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 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; 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 Pol. Do you neglect them? Per. Wherefore, gentle maiden, For I have heard it said There is an art which, in their piedness, shares 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 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. No more than, were I painted, I would wish Desire to breed by me. Here's flowers for you; The marigold, that goes to bed with th' sun, 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 That come before the swallow dares, and take The flower-de-luce being one! O! these I lack, To make you garlands of; and, my sweet friend, 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 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; To sing them too: when you do dance, I wish you Nothing but that; move still, still so, And own no other function. Each your doing, Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds, 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, 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, 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 Enter a Servant. Servant. O master, if you did but hear the pedler at the door, you would never dance again after a tabor |