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Ser. 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 a dance, which the wenches say is a gallimaufry of gambols, because they are not in't ; but they themselves are o' th' mind, (if it be not too rough for some, that know little but bowling,) it will please plentifully. Shep. Away! we'll none on’t ; here has been too much humble foolery already :—I know, sir, we weary OUI. y Pol. You weary those that refresh us. Pray, let's see these four-threes of herdsmen. Ser. 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.” Shep. Leave your prating ; since these good men are pleased, let them come in ; but quickly now. Ser. Why, they stay at door, sir. [Exit.

Re-enter Servant, with twelve Rustics, habited like satyrs. They dance, and then exeunt.

Pol. O, father, you’ll know more of that hereafter.— Is it not too far gone 7—"Tis time to part them.—

[8] Men of hair, are hairy men, or satyrs. A dance of satyrs was no unusual entertainment in the middle ages. At a great festival celebrated in France, the king and some of the nobles personated satyrs dressed in close habits, tufted or shagge; all over, to imitate hair. They began a wild dance, and in the tumult of their merriment one of them went too near a candle and set fire to his satyr's garb, the flame ran instantly over the loose tufts, and spread itself to the dress of those that were next him, a great number of the dancers were cruelly scorched, being neither able to throw off their coats nor extinguish them. The king had set himself in the lap of the dutchess of Burgundy, who threw her robe over him and saved #nson

3) a by the foot-rule. Esquierre, Fr. MALONF,

He's simple, and tells much. [Aside.]—How now, fair
shepherd 7

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 pedler'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. - - *

Flo. 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.

Pol. What follows this 2–
How prettily the young swain seems to wash
The hand, was fair before —I have put you out :—
Tut, to your protestation; let me hear
What you profess.

Flo. Do, and be witness to't.

Pol. And this my neighbour too !

Flo. 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.

Pol. Fairly offer'd.

Cann. This shows a sound affection.

Shep. But, my daughter, Say you the like to him :

Per. 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.
Shep. 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.
Flo. O, that must be
I' th' 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.
Shep. Come, your hand;—
And, daughter, yours.
Pol. Soft, swain, a while, 'beseech you ;
Have you a father ?
Flo. I have : But what of him 2
Pol. Knows he of this 7
Flo. He neither does, nor shall.
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 2 is he not stupid
With age, and altering rheums ? Can he speak 2 hear?
Know man from man 2 dispute his own estate 7
Lies he not bed-rid 2 and again does nothing,
But what he did being childish 2
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 know, I not acquaint
My father of this business.
Pol. Let him know't.
Flo. He shall not.

Pol. Pr'ythee, 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 contráct.

Pol. Mark your divorce, young sir,

[Discovering himself.

Whom son I dare not call ; thou art too base
To be acknowledg'd. Thou a sceptre's heir,
That thus affect'st 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 ;

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 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.

Per. 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.” Will't please you, sir, be gone " [To Flo.

[1] I think for far than we should read.sar as. We will not hold thee qf our kia even so far off as Deucalion, the common ancestor of all. JOHNSON.

[2] The character is here finely sustained. To have made her quite astonished ;. ...; . of o: not become her birth; and to have given her Joresence of mind to have made this repl he ki tion. WARBURTON. ply to the king, had not become her educa

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. -

Cam. Why, how now, father?
Speak, ere thou diest.

Shep. I cannot speak, nor think, Nor dare to know that which I know.—O, sir, [To Flo. 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-indust.—O cursed wretch


That knew'st this was the prince, and would'st 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,

Flo. Why look you so upon me? -
I am but sorry, not afeard; delay'd,
But nothing alter'd : What I was, I am:
More straining on, for plucking back; not following
My leash unwillingly.

Cam. 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. *

Flo... I not purpose it. I think, Camillo.

Cam. Even he, my lord.

Per. How often have I told you, 'twould be thus?
How often said, my dignity would last
But till 'twere known 2

Flo. It cannot fail, but by
The violation of my faith; And then
Let nature crush the sides o' th' earth together,

[3] These sentiments, which the poet has heightened by a strain of ridicule that runs through them, admirably characterize the speaker; whose selfishness is seen in concealing the adventure of Perdita; and here supported, by showing no regard for his son or her, but being taken up entirely with himself, though #§§


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