Enter a Servant.

Serv. Master, there is three carters, three shepherds, three neat-herds, three swine-herds, that have made themselves all men of hair; they call themselves saltiers; and they have a dance, which the wenches say is a gallimaufry of gambols, because they are not in't; but they themselves are o' the mind (if it be not too rough for some, that know little but bowling) it will please plentifully.

Shep. Away! we'll none on't; here has been too much homely foolery already.-I know, sir, we weary you.

Pol. You weary those that refresh us. Pray, let's see these four threes of herdsmen.

Serv. One three of them, by their own report, sir, hath danced before the king; and not the worst of the three, but jumps twelve foot and a half by the squire.

Shep. Leave your prating; since these good men are pleased, let them come in; but quickly now.

Serv. Why, they stay at door, sir.

[Exit.

Re-enter Servant, with twelve Rustics habited like Satyrs. They dance, and then exeunt.

Pol. O, father, you'll know more of that hereafter.-
Is it not too far gone?-'Tis time to part them.—
He's simple, and tells much. [Aside.]-How now, fair
shepherd?

Your heart is full of something, that does take
Your mind from feasting. Sooth, when I was young,
And handed love, as you do, I was wont

To load my she with knacks. I would have ransacked

The pedler's silken treasury, and have poured it

To her acceptance; you have let him go,

And nothing marted with him: if your lass
Interpretation should abuse, and call this
Your lack of love or bounty, you were straited
For a reply; at least, if you make a care
Of happy holding her.

Flo.
Old sir, I know
She prizes not such trifles as these are.

The gifts she looks from me are packed and locked
Up in my heart; which I have given already,
But not delivered.-O, hear me breathe my life
Before this ancient sir, who, it should seem,
Hath sometime loved. I take thy hand; this hand,
As soft as dove's down, and as white as it;

Or Ethiopian's tooth, or the fanned snow,
That's bolted by the northern blasts twice o'er.
Pol. What follows this?

How prettily the young swain seems to wash

The hand, was fair before!-I have put you out.-
But to your protestation; let me hear

What you profess.

Flo.

Do, and be witness to't.
Pol. And this my neighbor too?
Flo.
And he, and more
Than he, and men; the earth, the heavens, and all:
That, were I crowned the most imperial monarch,
Thereof most worthy; were I the fairest youth
That ever made eye swerve; had force, and knowledge,
More than was ever man's,-I would not prize them,
Without her love; for her employ them all;

Commend them, and condemn them, to her service,
Or to their own perdition.

Pol.

Cam. This shows a sound affection.
Shep.

Say you the like to him?

Per.

Fairly offered.

But, my daughter,

I cannot speak

So well, nothing so well, no, nor mean better.
By the pattern of my own thoughts I cut out
The purity of his.

Shep.
Take hands; a bargain;-
And, friends unknown, you shall bear witness to't.
I give my daughter to him, and will make
Her portion equal his.

Flo.

O, that must be

I' the virtue of your daughter: one being dead,
I shall have more than you can dream of yet;
Enough then for your wonder. But come on;
Contract us 'fore these witnesses.

Is, at the nuptial of his son, a guest

That best becomes the table. Pray you, once more;
Is not your father grown incapable

Of reasonable affairs? Is he not stupid

With age, and altering rheums? Can he speak? hear? Know man from man? dispute his own estate?

Lies he not bed-rid? and again does nothing,

But what he did being childish?

Flo.

No, good sir;

He has his health, and ampler strength, indeed,
Than most have of his age.

Pol.

By my white beard,

You offer him, if this be so, a wrong

Something unfilial. Reason, my son,

Should choose himself a wife; but as good reason,
The father (all whose joy is nothing else

But fair posterity) should hold some counsel
In such a business.

Flo.

I yield all this;

But, for some other reasons, my grave sir,
Which 'tis not fit you know, I not acquaint
My father of this business.

Pol.

Shep. Let him, my son; he shall not need to grieve

Let him know't.

Flo. He shall not.

Pol.

Pr'ythee, let him.

Flo.

No, he must not.

Flo.

Come, come, he must not.

Pol.

Mark your divorce, young sir,

[Discovering himself.

At knowing of thy choice.

Mark our contract.

Whom son I dare not call; thou art too base
To be acknowledged. Thou a sceptre's heir,
That thus affect'st a sheep-hook!-Thou, old traitor,
I am sorry that, by hanging thee, I can but
Shorten thy life one week.-And thou, fresh piece
Of excellent witchcraft; who, of force, must know
The royal food thou cop'st with ;-

Shep.
O, my heart!
Pol. I'll have thy beauty scratched with briers, and made
More homely than thy state.-For thee, fond boy,—
If I may ever know thou dost but sigh,

That thou no more shalt never see this knack, (as never
I mean thou shalt,) we'll bar thee from succession;
Not hold thee of our blood, no, not our kin;
Far than Deucalion off.-Mark thou my words;
Follow us to the court.-Thou churl, for this time,
Though full of our displeasure, yet we free thee.

From the dead blow of it.-And you, enchantment,-
Worthy enough a herdsman; yea, him too,
That makes himself, but for our honor therein,
Unworthy thee,-if ever, henceforth, thou
These rural latches to his entrance open,
Or hoop his body more with thy embraces,
I will devise a death as cruel for thee,
As thou art tender to't.

Per.

[Exit.

Even here undone! I was not much afeard: for once, or twice, I was about to speak, and tell him plainly, The self-same sun, that shines upon his court, Hides not his visage from our cottage, but Looks on alike.-Will't please you, sir, be gone? [To FLORIZEL. I told you what would come of this. 'Beseech you, Of your own state take care. This dream of mine,Being now awake, I'll queen it no inch further, But milk my ewes, and weep.

Cam.

Speak ere thou diest.

Why, how now, father!

Shep.
I cannot speak, nor think,
Nor dare to know that which I know. O, sir,

[To FLORIZEL.

You have undone a man of fourscore three,
That thought to fill his grave in quiet; yea,
To die upon the bed my father died,
To lie close by his honest bones; but now
Some hangman must put on my shroud, and lay me
Where no priest shovels-in dust.-0, cursed wretch,

[TO PERDITA.
That knew'st this was the prince, and would'st adventure
To mingle faith with him.- Undone! undone!
If I might die within this hour, I have lived
To die when I desire.

Flo.

[Exit.

Why look you so upon me?

I am but sorry, not afeard! delayed,

But nothing altered! What I was, I am;
More straining on, for plucking back; not following
My leash unwillingly.

Gracious my lord,

Cam.
You know your father's temper. At this time
He will allow no speech,-which, I do guess,
You do not purpose to him;-and as hardly
Will he endure your sight as yet, I fear.

Then, till the fury of his highness settle,
Come not before him.

Flo.

I think, Camillo.

Cam.

I not purpose it.

Even he, my lord.

Per. How often have I told you 'twould be thus! How often said, my dignity would last

But till 'twere known!

Flo.

It cannot fail, but by

The violation of my faith; and then

Let nature crush the sides o' the earth together,
And mar the seeds within!-Lift up thy looks:-
From my succession wipe me, father! I

Am heir to my affection.

Cam.

Be advised.

Flo. I am; and by my fancy: if my reason
Will thereto be obedient, I have reason;

If not, my senses, better pleased with madness,
Do bid it welcome.

Cam.
This is desperate, sir.
Flo. So call it; but it does fulfil my vow;
I needs must think it honesty. Camillo,
Not for Bohemia, nor the pomp that may
Be thereat gleaned; for all the sun sees, or
The close earth wombs, or the profound seas hide
In unknown fathoms, will I break my oath
To this my fair beloved. Therefore, I pray you,
As you have e'er been my father's honored friend,
When he shall miss me, (as, in faith, I mean not
To see him any more,) cast your good counsels
Upon his passion. Let myself and fortune
Tug for the time to come. This you may know,
And so deliver.-I am put to sea

With her whom here I cannot hold on shore;
And, most opportune to our need, I have
A vessel rides fast by, but not prepared
For this design. What course I mean to hold
Shall nothing benefit your knowledge, nor
Concern me the reporting.

Cam.

O, my lord,

I would your spirit were easier for advice,
Or stronger for your need.

Flo.

I'll hear you by-and-by.

Hark, Perdita.-[Takes her aside. [To CAMILLO.

He's irremovable;

Cam.
Resolved for flight. Now were I happy, if