instrument of this; omit
Nothing may give us aid.
AUTOLYCUS.
[Aside.] If they have overheard me now,–why, hanging.
CAMILLO.
How now, good fellow! why shakest thou so? Fear not, man; here’s no harm intended to thee.
AUTOLYCUS.
I am a poor fellow, sir.
CAMILLO.
Why, be so still; here’s nobody will steal that from thee: yet, for the outside of thy poverty we must make an exchange; therefore discase thee instantly,–thou must think there’s a necessity in’t,–and change garments with this gentleman: though the pennyworth on his side be the worst, yet hold thee, there’s some boot. [Giving money.]
AUTOLYCUS.
I am a poor fellow, sir:–[Aside.] I know ye well enough.
CAMILLO.
Nay, pr’ythee dispatch: the gentleman is half flay’d already.
AUTOLYCUS.
Are you in camest, sir?–[Aside.] I smell the trick on’t.
FLORIZEL.
Dispatch, I pr’ythee.
AUTOLYCUS.
Indeed, I have had earnest; but I cannot with conscience take it.
CAMILLO.
Unbuckle, unbuckle.
[FLORIZEL and AUTOLYCUS exchange garments.]
Fortunate mistress,–let my prophecy
Come home to you!–you must retire yourself Into some covert; take your sweetheart’s hat And pluck it o’er your brows, muffle your face, Dismantle you; and, as you can, disliken The truth of your own seeming; that you may,– For I do fear eyes over,–to shipboard
Get undescried.
PERDITA.
I see the play so lies
That I must bear a part.
CAMILLO.
No remedy.–
Have you done there?
FLORIZEL.
Should I now meet my father,
He would not call me son.
CAMILLO.
Nay, you shall have no hat.–
[Giving it to PERDITA.]
Come, lady, come.–Farewell, my friend.
AUTOLYCUS.
Adieu, sir.
FLORIZEL.
O Perdita, what have we twain forgot! Pray you a word.
[They converse apart.]
CAMILLO.
[Aside.] What I do next, shall be to tell the king Of this escape, and whither they are bound; Wherein, my hope is, I shall so prevail
To force him after: in whose company I shall re-view Sicilia; for whose sight I have a woman’s longing.
FLORIZEL.
Fortune speed us!–
Thus we set on, Camillo, to the sea-side.
CAMILLO.
The swifter speed the better.
[Exeunt FLORIZEL, PERDITA, and CAMILLO.]
AUTOLYCUS.
I understand the business, I hear it:–to have an open ear, a quick eye, and a nimble hand, is necessary for a cut-purse; a good nose is requisite also, to smell out work for the other senses. I see this is the time that the unjust man doth thrive. What an exchange had this been without boot? what a boot is here with this exchange? Sure, the gods do this year connive at us, and we may do anything extempore. The prince himself is about a piece of iniquity,–stealing away from his father with his clog at his heels: if I thought it were a piece of honesty to acquaint the king withal, I would not do’t: I hold it the more knavery to conceal it; and therein am I constant to my profession.
[Re-enter CLOWN and SHEPHERD.]
Aside, aside;–here is more matter for a hot brain: every lane’s end, every shop, church, session, hanging, yields a careful man work.
CLOWN.
See, see; what a man you are now! There is no other way but to tell the king she’s a changeling, and none of your flesh and blood.
SHEPHERD.
Nay, but hear me.
CLOWN.
Nay, but hear me.
SHEPHERD.
Go to, then.
CLOWN.
She being none of your flesh and blood, your flesh and blood has not offended the king; and so your flesh and blood is not to be punished by him. Show those things you found about her; those secret things,–all but what she has with her: this being done, let the law go whistle; I warrant you.
SHEPHERD.
I will tell the king all, every word,–yea, and his son’s pranks too; who, I may say, is no honest man neither to his father nor to me, to go about to make me the king’s brother-in-law.
CLOWN.
Indeed, brother-in-law was the farthest off you could have been to him; and then your blood had been the dearer by I know how much an ounce.
AUTOLYCUS.
[Aside.] Very wisely, puppies!
SHEPHERD.
Well, let us to the king: there is that in this fardel will make him scratch his beard!
AUTOLYCUS.
[Aside.] I know not what impediment this complaint may be to the flight of my master.
CLOWN.
Pray heartily he be at palace.
AUTOLYCUS.
Though I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes by chance. Let me pocket up my pedlar’s excrement. [Aside, and takes off his false beard.]–How now, rustics! whither are you bound?
SHEPHERD.
To the palace, an it like your worship.
AUTOLYCUS.
Your affairs there, what, with whom, the condition of that fardel, the place of your dwelling, your names, your ages, of what having, breeding, and anything that is fitting to be known? discover.
CLOWN.
We are but plain fellows, sir.
AUTOLYCUS.
A lie: you are rough and hairy. Let me have no lying; it becomes none but tradesmen, and they often give us soldiers the lie: but we pay them for it with stamped coin, not stabbing steel; therefore they do not give us the lie.
CLOWN.
Your worship had like to have given us one, if you had not taken yourself with the manner.
SHEPHERD.
Are you a courtier, an’t like you, sir?
AUTOLYCUS.
Whether it like me or no, I am a courtier. Seest thou not the air of the court in these enfoldings? hath not my gait in it the measure of the court? receives not thy nose court-odour from me? reflect I not on thy baseness court-contempt? Think’st thou, for that I insinuate, that toaze from thee thy business, I am therefore no courtier? I am courtier cap-a-pe, and one that will either push on or pluck back thy business there: whereupon I command the to open thy affair.
SHEPHERD.
My business, sir, is to the king.
AUTOLYCUS.
What advocate hast thou to him?
SHEPHERD.
I know not, an’t like you.
CLOWN.
Advocate’s the court-word for a pheasant, say you have none.
SHEPHERD.
None, sir; I have no pheasant, cock nor hen.
AUTOLYCUS.
How bless’d are we that are not simple men! Yet nature might have made me as these are, Therefore I will not disdain.
CLOWN.
This cannot be but a great courtier.
SHEPHERD.
His garments are rich, but he wears them not handsomely.
CLOWN.
He seems to be the more noble in being fantastical: a great man, I’ll warrant; I know by the picking on’s teeth.
AUTOLYCUS.
The fardel there? what’s i’ the fardel? Wherefore that box?
SHEPHERD.
Sir, there lies such secrets in this fardel and box which none must know but the king; and which he shall know within this hour, if I may come to the speech of him.
AUTOLYCUS.