Enter Servant, with twelve Rustics, habited like Satyrs. They dance, and then exeunt.

Pol. O, father, you'll know more of that hereafter,

Is it not too far gone? 'Tis time to part them. He's simple, and tells much. [Aside.]- How now, fair shepherd?

Your heart is full of something that does take
Your mind from feasting. Sooth, when I was young,
And handled love as you do, I was wont

To load my she with knacks. I would have ransack'd

The pedler'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.

Flo.

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 the northern blasts twice o'er.

Pol. What follows this?

How prettily th' 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.

Do, and be witness to' t.

Flo.

And he, and more

Pol. And this my neighbour too? Flo. 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 knowl

edge

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.

Pol.

Cam. This shows a sound affection.
Shep.

Say you the like to him?

Per.

Fairly offer'd.

But, my daughter,

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.

Shep.

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.

Flo.

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.

Shep.

And, daughter, yours.

Pol.

Come, your hand;

Soft, swain, a while, beseech you;

Have you a father?

Flo.

I have but what of him?

Pol. Knows he of this?

Flo.

He neither does, nor shall.

Pol. 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?

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

Pol.

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.

Flo.

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.

Pol.

Let him know 't.

Flo. He shall not.

Pol.

Pr'ythee, let him.

Flo.

No, he must not.

Shep. Let him, my son; he shall not need to

Whom son I dare not call; thou art too base
To be acknowledg'd: thou a sceptre's heir,
That thus affect'st a sheephook! 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, who, of force, must know The royal fool thou cop'st with,

Shep.

O, my heart! Pol. - I'll have thy beauty scratch'd with briars,

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 never 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'r 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.

Per.

[Exit.

Even here undone! I was not much afeard; for, once or twice, I was about to speak, and tell him plainly The self-same sun that shines upon his Court Hides not his visage from our cottage, but Looks on alike. Will't please you, sir, begone? [TO FLORIZEL.

I told you what would come o' 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.

Cam.

Speak, ere thou diest.

Shep.

Why, how now, father!

I cannot speak, nor think,

Nor dare to know that which I know.—O, sir,
[TO FLORIZEL.
You have undone a man of fourscore three,
That thought to fill his grave in quiet; yea,
To die upon the bed my father di'd,

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!

[TO PERDITA. That knew'st this was the Prince, and would'st ad

venture

To mingle faith with him. - Undone! undone !
If I might die within this hour, I have liv'd
To die when I desire.

Flo.

[Exit.

Why look you so upon me?

I am but sorry, not afeard; delay'd,

But nothing alter'd. What I was, I am:

More straining on, for plucking back; not following

My leash unwillingly.

Cam.

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.

Flo.

I think, Camillo.

I not purpose it.