The Oxford Shakespeare: The Complete Works

by William Shakespeare

  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