Part 216

POLIXENES. Say there be; Yet nature is made better by no mean But nature makes that mean. So, over that art Which you say adds to nature, is an art That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry A gentler scion 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.

PERDITA. So it is.

POLIXENES. Then make your garden rich in gillyvors, And do not call them bastards.

PERDITA. I’ll not put The dibble in earth to set one slip 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, savory, marjoram, The marigold, 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. You’re very welcome.

CAMILLO. I should leave grazing, were I of your flock, And only live by gazing.

PERDITA. Out, alas! You’d be so lean that blasts of January Would blow you through and through. [_To Florizel_] Now, my fair’st friend, I would I had some flowers o’ th’ spring, that might Become your time of day; and yours, and yours, That wear upon your virgin branches yet Your maidenheads growing. O Proserpina, From the flowers now that, frighted, thou let’st fall From Dis’s waggon! daffodils, That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty; violets dim, But sweeter 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); bold oxlips and The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds, The flower-de-luce being one. O, these I lack, To make you garlands of; and my sweet friend, To strew him o’er and o’er!

FLORIZEL. What, like a corse?

PERDITA. 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. Methinks I play as I have seen them do In Whitsun pastorals. Sure this robe of mine Does change my disposition.

FLORIZEL. 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, Pray so; and, for the ord’ring your affairs, To sing them too. When you do dance, I wish you A wave o’ th’ sea, that you might ever do Nothing but that, move still, still so, And own no other function. Each your doing, So singular in each particular, Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds, That all your acts are queens.

PERDITA. O Doricles, Your praises are too large. But that your youth, And the true blood which peeps fairly through ’t, Do plainly give you out an unstained shepherd, With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles, You woo’d me the false way.

FLORIZEL. I think you have As little skill to fear as I have purpose To put you to ’t. But, come; our dance, I pray. Your hand, my Perdita. So turtles pair That never mean to part.

PERDITA. I’ll swear for ’em.

POLIXENES. 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.

CAMILLO. He tells her something That makes her blood look out. Good sooth, she is The queen of curds and cream.

CLOWN. Come on, strike up.

DORCAS. Mopsa must be your mistress: marry, garlic, to mend her kissing with!

MOPSA. Now, in good time!

CLOWN. Not a word, a word; we stand upon our manners. Come, strike up.

[_Music. Here a dance Of Shepherds and Shepherdesses._]

POLIXENES. Pray, good shepherd, what fair swain is this Which dances with your daughter?

SHEPHERD. They call him Doricles; and 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.

POLIXENES. She dances featly.

SHEPHERD. So she does anything, though I report it That should be silent. If young Doricles Do light upon her, she shall bring him that Which he not dreams of.

Enter a Servant.

SERVANT. O master, if you did but hear the pedlar 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.

CLOWN. 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.

SERVANT. 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-mouthed 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.”

POLIXENES. This is a brave fellow.

CLOWN. Believe me, thou talkest of an admirable conceited fellow. Has he any unbraided wares?

SERVANT. He hath ribbons of all the colours i’ th’ rainbow; points, more than all the lawyers in Bohemia can learnedly handle, though they come to him by th’ gross; inkles, caddisses, cambrics, lawns; why he sings ’em 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.

CLOWN. Prithee bring him in; and let him approach singing.

PERDITA. Forewarn him that he use no scurrilous words in ’s tunes.

[_Exit Servant._]

CLOWN. You have of these pedlars that have more in them than you’d think, sister.

PERDITA. Ay, good brother, or go about to think.

Enter Autolycus, singing.

AUTOLYCUS. _Lawn as white as driven snow, Cypress black as e’er was crow, Gloves as sweet as damask roses, Masks for faces and for noses, Bugle-bracelet, necklace amber, Perfume for a lady’s chamber, Golden quoifs and stomachers For my lads to give their dears, Pins and poking-sticks of steel, What maids lack from head to heel. Come buy of me, come; come buy, come buy; Buy, lads, or else your lasses cry. Come, buy._

CLOWN. If I were not in love with Mopsa, thou shouldst take no money of me; but being enthralled as I am, it will also be the bondage of certain ribbons and gloves.

MOPSA. I was promised them against the feast; but they come not too late now.

DORCAS. He hath promised you more than that, or there be liars.

MOPSA. He hath paid you all he promised you. Maybe he has paid you more, which will shame you to give him again.

CLOWN. Is there no manners left among maids? Will they wear their plackets where they should bear their faces? Is there not milking-time, when you are going to bed, or kiln-hole, to whistle of these secrets, but you must be tittle-tattling before all our guests? ’Tis well they are whispering. Clamour your tongues, and not a word more.

MOPSA. I have done. Come, you promised me a tawdry lace and a pair of sweet gloves.

CLOWN. Have I not told thee how I was cozened by the way and lost all my money?

AUTOLYCUS. And indeed, sir, there are cozeners abroad; therefore it behoves men to be wary.

CLOWN. Fear not thou, man. Thou shalt lose nothing here.

AUTOLYCUS. I hope so, sir; for I have about me many parcels of charge.

CLOWN. What hast here? Ballads?

MOPSA. Pray now, buy some. I love a ballad in print alife, for then we are sure they are true.

AUTOLYCUS. Here’s one to a very doleful tune. How a usurer’s wife was brought to bed of twenty money-bags at a burden, and how she longed to eat adders’ heads and toads carbonadoed.

MOPSA. Is it true, think you?

AUTOLYCUS. Very true, and but a month old.

DORCAS. Bless me from marrying a usurer!

AUTOLYCUS. Here’s the midwife’s name to’t, one Mistress Taleporter, and five or six honest wives that were present. Why should I carry lies abroad?

MOPSA. Pray you now, buy it.

CLOWN. Come on, lay it by; and let’s first see more ballads. We’ll buy the other things anon.

AUTOLYCUS. Here’s another ballad, of a fish that appeared upon the coast on Wednesday the fourscore of April, forty thousand fathom above water, and sung this ballad against the hard hearts of maids. It was thought she was a woman, and was turned into a cold fish for she would not exchange flesh with one that loved her. The ballad is very pitiful, and as true.

DORCAS. Is it true too, think you?

AUTOLYCUS. Five justices’ hands at it, and witnesses more than my pack will hold.

CLOWN. Lay it by too: another.

AUTOLYCUS. This is a merry ballad; but a very pretty one.

MOPSA. Let’s have some merry ones.

AUTOLYCUS. Why, this is a passing merry one and goes to the tune of “Two maids wooing a man.” There’s scarce a maid westward but she sings it. ’Tis in request, I can tell you.

MOPSA. We can both sing it: if thou’lt bear a part, thou shalt hear; ’tis in three parts.

DORCAS. We had the tune on ’t a month ago.

AUTOLYCUS. I can bear my part; you must know ’tis my occupation: have at it with you.

SONG.

AUTOLYCUS. _Get you hence, for I must go Where it fits not you to know._

DORCAS. _Whither?_

MOPSA. _O, whither?_

DORCAS. _Whither?_

MOPSA. _It becomes thy oath full well Thou to me thy secrets tell._

DORCAS. _Me too! Let me go thither._

MOPSA. Or thou goest to th’ grange or mill.

DORCAS. _If to either, thou dost ill._

AUTOLYCUS. _Neither._

DORCAS. _What, neither?_

AUTOLYCUS. _Neither._

DORCAS. _Thou hast sworn my love to be._

MOPSA. _Thou hast sworn it more to me. Then whither goest? Say, whither?_

CLOWN. We’ll have this song out anon by ourselves. My father and the gentlemen are in sad talk, and we’ll not trouble them. Come, bring away thy pack after me. Wenches, I’ll buy for you both. Pedlar, let’s have the first choice. Follow me, girls.

[_Exit with Dorcas and Mopsa._]

AUTOLYCUS. [_Aside._] And you shall pay well for ’em.

SONG.

_Will you buy any tape, Or lace for your cape, My dainty duck, my dear-a? Any silk, any thread, Any toys for your head, Of the new’st and fin’st, fin’st wear-a? Come to the pedlar; Money’s a meddler That doth utter all men’s ware-a._

[_Exit._]

Enter Servant.

SERVANT. 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 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.

SHEPHERD. Away! we’ll none on ’t. Here has been too much homely foolery already. I know, sir, we weary you.

POLIXENES. You weary those that refresh us: pray, let’s see these four threes of herdsmen.

SERVANT. 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 th’ square.

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

SERVANT. Why, they stay at door, sir.

[_Exit._]

Enter Twelve Rustics, habited like Satyrs. They dance, and then exeunt.

POLIXENES. O, father, you’ll know more of that hereafter. [_To Camillo._] Is it not too far gone? ’Tis time to part them. He’s simple and tells much. [_To Florizel._] 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 ransack’d The pedlar’s silken treasury and have pour’d 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.

FLORIZEL. Old sir, I know She prizes not such trifles as these are: The gifts she looks from me are pack’d and lock’d Up in my heart, which I have given already, But not deliver’d. O, hear me breathe my life Before this ancient sir, who, it should seem, Hath sometime lov’d. I take thy hand! this hand, As soft as dove’s down and as white as it, Or Ethiopian’s tooth, or the fann’d snow that’s bolted By th’ northern blasts twice o’er.

POLIXENES. 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.

FLORIZEL. Do, and be witness to ’t.

POLIXENES. And this my neighbour, too?

FLORIZEL. And he, and more Than he, and men, the earth, the heavens, and all: That were I crown’d 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.

POLIXENES. Fairly offer’d.

CAMILLO. This shows a sound affection.

SHEPHERD. But my daughter, Say you the like to him?

PERDITA. I cannot speak So well, nothing so well; no, nor mean better: By th’ pattern of mine own thoughts I cut out The purity of his.

SHEPHERD. 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.

FLORIZEL. O, that must be I’ th’ 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.

SHEPHERD. Come, your hand; And, daughter, yours.

POLIXENES. Soft, swain, awhile, beseech you; Have you a father?

FLORIZEL. I have; but what of him?

POLIXENES. Knows he of this?

FLORIZEL. He neither does nor shall.

POLIXENES. Methinks a father 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 alt’ring 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?

FLORIZEL. No, good sir; He has his health, and ampler strength indeed Than most have of his age.

POLIXENES. 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.

FLORIZEL. 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.

POLIXENES. Let him know ’t.

FLORIZEL. He shall not.

POLIXENES. Prithee let him.

FLORIZEL. No, he must not.

SHEPHERD. Let him, my son: he shall not need to grieve At knowing of thy choice.

FLORIZEL. Come, come, he must not. Mark our contract.

POLIXENES. [_Discovering himself._] Mark your divorce, young sir, Whom son I dare not call; thou art too base To be acknowledged: thou a sceptre’s heir, That thus affects 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, whom of force must know The royal fool thou cop’st with,—

SHEPHERD. O, my heart!

POLIXENES. I’ll have thy beauty scratch’d 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 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 honour 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.

[_Exit._]

PERDITA. Even here undone. I was not much afeard, for once or twice I was about to speak, and tell him plainly The selfsame sun that shines upon his court Hides not his visage from our cottage, but Looks on alike. [_To Florizel._] Will’t please you, sir, be gone? 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 farther, But milk my ewes, and weep.

CAMILLO. Why, how now, father! Speak ere thou diest.

SHEPHERD. I cannot speak, nor think, Nor dare to know that which I know. O sir, 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. O cursed wretch, That knew’st this was the prince, and wouldst adventure To mingle faith with him! Undone, undone! If I might die within this hour, I have liv’d To die when I desire.

[_Exit._]

FLORIZEL. Why look you so upon me? I am but sorry, not afeard; delay’d, But nothing alt’red: what I was, I am: More straining on for plucking back; not following My leash unwillingly.

CAMILLO. Gracious my lord, 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.

FLORIZEL. I not purpose it. I think Camillo?

CAMILLO. Even he, my lord.

PERDITA. How often have I told you ’twould be thus! How often said my dignity would last But till ’twere known!

FLORIZEL. It cannot fail but by The violation of my faith; and then Let nature crush the sides o’ th’ earth together And mar the seeds within! Lift up thy looks. From my succession wipe me, father; I Am heir to my affection.

CAMILLO. Be advis’d.

FLORIZEL. I am, and by my fancy. If my reason Will thereto be obedient, I have reason; If not, my senses, better pleas’d with madness, Do bid it welcome.

CAMILLO. This is desperate, sir.

FLORIZEL. 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 glean’d; for all the sun sees or The close earth wombs, or the profound seas hides In unknown fathoms, will I break my oath To this my fair belov’d. Therefore, I pray you, As you have ever been my father’s honour’d 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 her need, I have A vessel rides fast by, but not prepar’d For this design. What course I mean to hold Shall nothing benefit your knowledge, nor Concern me the reporting.

CAMILLO. O my lord, I would your spirit were easier for advice, Or stronger for your need.

FLORIZEL. Hark, Perdita. [_Takes her aside._] [_To Camillo._] I’ll hear you by and by.

CAMILLO. He’s irremovable, Resolv’d for flight. Now were I happy if His going I could frame to serve my turn, Save him from danger, do him love and honour, Purchase the sight again of dear Sicilia And that unhappy king, my master, whom I so much thirst to see.

FLORIZEL. Now, good Camillo, I am so fraught with curious business that I leave out ceremony.

CAMILLO. Sir, I think You have heard of my poor services, i’ th’ love That I have borne your father?

FLORIZEL. Very nobly Have you deserv’d: it is my father’s music To speak your deeds, not little of his care To have them recompens’d as thought on.

CAMILLO. Well, my lord, If you may please to think I love the king, And, through him, what’s nearest to him, which is Your gracious self, embrace but my direction, If your more ponderous and settled project May suffer alteration. On mine honour, I’ll point you where you shall have such receiving As shall become your highness; where you may Enjoy your mistress; from the whom, I see, There’s no disjunction to be made, but by, As heavens forfend, your ruin. Marry her, And with my best endeavours in your absence Your discontenting father strive to qualify And bring him up to liking.

FLORIZEL. How, Camillo, May this, almost a miracle, be done? That I may call thee something more than man, And after that trust to thee.

CAMILLO. Have you thought on A place whereto you’ll go?

FLORIZEL. Not any yet. But as th’ unthought-on accident is guilty To what we wildly do, so we profess Ourselves to be the slaves of chance, and flies Of every wind that blows.

CAMILLO. Then list to me: This follows, if you will not change your purpose, But undergo this flight, make for Sicilia, And there present yourself and your fair princess, For so, I see, she must be, ’fore Leontes: She shall be habited as it becomes The partner of your bed. Methinks I see Leontes opening his free arms and weeping His welcomes forth; asks thee, the son, forgiveness, As ’twere i’ th’ father’s person; kisses the hands Of your fresh princess; o’er and o’er divides him ’Twixt his unkindness and his kindness. Th’ one He chides to hell, and bids the other grow Faster than thought or time.

FLORIZEL. Worthy Camillo, What colour for my visitation shall I Hold up before him?

CAMILLO. Sent by the king your father To greet him and to give him comforts. Sir, The manner of your bearing towards him, with What you (as from your father) shall deliver, Things known betwixt us three, I’ll write you down, The which shall point you forth at every sitting What you must say; that he shall not perceive But that you have your father’s bosom there And speak his very heart.

FLORIZEL. I am bound to you: There is some sap in this.

CAMILLO. A course more promising Than a wild dedication of yourselves To unpath’d waters, undream’d shores, most certain To miseries enough: no hope to help you, But as you shake off one to take another: Nothing so certain as your anchors, who Do their best office if they can but stay you Where you’ll be loath to be. Besides, you know Prosperity’s the very bond of love, Whose fresh complexion and whose heart together Affliction alters.

PERDITA. One of these is true: I think affliction may subdue the cheek, But not take in the mind.

CAMILLO. Yea, say you so? There shall not at your father’s house, these seven years Be born another such.

FLORIZEL. My good Camillo, She is as forward of her breeding as She is i’ th’ rear our birth.

CAMILLO. I cannot say ’tis pity She lacks instructions, for she seems a mistress To most that teach.

PERDITA. Your pardon, sir; for this I’ll blush you thanks.

FLORIZEL. My prettiest Perdita! But, O, the thorns we stand upon! Camillo, Preserver of my father, now of me, The medicine of our house, how shall we do? We are not furnish’d like Bohemia’s son, Nor shall appear in Sicilia.

CAMILLO. My lord, Fear none of this. I think you know my fortunes Do all lie there: it shall be so my care To have you royally appointed as if The scene you play were mine. For instance, sir, That you may know you shall not want,—one word. [_They talk aside._]

Enter Autolycus.