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0. Ger. Give me my jewels ! my jewels, I say

r. Ger. The jewels, Sir, so well become my wife, I think you cannot in conscience demand them back.

0. Ger. How! what ! Ang. They were his own free gift ; he scorns to take what he has given me. Doc. C'est vrai --'ris very true.

-Aha! etez vous marrie donc ?-e bien ! blessa you bot togeder, you prit littel devil you! -Monsieur Girarde, you musta forgive dem.-Écoutes-ve vill ave a de bon fuppé, et be ver merry tous ensemble-alla togeder ; et donc ve vill hear les avantures de doctor Crispin. Cris. Beatrice and I will tell you the whole ftory;

And as we snack'd the fees, we'll share the glory.

F L 0








Edinburgh, 1781. Polixexes, king of Bithynia, Mr Love.

Mr Kelly. Florizel, his son,

Mr Barry

Mr Woods Camillo, a Sicilian lord in banilament,

Mr White.

} Mr Staley. Antigonus, a Sicilian lord, dif

guised as a fhedherd, under Mr }feaphy. Mr Fowler.

the name of Alcon, Autolicus, an arch pedlar,

Mr King:

Mr Johnson. Clown,

Mr Cunningham. Mr Chasteris.

WOMEN. Perdita, supposed daughter to

Miss Cleland. Alcon, Dorcas,

Mrs Pye.

Mrs White. Mopja,

Mrs Love.

Mrs Collins. Shepherds, Shepherdelles, &c.


} Miss Noffiter:


Enter the King and CAMILLO.

HOU know'st, my worthy, my endear'd Camillo,
How much prince Florizel, my son, aflicts me
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With the strange courses he of late hath follow'd.
We oft have wonder'd whence arose the change
So visible in thoughts, words, looks, and actions.

Cam. I oft have thought it strange.

King. My good Camillo,
I've had intelligence, the time he steals
From us, from study, and from manly feats
And exercise of arms, is buried all
Beneath an aged shepherd's fordid roof,
Whose bleating flocks fpread o'er that beauteous vale
That winds along the river's fide; a stranger,
Here settled in Bithynia fome few years ;
Who yet beyond th' imagination rose
Of all his neighbours, yea, from very nothing,
To large poffeffions and unnumber'd flocks.

Gam. I've heard of such a man, who hath a daughter
Of note moit rare, beyond her low estate.

King. Ay, that's the angle plucks him to his ruin.
Fool! to be caught with such a paltry bait !
• A woman's bait !-'I cou'd have patience with him,
Meant he to sport it with the amorous wench ;
But, O Camillo! where shall I find patience ?
-Thou’lt not believe me, shou'd I swear it true,
My son, prince Florizel, Bitlynia's hopes,
My kingdom’s heir, this very day intends
To wed the daughter of that base-born clown!

Cam. A prince to wed a peasant !

King. 'Tis most certain.
But to confound him paft all contradiction,
We mean, at once, to prove and to prevent it.
To-day old Alcon (that's her father's name)
Holds an accustom'd rite sacred to Pan,
The god of flocks : it is their shearers feast ;
At which he means to folemnize the nuptials
With rural pomp and paftoral festivity;
But I shall disconcert 'em. I'll thither ;
And thou, Camillo, shall attend me too,
Disguis'd like strangers chance had fummon'd there.

Cam. You may dispose me as your grace shall lift :
Yet still I think the prince, in your report,
Is much abus'd. I scarce can think it true.

King. I'll think as thou 'till I have prov'd the fact.

[Exeunt. SCENE, A rural prospect near Alcon's house. Florizel. and Perdita discover'd

fitting. Flo. These your unusual weeds, to each part of you: Do give a life: No shepherdess; but Flora, Peering in April's front. This your sheep-fhearing Is as a meeting of the petty gods, And you

the queen of it!
Per. 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'the land, you have obfcur'd
With a swain's wearing ; and me, poor lowly maids,
Moft goddess-like prank'd up.

Flo. I bless the time
When my good falcon made her flight across
Thy father's ground; celestial guide to where
My treasure lay:
Per. Now Jove afford you

cause :
To me the diff'rence forges dread; your greatness
Hath not been us'd to fear: even now I tremble,
To think your father, by fome accident,
Shou'd pass this way, as you did. O the fates !
How wou'd he look to see his work, so noble,
Vilely bound up! What wou'd he say? or how;
Should I, in these my borrow'd flaunts, behold
The fternness of his presence?

Fls. 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 bellow'd; the green Neptune
A ram, and bleated ; and the fire-rob'd god,
Golden Apollo, a poor humble fwain,
As I seem now.

Their transformations
Were never for a piece of beauty rarer,
Nor in a way fo chaste,


wishes run not before my honour, Nor my defires burn hotter than


faith. This day, my Perdita, fhall make thee mine!


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Speak to me, love! and charm me with thy voice.

Per. No; let me only answer you with blushes.
If I shou'd speak, you'd think I were too fond :
My tongue's alham'd t'interpret for my heart.

Flo. Hence with reserve ; it is a foe to love.
What you tell me is whisper'd to yourself.
Virtue and love may harmless sport together,
Like little lambs that wanton on the plain ;
While, like a faithful pastor by their lide,
Honour keeps off each ravenous defire.
Per. I think

love me;

and I think there is
Such virtue. shines about you, that I dare
Intrust mine honour to your faithful love.
Oft, oft I wish thou wert some peasant swain,
Born: lowly as myself; then shou'd we live
Unknown, unenvy'd, in our humble state,
Content with love beneath the cottage straw.

Fls. By heav'n, there's such a charm in all thy words,
I wish I were just what you'd have me be ;
Distinguish'd only from the rest by love.
But, dearest Perdita, with these forc'd thoughts

pray thee darken not this day of mirth;
For, trust me, love, I will be ever thine.
Be merry, gentle! [Flourish.]
The guests are come ; let's in and entertain 'em :-
Chearily, nor think of ought but jollity and love.

SCENE, The Country, Enter King and Camillo like old

King. I am certain it cannot be far off, though we have lost our way

Who have we here? We'll alk this merry


Enter Autolicus finging.
When daffodils begin to peere,
With hey the doxy over the dale,

Why then comes in the sweet o' the year;
For the red blood reigns, o'er the winter's pale.

The lark that tirra lyra chants,
With hey, with hey, the thrush and the jay,

Are summer-fongs for me and my aunts,
As we lie tumbling in the hay..

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