The Complete Works of William Shakespeare Part 585

Enter SHEPHERD, with POLIXENES and CAMILLO, disguised; CLOWN, MOPSA, DORCAS, with OTHERS

SHEPHERD. Fie, daughter! When my old wife liv'd, upon This day she was both pantler, butler, cook; Both dame and servant; welcom'd all; serv'd 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 o' fire 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-s.h.i.+p o' th' day. [To CAMILLO]

You're welcome, sir.

Give me those flow'rs 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 flow'rs of winter.

PERDITA. Sir, the year growing ancient, Not yet on summer's death nor on the birth Of trembling winter, the fairest flow'rs o' th' season Are our carnations and streak'd gillyvors, Which some call nature's b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. 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 n.o.bler 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.

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 flow'rs for you: Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed wi' th' sun, And with him rises weeping; these are flow'rs Of middle summer, and I think they are given To men of middle age. Y'are 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. Now, my fair'st friend, I would I had some flow'rs 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 flow'r-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 flow'rs.

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 unstain'd 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 la.s.s that ever Ran on the green-sward; nothing she does or seems But smacks of something greater than herself, Too n.o.ble 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 any thing; 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 d.i.l.d.os 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.'

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 G.o.ds or G.o.ddesses; you would think a smock were 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

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 la.s.ses cry.

Come, buy.

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

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

DORCAS. He hath promis'd you more than that, or there be liars.

MOPSA. He hath paid you all he promis'd you. May be 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 off these secrets, but you must be t.i.ttle-tattling before all our guests? 'Tis well they are whisp'ring. Clammer your tongues, and not a word more.

MOPSA. I have done. Come, you promis'd me a tawdry-lace, and a pair of sweet gloves.

CLOWN. Have I not told thee how I was cozen'd 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 a-life, 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 long'd to eat adders' heads and toads carbonado'd.

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 moe 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 turn'd into a cold fish for she would not exchange flesh with one that lov'd 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 pa.s.sing 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. 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.