:

SON G.

Fog on, jog on, the foot-path way,
And merrily bent the ftile-a.
A merry heart goes all the day,
Your fad tires in a mile-a.

[Exit.

SCENE, the Profpect of a Shepherd's Cotte.

Flo. T

Enter Florizel and Perdita.

HESE your unufual Weeds to each part of

you

Do give a life: no fhepherdefs, but Flora

Peering in April's front. This your sheep-fhearing
Is as a Meeting of the petty Gods,

And you the Queen on't.

Per. Sir, my gracious lord,

To chide at your extreams it not becomes me:
Oh pardon, that I name them: your high felf,
The gracious Mark o'th' land, you have obfcur'd
With a Swain's Wearing; and me, poor lowly maid,
Moft Goddess-like prank'd up. But that our feafts
In every mess have folly, and the feeders
Digeft it with a custom, I fhould blush
To fee you fo attired; fworn, I think,
To fhew my self a glass.

Flo. I blefs the time,

When my good falcon made her flight a-cross
Thy father's ground.

Per. Now Jove afford you cause!

To me the difference forges Dread; (your Greatness
Hath not been us'd to fear;) even now I tremble
To think, your father, by fome accident,
Should pass this way, as you did: oh, the fates!
How would he look, to fee his work, fo noble,
Vildly bound up! what would he say! or how
Should I in these my borrow'd flaunts behold
The sternness of his prefence?

Fle.

Flo. Apprehend

Nothing but jollity: the Gods themselves,
Humbling their Deities to love, have taken
The shapes of beafts upon them. Jupiter
Became a bull, and bellow'd; the green Neptune
A ram, and bleated; and the fire-rob'd God,
Golden Apollo; a poor humble Swain,
As I feem now. Their Transformations
Were never for a piece of beauty rarer,
Nor in a way so chafte: fince my defires
Run not before mine honour, nor my lufts
Burn hotter than my faith.

Per. O, but, dear Sir,

Your resolution cannot hold, when 'tis
Oppos'd, as it must be, by th' power o' th' King.
One of these two must be Neceffities,

Which then will speak, that you must change this purpose,

Or I my life.

Flo. Thou deareft Perdita,

With these forc'd thoughts, I pr'ythee, darken not
The mirth o'th' feaft; or I'll be thine, my Fair,
Or not my father's. For I cannot be
Mine own, nor any thing to any, if

I be not thine. To this I am moft conftant,
Tho' destiny say no. Be merry, (Gentle,)

Strangle fuch thoughts as thefe, with any thing

That you behold the while. Your Guefts are coming: Lift up your countenance, as 'twere the day

Of celebration of that Nuptial, which

We two have fworn fhall come.

Per. O lady Fortune,

Stand you aufpicious!

Enter Shepherd, Clown, Mopfa, Dorcas, Servants; with Polixenes and Camillo difguis'd.

Flo. See, your Guefts approach;

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

Shep.

Shep. Fie, daughter; when my old wife liv'd, upon This day he was both pantler, butler, cook, Both dame and fervant; welcom'd all, ferv'd all; Would fing her fong, and dance her turn; now here At upper end o'th' table, now i'th' middle: On his fhoulder, and his; her face o' fire With labour; and the thing she took to quench it She would to each one fip. You are retired, As if you were a feafted one, and not The Hoftefs 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 prefent your felf That which you are, mistress o'th' feaft. Come on, And bid us welcome to your fheep-fhearing, As your good flock fhall profper.

Per. Sirs, welcome.

[To Pol. and Cam,

It is my father's will, I fhould take on me

The Hoftefsfhip o'th' day; you're welcome, Sirs.

Give me those flowers there, Dorcas.Reverend Sirs,
For you there's rosemary and rue, thefe keep
Seeming and Savour all the Winter long:
Grace and remembrance be unto you Both,
And welcome to our fhearing!

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' feafon Are our Carnations, and ftreak'd Gilly-flowers, Which fome call Nature's baftards: of that kind Our ruftick garden's barren, and I care not

To get flips of them.

Pol. Wherefore, gentle maiden,

Do you neglect them?

Per. For I have heard it faid,

There is an Art, which in their pideness shares
With great creating Nature.

Pol.

Pol. Say, there be;

Yet Nature is made better by no mean,

But Nature makes that mean; fo over that Art,
Which, you fay, adds to Nature, is an Art

That Nature makes; you fee, fweet maid, we marry
A gentler fcyon to the wildeft ftock;

And make conceive a bark of bafer kind
By bud of nobler race. This is an Art,

Which does mend Nature, change it rather; but
The Art it felf is Nature.

Per. So it is.

Pol. Then make your garden rich in gilly-flowers, And do not call them baftards.

Per. I'll not put

The dibble in earth, to fet one flip of them:
No more than, were I painted, I would wish

This Youth fhould fay, 'twere well; and only therefore
Defire to breed by me. Here's flowers for you;
Hot lavender, mints, favoury, marjoram,

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

Cam. I fhould leave grazing, were I of your flock, And only live by gazing.

Per. Out, alas!

You'd be fo lean, that Blafts of January

Would blow you through and through. Now, my faireft friend,

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

Your maiden-heads growing: O Proferpina,
For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou let'ft fall
From Dis's waggon! daffadils,

That come before the fwallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty; violets dim,
But fweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes,
Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses,
That die unmarried, ere they can behold

Bright Phoebus in his ftrength; (a malady
Most incident to maids ;) bold oxlips, and
The crown-imperial; lillies of all kinds,
The flower-de-lis being one. O, thefe I lack
To make you garlands of, and my sweet friend,
To ftrow him o'er and o'er.

Flo. What? like a coarse?

Per. No, like a bank, for love to lie and play on; Not like a coarse; 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 Whitfon Paftorals: fure, this Robe of mine
Does change my difpofition.

Flo. What you do,

Still betters what is done. When you speak, (Sweet)
I'd have you do it ever; when you fing,

I'd have you buy and fell fo; fo, give alms;
Pray, fo; and for the ord'ring your affairs,

To fing them too. When you do dance, I wish you
A wave o'th' fea, that you might ever do
Nothing but That; move ftill, ftill fo,

And own no other function.

So fingular in each particular,

Each your Doing,

Crowns what you're doing in the prefent 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 forth fairly through it,
Do plainly give you out an unftain'd fhepherd;

With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles,

You woo'd me the falfe 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; fo turtles pair,

That never mean to part.

Per. I'll fwear for 'em.

Pol. This is the prettiest low-born-lafs, that ever
Ran on the green-ford; nothing fhe does, or feems,
But fmacks of fomething greater than her self,
Too noble for this place.

Cam.