Of celebration of that nuptial which
We two have sworn shall come.

Per.

Stand you auspicious!

Flo.

50

O lady Fortune,

See, your guests approach:

Address yourself to entertain them sprightly,
And let's be red with mirth.

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

Shep.

Fie, daughter! when my old wife lived, upon

This day she was both pantler, butler, cook,
Both dame and servant; welcomed all, served all;
Would sing her song and dance her turn; now

here,

At upper end o' the table, now i' the middle;
On his shoulder, and his; her face o' fire

60

With labour and the thing she took to quench it,
She would to each one sip. You are retired,
As if you were a feasted one and not
The hostess of the meeting: 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' the feast:

come on,

And bid us welcome to your sheep-shearing,
As your good flock shall prosper.

Per.

[To Pol.] Sir, welcome: 70

It is my father's will I should take on me
The hostess-ship o' the day. [To Cam.] You're

welcome, sir.

Give me those flowers there, Dorcas.

sirs,

Reverend,

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!

*Appearance.

Shepherdess,

Pol.
A fair one are you-well you fit our ages
With flowers of winter.

80

Per. Sir, the year growing ancient, Not yet on summer's death, nor on the birth Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o' the

season

ire 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.

Wherefore, gentle maiden,

Do you neglect them?

Per.

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 90
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, change it rather, but The art itself is nature.

Per.

So it is.

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

100

Per.
I'll not put
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
therefore

Desire to breed by me. Here's flowers for you;
Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram;
The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun
And with him rises weeping: these are flowers
Of middle summer, and I think they are given
To men of middle age. You're very welcome.
Cam. I should leave grazing, were I of your
flock,

And only live by gazing.

Per.

Out, alas!

You'ld be so lean, that blasts of January

ΙΙΟ

Would blow you through and through. Now, my fair'st friend.

I would I had some flowers o' the 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 waggon! 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!

121

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:

131

*Living.

Methinks I play as I have seen them do
In Whitsun pastorals: sure this robe of mine
Does change my disposition.

What you do

Flo. Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet,

I'ld have you do it ever: when you sing,

I'ld have you buy and sell so, so give alms,
Pray so; and, for the ordering your affairs,

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

141

Crowns what you are doing in the present deed, That all your acts are queens.

Per.

O Doricles,

Your praises are too large: but that your youth,

And the true blood which peepeth 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.

150

Pol. This is the prettiest low-born lass that

ever

Ran on the green-sward: nothing she does or

seems

But smacks of something greater than herself,
Too noble for this place.

Cam.

He tells her something

That makes her blood look out: good sooth, she is

The queen of curds and cream.

Clo.

161 Come on, strike up!

Dor. Mopsa must be your mistress: marry,

garlic,

To mend her kissing with!

Мор.

Now, in good time!

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

manners.

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;

170

He looks like sooth.* He says he loves my daughter:

I think so too; for never gazed the moon
Upon the water as he'll stand and read

*Truth

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.* *Neatly.

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 Servant.

180

Serv. O master, if you did but hear the pedlar at the door, you would never dance again after a tabor and pipe; no, the bagpipe could not move you: he sings several tunes faster than you'll tell money; he utters them as he had eaten ballads and all men's ears grew to his tunes.

Clo. He could never come better; he shall come in. I love a ballad but even too well, if it be doleful matter merrily set down, or a very pleasant thing indeed and sung lamentably.

190 Serv. He hath songs for man or woman, of all sizes; no milliner can so fit his customers with gloves: he has the prettiest love-songs for maids; so without bawdry, which is strange; with such delicate burthens of dildos and fadings,* ‘jump her and thump her;' and where some stretchmouthed rascal would, as it were, mean mischief and break a foul gap into the matter, he makes the maid to answer Whoop, do me no harm, good man;' puts him off, slights him, with 'Whoop, do me no harm, good man.' Pol. This is a brave fellow.

*Chorus and end.

201

Clo. Believe me, thou talkest of an admirable conceited fellow. Has he any unbraided wares? Serv. He hath ribbons of all the colours i' the rainbow; points more than all the lawyers in Bohemia can learnedly handle, though they come to him by the gross: inkles,* caddisses,† cambrics, lawns: why, he sings 'em over as they were gods or goddesses; you would think a smock were a she-angel, he so chants to the sleeve-hand and the work about the square‡ on't.

*Narrow tape.

Clo. Prithee bring him in; and let him approach singing. +Worsted galloon. Stomacher. Per. Forewarn him that he use no scurrilous words in's tunes. [Exit Servant.