Shakespeare's First Folio Part 248

Clo. How now? Canst stand?

Aut. Softly, deere sir: good sir, softly: you ha done me a charitable office

Clo. Doest lacke any mony? I haue a little mony for thee

Aut. No, good sweet sir: no, I beseech you sir: I haue a Kinsman not past three quarters of a mile hence, vnto whome I was going: I shall there haue money, or anie thing I want: Offer me no money I pray you, that killes my heart

Clow. What manner of Fellow was hee that robb'd you?

Aut. A fellow (sir) that I haue knowne to goe about with Troll-my-dames: I knew him once a seruant of the Prince: I cannot tell good sir, for which of his Vertues it was, but hee was certainely Whipt out of the Court

Clo. His vices you would say: there's no vertue whipt out of the Court: they cherish it to make it stay there; and yet it will no more but abide

Aut. Vices I would say (Sir.) I know this man well, he hath bene since an Ape-bearer, then a Processe-seruer (a Bayliffe) then hee compast a Motion of the Prodigall sonne, and married a Tinkers wife, within a Mile where my Land and Liuing lyes; and (hauing flowne ouer many knauish professions) he setled onely in Rogue: some call him Autolicus

Clo. Out vpon him: Prig, for my life Prig: he haunts Wakes, Faires, and Beare-baitings

Aut. Very true sir: he sir hee: that's the Rogue that put me into this apparrell

Clo. Not a more cowardly Rogue in all Bohemia; If you had but look'd bigge, and spit at him, hee'ld haue runne

Aut. I must confesse to you (sir) I am no fighter: I am false of heart that way, & that he knew I warrant him

Clo. How do you now?

Aut. Sweet sir, much better then I was: I can stand, and walke: I will euen take my leaue of you, & pace softly towards my Kinsmans

Clo. Shall I bring thee on the way?

Aut. No, good fac'd sir, no sweet sir

Clo. Then fartheewell, I must go buy Spices for our sheepe-shearing.

Enter.

Aut. Prosper you sweet sir. Your purse is not hot enough to purchase your Spice: Ile be with you at your sheepe-shearing too: If I make not this Cheat bring out another, and the sheerers proue sheepe, let me be vnrold, and my name put in the booke of Vertue.

Song. Iog-on, Iog-on, the foot-path way, And merrily hent the Stile-a: A merry heart goes all the day, Your sad tyres in a Mile-a.

Enter.

Scena Quarta.

Enter Florizell, Perdita, Shepherd, Clowne, Polixenes, Camillo, Mopsa, Dorcas, Seruants, Autolicus.

Flo. These your vnvsuall weeds, to each part of you Do's giue a life: no Shepherdesse, but Flora Peering in Aprils front. This your sheepe-shearing, Is as a meeting of the petty G.o.ds, And you the Queene on't

Perd. Sir: my gracious Lord, To chide at your extreames, it not becomes me: (Oh pardon, that I name them:) your high selfe The gracious marke o'th' Land, you haue obscur'd With a Swaines wearing: and me (poore lowly Maide) Most G.o.ddesse-like prank'd vp: But that our Feasts In euery Messe, haue folly; and the Feeders Digest with a Custome, I should blush To see you so attyr'd: sworne I thinke, To shew my selfe a gla.s.se

Flo. I blesse the time When my good Falcon, made her flight a-crosse Thy Fathers ground

Perd. Now Ioue affoord you cause: To me the difference forges dread (your Greatnesse Hath not beene vs'd to feare:) euen now I tremble To thinke your Father, by some accident Should pa.s.se this way, as you did: Oh the Fates, How would he looke, to see his worke, so n.o.ble, Vildely bound vp? What would he say? Or how Should I (in these my borrowed Flaunts) behold The sternnesse of his presence?

Flo. Apprehend Nothing but iollity: the G.o.ddes themselues (Humbling their Deities to loue) haue taken The shapes of Beasts vpon them. Iupiter, Became a Bull, and bellow'd: the greene Neptune A Ram, and bleated: and the Fire-roab'd-G.o.d Golden Apollo, a poore humble Swaine, As I seeme now. Their transformations, Were neuer for a peece of beauty, rarer, Nor in a way so chaste: since my desires Run not before mine honor: nor my l.u.s.ts Burne hotter then my Faith

Perd. O but Sir, Your resolution cannot hold, when 'tis Oppos'd (as it must be) by th' powre of the King: One of these two must be necessities, Which then will speake, that you must change this purpose, Or I my life

Flo. Thou deer'st Perdita, With these forc'd thoughts, I prethee darken not The Mirth o'th' Feast: Or Ile be thine (my Faire) Or not my Fathers. For I cannot be Mine owne, nor any thing to any, if I be not thine. To this I am most constant, Though destiny say no. Be merry (Gentle) Strangle such thoughts as these, with any thing That you behold the while. Your guests are comming: Lift vp your countenance, as it were the day Of celebration of that nuptiall, which We two haue sworne shall come

Perd. O Lady Fortune, Stand you auspicious

Flo. See, your Guests approach, Addresse your selfe to entertaine them sprightly, And let's be red with mirth

Shep. Fy (daughter) when my old wife liu'd: vpon This day, she was both Pantler, Butler, Cooke, Both Dame and Seruant: Welcom'd all: seru'd all, Would sing her song, and dance her turne: now heere At vpper end o'th Table; now, i'th middle: On his shoulder, and his: her face o' fire With labour, and the thing she tooke to quench it She would to each one sip. You are retyred, As if you were a feasted one: and not The Hostesse of the meeting: Pray you bid These vnknowne friends to's welcome, for it is A way to make vs better Friends, more knowne.

Come, quench your blushes, and present your selfe That which you are, Mistris o'th' Feast. Come on, And bid vs welcome to your sheepe-shearing, As your good flocke shall prosper

Perd. Sir, welcome: It is my Fathers will, I should take on mee The Hostesses.h.i.+p o'th' day: you're welcome sir.

Giue me those Flowres there (Dorcas.) Reuerend Sirs, For you, there's Rosemary, and Rue, these keepe Seeming, and sauour all the Winter long: Grace, and Remembrance be to you both, And welcome to our Shearing

Pol. Shepherdesse, (A faire one are you:) well you fit our ages With flowres of Winter

Perd. Sir, the yeare growing ancient, Not yet on summers death, nor on the birth Of trembling winter, the fayrest flowres o'th season Are our Carnations, and streak'd Gilly-vors, (Which some call Natures b.a.s.t.a.r.ds) of that kind Our rusticke Gardens barren, and I care not To get slips of them

Pol. Wherefore (gentle Maiden) Do you neglect them

Perd. For I haue heard it said, There is an Art, which in their pidenesse shares With great creating-Nature

Pol. Say there be: Yet Nature is made better by no meane, But Nature makes that Meane: so ouer that Art, (Which you say addes to Nature) is an Art That Nature makes: you see (sweet Maid) we marry A gentler Sien, to the wildest Stocke, And make conceyue a barke of baser kinde By bud of n.o.bler race. This is an Art Which do's mend Nature: change it rather, but The Art it selfe, is Nature

Perd. So it is

Pol. Then make you Garden rich in Gilly' vors, And do not call them b.a.s.t.a.r.ds

Perd. Ile not put The Dible in earth, to set one slip of them: No more then were I painted, I would wish This youth should say 'twer well: and onely therefore Desire to breed by me. Here's flowres for you: Hot Lauender, Mints, Sauory, Mariorum, The Mary-gold, that goes to bed with' Sun, And with him rises, weeping: These are flowres Of middle summer, and I thinke they are giuen To men of middle age. Y'are very welcome

Cam. I should leaue grasing, were I of your flocke, And onely liue by gazing

Perd. Out alas: You'ld be so leane, that blasts of Ianuary Would blow you through and through. Now (my fairst Friend, I would I had some Flowres o'th Spring, that might Become your time of day: and yours, and yours, That weare vpon your Virgin-branches yet Your Maiden-heads growing: O Proserpina, For the Flowres now, that (frighted) thou let'st fall From Dysses Waggon: Daffadils, That come before the Swallow dares, and take The windes of March with beauty: Violets (dim, But sweeter then the lids of Iuno's eyes, Or Cytherea's breath) pale Prime-roses, That dye vnmarried, ere they can behold Bright Phoebus in his strength (a Maladie Most incident to Maids:) bold Oxlips, and The Crowne Imperiall: Lillies of all kinds, (The Flowre-de-Luce being one.) O, these I lacke, To make you Garlands of) and my sweet friend, To strew him o're, and ore

Flo. What? like a Coa.r.s.e?

Perd. No, like a banke, for Loue to lye, and play on: Not like a Coa.r.s.e: or if: not to be buried, But quicke, and in mine armes. Come, take your flours, Me thinkes I play as I haue seene them do In Whitson-Pastorals: Sure this Robe of mine Do's change my disposition: Flo. What you do, Still betters what is done. When you speake (Sweet) I'ld haue you do it euer: When you sing, I'ld haue you buy, and sell so: so giue Almes, Pray so: and for the ord'ring your Affayres, To sing them too. When you do dance, I wish you A waue o'th Sea, that you might euer do Nothing but that: moue still, still so: And owne no other Function. Each your doing, (So singular, in each particular) Crownes what you are doing, in the present deeds, That all your Actes, are Queenes

Perd. O Doricles, Your praises are too large: but that your youth And the true blood which peepes fairely through't, Do plainly giue you out an vnstain'd Shepherd With wisedome, I might feare (my Doricles) You woo'd me the false way

Flo. I thinke you haue As little skill to feare, as I haue purpose To put you to't. But come, our dance I pray, Your hand (my Perdita:) so Turtles paire That neuer meane to part

Perd. Ile sweare for 'em

Pol. This is the prettiest Low-borne La.s.se, that euer Ran on the greene-sord: Nothing she do's, or seemes But smackes of something greater then her selfe, Too n.o.ble for this place

Cam. He tels her something That makes her blood looke on't: Good sooth she is The Queene of Curds and Creame

Clo. Come on: strike vp

Dorcas. Mopsa must be your Mistris: marry Garlick to mend her kissing with