POLIXENES As thou lov’st me, Camillo, wipe not out the rest of thy services by leaving me now. The need I have of thee thine own goodness hath made. Better not to have had thee than thus to want thee. Thou, having made me businesses which none without thee can sufficiently manage, must either stay to execute them thyself or take away with thee the very services thou hast done; which if I have not enough considered—as too much I cannot—to be more thankful to thee shall be my study, and my profit therein, the heaping friendships. Of that fatal country Sicilia, prithee speak no more, whose very naming punishes me with the remembrance of that penitent—as thou callest him—and reconciled King my brother, whose loss of his most precious queen and children are even now to be afresh lamented. Say to me, when sawest thou the Prince Florizel, my son? Kings are no less unhappy, their issue not being gracious, than they are in losing them when they have approved their virtues.
CAMILLO Sir, it is three days since I saw the Prince. What his happier affairs may be are to me unknown; but I have missingly noted he is of late much retired from court, and is less frequent to his princely exercises than formerly he hath appeared.
POLIXENES I have considered so much, Camillo, and with some care, so far that I have eyes under my service which look upon his removedness, from whom I have this intelligence: that he is seldom from the house of a most homely shepherd, a man, they say, that from very nothing, and beyond the imagination of his neighbours, is grown into an unspeakable estate.
CAMILLO I have heard, sir, of such a man, who hath a daughter of most rare note. The report of her is extended more than can be thought to begin from such a cottage.
POLIXENES That’s likewise part of my intelligence; but, I fear, the angle that plucks our son thither. Thou shalt accompany us to the place, where we will, not appearing what we are, have some question with the shepherd; from whose simplicity I think it not uneasy to get the cause of my son’s resort thither. Prithee, be my present partner in this business, and lay aside the thoughts of Sicilia.
CAMILLO I willingly obey your command.
POLIXENES My best Camillo! We must disguise ourselves.
Exeunt
4.3 Enter Autolycus singing
AUTOLYCUS
When daffodils begin to peer,
With heigh, the doxy over the dale,
Why then comes in the sweet o’the year,
For the red blood reigns in the winter’s pale.
The white sheet bleaching on the hedge,
With heigh, the sweet birds, O how they sing!
Doth set my pugging tooth on edge,
For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.
The lark, that tirra-lirra chants,
With heigh, with heigh, the thrush and the jay,
Are summer songs for me and my aunts
While we lie tumbling in the hay.
I have served Prince Florizel, and in my time wore
three-pile, but now I am out of service.
But shall I go mourn for that, my dear?
The pale moon shines by night,
And when I wander here and there
I then do most go right.
If tinkers may have leave to live,
And bear the sow-skin budget,
Then my account I well may give,
And in the stocks avouch it.
My traffic is sheets. When the kite builds, look to lesser linen. My father named me Autolycus, who being, as I am, littered under Mercury, was likewise a snapperup of unconsidered trifles. With die and drab I purchased this caparison, and my revenue is the silly cheat. Gallows and knock are too powerful on the highway. Beating and hanging are terrors to me. For the life to come, I sleep out the thought of it. A prize, a prize!
Enter Clown
CLOWN Let me see. Every ’leven wether tods, every tod yields pound and odd shilling. Fifteen hundred shorn, what comes the wool to?
AUTOLYCUS (aside) If the springe hold, the cock’s mine.
CLOWN I cannot do’t without counters. Let me see, what am I to buy for our sheep-shearing feast? Three pound of sugar, five pound of currants, rice—what will this sister of mine do with rice? But my father hath made her mistress of the feast, and she lays it on. She hath made me four-and-twenty nosegays for the shearers—three-man-song-men, all, and very good ones—but they are most of them means and basses, but one Puritan amongst them, and he sings psalms to hornpipes. I must have saffron to colour the warden pies; mace; dates, none—that’s out of my note; nutmegs, seven; a race or two of ginger—but that I may beg; four pound of prunes, and as many of raisins o’th’ sun.
AUTOLYCUS (grovelling on the ground) O, that ever I was born!
CLOWN I’th’ name of me!
AUTOLYCUS O help me, help me! Pluck but off these rags, and then death, death!
CLOWN Alack, poor soul, thou hast need of more rags to lay on thee rather than have these off.
AUTOLYCUS O sir, the loathsomeness of them offend me more than the stripes I have received, which are mighty ones and millions.
CLOWN Alas, poor man, a million of beating may come to a great matter.
AUTOLYCUS I am robbed, sir, and beaten; my money and apparel ta’en from me, and these detestable things put upon me.
CLOWN What, by a horseman, or a footman?
AUTOLYCUS A footman, sweet sir, a footman.
CLOWN Indeed, he should be a footman, by the garments he has left with thee. If this be a horseman’s coat it hath seen very hot service. Lend me thy hand, I’ll help thee. Come, lend me thy hand.
He helps Autolycus up
AUTOLYCUS O, good sir, tenderly. O!
CLOWN Alas, poor soul!
AUTOLYCUS O, good sir, softly, good sir! I fear, sir, my shoulder-blade is out.
CLOWN How now? Canst stand?
AUTOLYCUS Softly, dear sir. Good sir, softly.
⌈He picks the Clown’s pocket⌉
You ha’ done me a charitable office.
CLOWN (reaching for his purse) Dost lack any money? I have a little money for thee.
AUTOLYCUS No, good sweet sir, no, I beseech you, sir. I have a kinsman not past three-quarters of a mile hence, unto whom I was going. I shall there have money, or anything I want. Offer me no money, I pray you. That kills my heart.
CLOWN What manner of fellow was he that robbed you?
AUTOLYCUS A fellow, sir, that I have known to go about with troll-madams. I knew him once a servant of the Prince. I cannot tell, good sir, for which of his virtues it was, but he was certainly whipped out of the court.
CLOWN His vices, you would say. There’s no virtue whipped out of the court. They cherish it to make it stay there; and yet it will no more but abide.
AUTOLYCUS Vices, I would say, sir. I know this man well. He hath been since an ape-bearer, then a process-server—a bailiff—then he compassed a motion of the Prodigal Son, and married a tinker’s wife within a mile where my land and living lies, and having flown over many knavish professions, he settled only in rogue. Some call him Autolycus.
CLOWN Out upon him! Prig, for my life, prig! He haunts wakes, fairs, and bear-baitings.
AUTOLYCUS Very true, sir. He, sir, he. That’s the rogue that put me into this apparel.
CLOWN Not a more cowardly rogue in all Bohemia. If you had but looked big and spit at him, he’d have run.
AUTOLYCUS I must confess to you, sir, I am no fighter. I am false of heart that way, and that he knew, I warrant him.
CLOWN How do you now?
AUTOLYCUS Sweet sir, much better than I was. I can stand, and walk. I will even take my leave of you, and pace softly towards my kinsman’s.
CLOWN Shall I bring thee on the way?
AUTOLYCUS No, good-faced sir, no, sweet sir.
CLOWN Then fare thee well. I must go buy spices for our sheep-shearing.
AUTOLYCUS Prosper you, sweet sir. Exit the Clown Your purse is not hot enough to purchase your spice. I’ll be with you at your sheep-shearing, too. If I make not this cheat bring out another, and the she
arers prove sheep, let me be unrolled and my name put in the book of virtue.
(Sings) Jog on, jog on, the footpath way,
And merrily hent the stile-a.
A merry heart goes all the day,
Your sad tires in a mile-a.
Exit
4.4 Enter Florizel dressed as Doricles a countryman, and Perdita as Queen of the Feast
FLORIZEL
These your unusual weeds to each part of you
Does give a life; no shepherdess, but Flora
Peering in April’s front. This your sheep-shearing
Is as a meeting of the petty gods,
And you the queen on’t.
PERDITA
Sir, my gracious lord,
To chide at your extremes it not becomes me—
O, pardon that I name them! Your high self,
The gracious mark o’th’ land, you have obscured
With a swain’s wearing, and me, poor lowly maid,
Most goddess-like pranked up. But that our feasts
In every mess have folly, and the feeders
Digest it with a custom, I should blush
To see you so attired; swoon, I think,
To show myself a glass.
FLORIZEL
I bless the time
When my good falcon made her flight across
Thy father’s ground.
PERDITA
Now Jove afford you cause!
To me the difference forges dread; your greatness
Hath not been used to fear. Even now I tremble
To think your father by some accident
Should pass this way, as you did. O, the fates!
How would he look to see his work, so noble,
Vilely bound up? What would he say? Or how
Should I, in these my borrowed flaunts, behold
The sternness of his presence?
FLORIZEL
Apprehend
Nothing but jollity. The gods themselves,
Humbling their deities to love, have taken
The shapes of beasts upon them. Jupiter
Became a bull, and bellowed; the green Neptune
A ram, and bleated; and the fire-robed god,
Golden Apollo, a poor humble swain,
As I seem now. Their transformations
Were never for a piece of beauty rarer,
Nor in a way so chaste, since my desires
Run not before mine honour, nor my lusts
Burn hotter than my faith.
PERDITA
O, but sir,
Your resolution cannot hold when ’tis
Opposed, as it must be, by th’ power of the King.
One of these two must be necessities,
Which then will speak that you must change this
purpose,
Or I my life.
FLORIZEL
Thou dearest Perdita,
With these forced thoughts I prithee darken not
The mirth o’th’ feast. Or I’ll be thine, my fair,
Or not my father’s. For I cannot be
Mine own, nor anything 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 anything
That you behold the while. Your guests are coming.
Lift up your countenance as it were the day
Of celebration of that nuptial which
We two have sworn shall come.
PERDITA
O Lady Fortune,
Stand you auspicious!
FLORIZEL
See, your guests approach.
Address yourself to entertain them sprightly,
And let’s be red with mirth.
Enter the Old Shepherd, with Polixenes and Camillo,
disguised, the Clown, Mopsa, Dorcas, and others
OLD SHEPHERD (to Perdita)
Fie, daughter, when my old wife lived, upon
This day she was both pantler, butler, cook,
Both dame and servant, welcomed all, served all,
Would sing her song and dance her turn, now here
At upper end o‘th’ table, now i’th’ middle,
On his shoulder, and his, her face afire
With labour, and the thing she took to quench it
She would to each one sip. 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-shearing,
As your good flock shall prosper.
PERDITA (to Polixenes) Sir, welcome.
It is my father’s will I should take on me
The hostess-ship o’th’ day.
(To Camillo) You’re welcome, sir.
Give me those flowers there, Dorcas. Reverend sirs,
For you there’s rosemary and rue. These keep
Seeming and savour all the winter long.
Grace and remembrance be to you both,
And welcome to our shearing.
POLIXENES
Shepherdess,
A fair one are you. Well you fit our ages
With flowers of winter.
PERDITA
Sir, the year growing ancient,
Not yet on summer’s death, nor on the birth
Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o’th’ season
Are our carnations and streaked gillyvors,
Which some call nature’s bastards. Of that kind
Our rustic garden’s barren, and I care not
To get slips of them.
POLIXENES
Wherefore, gentle maiden,
Do you neglect them?
PERDITA
For I have heard it said
There is an art which in their piedness shares
With great creating nature.
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 wi’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.
She gives them flowers
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; (to Mopsa and Dorcas) and
yours, and yours,
That wear upon your virgin branches yet
Your maidenhead
s growing. O Proserpina,
For the flowers now that, frighted, thou letst fall
From Dis’s wagon!-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 corpse?
PERDITA
No, like a bank, for love to lie and play on,
Not like a corpse—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 so fairly through’t
Do plainly give you out an unstained shepherd,
With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles,
You wooed me the false way.
FLORIZEL
I think you have
As little skill to fear as I have purpose
The Oxford Shakespeare: The Complete Works Page 366
