Pol. Wherefore, gentle maiden, Do you neglect them? Per. For I have heard it said, There is an art, which, in their piedness, shares Pol. Say, there be; Yet nature is made better by no mean, But nature makes that mean: so, o'er that art, That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry 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 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 slip of them : This youth should say, 'twere well; and only therefore Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram ; The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun, Per. Out, alas! You'd be so lean, that blasts of January Would blow you through and through.-Now, my fair est friend, I would, I had some flowers o'the spring, that might That come before the swallow dares, and take 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: In Whitsun' pastorals: sure, this robe of mine Flo. What you do, Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet, I'd have you do it ever: when you sing, I'd have you buy and sell so; so give alms, 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 So singular in each particular, Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds, Per. O Doricles, Your praises are too large: but that your youth, 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 : That never mean to part. Per. I'll swear for 'em. 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. Come on, strike up. Dor. Mopsa must be your mistress: marry, garlick, To mend her kissing with. Mop. Now, in good time! Clo. Not a word, a word; we stand upon our man ners.- Come, strike up. [Musick. 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 he boasts himself To have a worthy feeding: but I have it Upon his own report, and I believe it; He looks like sooth: He says, he loves my daughter; I think so too; for never gaz'd the moon Upon the water, as he'll stand, and read, 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. Shep. So she does any thing; though I report it, Do light upon her, she shall bring him that Enter a Servant. Serv. O master, if you did but hear the pedler 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. 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 burdens of dildos and fadings: jump her and thump her; and where some stretch-mouth'd 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. Clo. Believe me, thou talkest of an admirable-conceited fellow. Has he any unbraided wares? Serv. He hath ribands 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, cambricks, lawns: why, he sings them 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. Clo. Pr'ythee, bring him in; and let him approach singing. Per. Forewarn him, that he use no scurrilous words in his tunes. Clo. You have of these pedlers, that have more in 'em than you'd think, sister. Per. Ay, good brother, or go about to think. Enter AUTOLYCUs, singing. Lawn, as white as driven snow; |