Her portion equal his.

Flo.

O, that must be

I' the virtue of your daughter: one being

Pol.

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?

Flo.

No, good sir

He has his health and ampler strength indeed Than most have of his age.

Pol.

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.

Flo.

I yield all this;

But for some other reasons, my grave sir, Which 'tis not fit you now, I not acquaint My father of this business.

Pol.

Let him know 't.

Flo. He shall not.

Pol.

Prithee, let him.

Flo.

No, he must not.

Shep. Let him, my son: he shall not

need to grieve

At knowing of thy choice.

Flo.

Come, come, he must not.

Mark our contract.

Pol.

Mark your divorce, young sir, [Discovering himself. 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 copest with,—

Shep.

O, my heart! Pol. 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 suc

cession;

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.

Per.

[exit.

Even here undone ! I was not much afeard; for once or twice I was about to speak and tell him plainly, The selfsame sun that shines upon his court

Hides not his visage from our cottage, but Looks on alike. 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,