Mine own, nor any thing 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.

Per.

Stand you auspicious!

O Lady Fortune,

Enter Shepherd, with POLIXENES and CAMILLO disguised; Clown, MOPSA, DORCAS, and others.

Flo. See, your guests approach: Address yourself to entertain them sprightly; And let's be red with mirth.

Shep. 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' th' table, now i' th' 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,

The hostess of the meeting.

and not

Pray you, bid

These unknown friends to 's 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' th' feast. Come on,
And bid us welcome to your sheep-shearing,

As your good flock shall prosper.

Per. [To POLIXENES.]

Sir, welcome!

It is my father's will I should take on me

The hostess-ship o' th' 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!

Pol.

Shepherdess,

(A fair one are you,) well you fit our ages With flowers of Winter.

Per.

Sir, the year growing ancient, —

Not yet on Summer's death, nor on the birth

Of trembling Winter, - the fairest flowers o' th' sea

son

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.

Pol.

Do you neglect them?

Per.

Wherefore, gentle maiden,

For I have heard it said

There is an art which, in their piedness, shares
With great creating Nature.

Pol.

Say, there be;

Yet Nature is made better by no mean,

But Nature makes that mean: so, over 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,

The art itself is Nature.

change it, rather; but

Pol. Then make your garden rich in gillyvors, And do not call them bastards.

I'll not put

Per.
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 there-
fore

Desire to breed by me. Here's flowers for you;
Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram;

The marigold, that goes to bed with th' sun,
And with him rises, weeping: these are flowers
Of middle Summer, and, I think, they are given
To men of middle age. Y'are very welcome.

Cam. I should leave grazing, were I of your

flock,

And only live by gazing.

Per.

Out, alas!

You'd be so lean, that blasts of January

Would blow you through and through.

fair'st friend,

- Now, my

I would I had some flowers o' th' Spring, that might Become your time of day; and yours, and yours; That wear upon your virgin branches yet

Your maidenheads growing. O, Proserpina,

For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou let'st fall
From Dis's wagon! 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.

Flo.

What! like a corse?

Per. 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.

Flo.

Still betters what is done.

What you do

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 ord'ring your affairs,

To sing them too: when you do dance, I wish you
A wave o' th' 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.

Per.

O Doricles,

Your praises are too large: but that your youth, And the true blood which peeps [so] fairly through 't, Do plainly give you out an unstain'd shepherd, With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles,

You woo'd me the false way.

Flo.

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.

Per.

I'll swear for 'em.

Pol. This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever

Ran on the green sord: nothing she does or says,
But smacks of something greater than herself,
Too noble for this place.

Cam. He tells her something

That makes her blood look on 't. Good sooth, she is The queen of curds and cream.

Clo.

Come on, strike up.

Dorcas. Mopsa must be your mistress: marry, garlic, To mend her kissing with.

Mopsa.

Now, in good time!

Clo. Not a word, a word; we stand upon our man

ners.

Come, strike up.

[Music.

Here a Dance of Shepherds and Shepherdesses. Pol. Pray, good Shepherd, what fair swain is this Which dances with your daughter?

Shep. 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. 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.

Pol.

She dances featly.

Shep. So she does any thing; 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 pedler at the door, you would never dance again after a tabor