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 most conftant,
Tho' destiny fay No. Be merry, gentle,

Strangle fuch thoughts as thefe, 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 fworn fhall come.

PER. O lady fortune,

Stand you aufpicious!

SCENE V. Enter fhepherd, clown, Mopfa, servants; with Polixenes and Camillo difguis'd.

FLo. See, your guests approach;

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

SHEP. Fy, daughter; when my old wife liv'd, upon
This day fhe 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 fhe took to quench it
She would to each one fip. 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'th' feast. Come on,
And bid us welcome to your sheep-fhearing,

As your good flock shall profper.

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 firs,
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. Shepherdefs,

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

PET. Sir, the year growing ancient,

Not yet on fummer's death, nor on the birth
Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o'th' feafon
Are our carnations, and streak'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 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; fo oyer 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 wildest stock;

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 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 fet one flip of them:

No more than, were I painted, I would with

you;

This youth should fay, 'twere well; and only therefore
Defire to breed by me.-Here's flowers for
Hot lavender, mints, favoury, marjoram,
The mary-gold, that goes to bed with th' fun,
And with him rifes, weeping: these are flowers
Of middle fummer, 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 blasts of January

[friend,

Would blow you through and through. Now, my fairest

I would, I had fome Aowers o'th' fpring, 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 it fail
From Dis's waggon! daffodils,

That come before the swallow 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 strength; (a malady
Most incident to maids) gold oxlips, and
The crown imperial; lillies of all kinds,
The flower-de-lis being one. O, these I lack
To make you garlands of, and, my fweet friend,
To ftrow him o'er and o'er.

FLO. What? like a coarfe?

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 whitfun pastorals: fure, this robe of mine
Does change my difpofition.

FLO. What you do,

Still betters what is done. When you fpeak, fweet,

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.

A wave o'th' fea,

When you do dance, I wish you that you might ever do

Nothing but that; move ftill, ftill fo,

And own no other function. Each your doing,

So fingular in each particular,

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

VOL. II.

M

And the true blood, which peeps forth fairly through it,
Do plainly give you out an unftain'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 purpofe

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 prettieft low-born lafs, that ever
Ran on the green-ford: nothing the does, or feems
But fmacks of fomething greater than herself,
Too noble for this place.

CAM. He tells her something,

That makes her blood look out: good footh, fhe is
The queen of curds and cream.

CLO. Come on, strike up.

DOR. Mopfa must be your mistrefs; marry, garlick to

mend her kiffing with

Mor. Now in good time!

CLO. Not a word, a word; we stand upon our manners : come, strike up.

Here a dance of shepherds and shepherdeffes.

POL. Pray, good fhepherd, what fair fwain is this, Who dances with your daughter?

SHEP. They call him Doricles, and he boafts himself To have a worthy feeding; but I have it

Upon his own report, and I believe it :

He looks like footh; he fays, he loves my daughter,
I think fo too; for never gaz'd the moon