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of the ship : — to see how the sea flap-dragon'd it: — but, first, how the poor souls roared, and the sea mock'd them ; — and how the poor gentleman roared, and the bear mock'd him, both roaring louder than the sea or weather.

Shep. Name of mercy, when was this, boy?

Clo. Now, now; I have not wink'd since I saw these sights: the men are not yet cold under water, nor the bear half-din'd on the gentleman: he's at it now.

Shep. Would I had been by, to have help'd the old man!

Clo. I would you had been by the ship side, to have help'd her; there your charity would have lack'd footing.

Shep. Heavy matters! heavy matters! but look thee here, boy. Now bless thyself; thou met'st 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?

Clo. You're a made old man; if the sins of your youth are forgiven you, you're well to live. Gold! all gold!

Shep. This is fairy gold, boy, and 'twill prove so: up with't, 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.

Clo. 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.

Shep. That's a good deed. If thou mayest discern, by that which is left of him, what he is, fetch me to th' sight of him.

Clo. Marry, will I; and you shall help to put him i' th' ground.

Shep. Tis a lucky day, boy; and we'll do good deeds on't. [Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Enter Time, as Chorus. Time.

ITHAT please some, try all, both joy and ter-
ror
Of good and bad, that makes and unfolds 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 untri'd
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 receiv'd: I witness to
The times that brought them in: so shall I do
To th' 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
Th' 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 mentioned a son o' th' King's, which Florizel I now name to you; and with speed so pace To speak of Perdita, now grown in grace Equal with wond'ring. 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 th' 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 I. Bohemia. A Room in the Palace of Polixenes.

Enter Polixenes and Camillo.

Pol. I pray thee, good Camillo, be no more importunate: 'tis a sickness denying thee any thing; a death to grant this.

Cam. 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.

Pol. As thou lov'st 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 saw'st 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.

Cam. 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.

Pol. 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.

Cam. 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.

Pol. 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 Tj2

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.

Cam. I willingly obey your command.

Pol. My best Camillo !— We must disguise ourselves. [Exeunt,

Scene II. The Same. A Road near the Shepherd's Cottage.

Enter Autolycus, singing.

When daffodils begin to peer,

With, heigh! the doxy over the dale,

Why, then comes in the sweet o' th' 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, heigh! [with, heigh /] 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.

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