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Clo. How do you now?

Aut. Sweet fir, much better than I was; I can stand, and walk, I will even take my leave of you, and pace softly towards my kinsman's.

Clo. Shall I bring thee on thy way?
Aut. No, good-fac’d Sir; no, fweet Sir.

Clo. Then, farewel, I must go to buy spices for our sheep-hearing

[Exit. Aut. Prosper you, sweet Sir!

-Your purse is not hot enough to purchase your spice. I'll be with you at your Theep-lhearing too; if I make not this cheat bring out another, and the shearers prove sheep, let me be unrollid, and my name put into the book of virtue.

SONG.
Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way,

And merrily hent the stile-a.
A
merry

heart goes all the day,
Your fad tires in a mile-a.

[Exit. SCEN E IV. The prospect of a shepherd's cott.

Enter Florizel and Perdita.
Flo. These your unusual weeds to each part of you
Do give a life: no shepherdess, but Flora
Peering in April's front. This your sheep-lhearing
Is as a meeting of the petty gods,
And you the queen on't.

Per. Sir, my gracious lord,
To chide at your extremes it not becomes me:
Oh pardon, that I name them : your high felt,
The gracious mark o'th' land, you have obscur'd
With a swain's wearing; and me, poor lowly maid,

Most goddess-like prank'd up. But that our feasts
In every mess have folly, and the feeders
Digest it with a custom, I should blush
To fee

you

so attired ; sworn; I think, To shew myself a glass.

Flo. I bless the time,
When my good falcon made a 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 some accident,
Should pass this way, as you did: oh, the fates!
How would he look, to see his work, so noble,
Vilely bound up! what would he say, or how
Should I in these my borrow'd flaunts behold
The sternness of his presence!

Flo. Apprehend Nothing but jollity: The gods themselves, Humbling their deities to love, have taken The shapes of beasts upon them. Jupiter Became a bull, and beliow'd; the green Neptune A ram, and bleated; and the fire-rob'd god, Golden Apollo, a poor humble swain, As I seem now.

Their transformations Were never for a piece of beauty rarer, Nor in a way so chaste: since my

desires Run not before mine honour, nor my lusts 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 necessities,
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, darkèn not
The mirth o’th' feast; 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 most constant,
Tho' 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 'twere the day
Of celebration of that nuptial, which
We two have sworn shall come.

Per. O lady fortune,
Stand you auspicious !
SCE N e V. Enter shepherd, clown, Mopfa, servants;

with Polixenes and Camillo disguis’d.
Flo. See, your guests approach;
Address yourself to entertain them sprightly,
And let's be red with mirth.

Shep. Fy, daughter; when my old wife liv'd, upon
This day she was both pantler, butler, cook,
Both dame and servant; welcom'd all, ferv'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 retired,
As if you were a feafled 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'th' feast. Come on,
And bid us welcome to your sheep-lhearing,
As your good flock shall prosper.
Per. Sirs, welcome.

[To Pol. and Cam.
It is my father's will, I should take on me
The hostessship o’th’ day; you're welcome, firs.
Give me those flowers there, Dorcas.-Reverend Girs,
For you there's rosemary and rue, these keep
Seeming and favour all the winter long:
Grace and remembrance be unto you both,
And welcome to our fhearing!

Pol. Shepherders,
(A fair one are you) well you fit our ages
With flowers of winter.

Pet. Sir, the year growing ancient,
Not yet on summer's death, nor on the birth
Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o'th' season
Are our carnations, and streak'd gilly-flowers,
Which some call nature's bastards; of that kind
Our rustick 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 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 oyer that art
Which, you say, adds to nature, is an art,
That nature makes; you see, sweet maid, we marry
A gentler scyon 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 gilly-flowers,
And do not call them bastards.

Per. I'll not put
The dibble in earth, to set one flip 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, favoury, marjorarn,
The mary-gold, that goes to bed with th'sun,
And with him rises, weeping: these are flowers
Of middle summer, and, I think, they are given
To men of middle age. Y'are very welcome.

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

[friend, Would blow you through and through. Now, my faireft I would, I had some Aowers o'th' spring, that might Become your time of day; and

yours,
That wear upon your virgin-branches yet
Your maiden-heads growing: 0 Proserpina,
For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou let'st fall
From Dis's waggon daifodils,

yours, and

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