Act IV, Scene IV — The same. A Shepherd’s Cottage
Enter Florizel and Perdita.
FLORIZEL. 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-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 obscur’d With a swain’s wearing, and me, poor lowly maid, Most goddess-like prank’d 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 attir’d; 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 us’d 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 borrow’d 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 bellow’d; the green Neptune A ram and bleated; and the fire-rob’d 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 Oppos’d, as it must be, by the 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 forc’d 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 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-ship o’ the 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 streak’d 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 with 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.
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; 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 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 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 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 fairly through ’t, Do plainly give you out an unstained 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 lass that ever Ran on the green-sward. Nothing she does or seems But smacks of something greater than herself, Too noble 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 anything, 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 dildos and fadings, “jump her and thump her”; and where some stretch-mouthed 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 gods or goddesses; you would think a smock were a 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.
AUTOLYCUS. _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 lasses cry. Come, buy._
CLOWN. If I were not in love with Mopsa, thou shouldst take no money of me; but being enthralled as I am, it will also be the bondage of certain ribbons and gloves.
MOPSA. I was promised them against the feast; but they come not too late now.
DORCAS. He hath promised you more than that, or there be liars.
MOPSA. He hath paid you all he promised you. Maybe 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 of these secrets, but you must be tittle-tattling before all our guests? ’Tis well they are whispering. Clamour your tongues, and not a word more.
MOPSA. I have done. Come, you promised me a tawdry lace and a pair of sweet gloves.
CLOWN. Have I not told thee how I was cozened 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 alife, 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 longed to eat adders’ heads and toads carbonadoed.
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 more 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 turned into a cold fish for she would not exchange flesh with one that loved 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 passing 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. We 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._
DORCAS. Whither?
MOPSA. O, whither?
DORCAS. Whither?
MOPSA. _It becomes thy oath full well Thou to me thy secrets tell._
DORCAS. Me too! Let me go thither.
MOPSA. Or thou goest to th’ grange or mill.
DORCAS. If to either, thou dost ill.
AUTOLYCUS. Neither.
DORCAS. What, neither?
AUTOLYCUS. Neither.
DORCAS. Thou hast sworn my love to be.
MOPSA. _Thou hast sworn it more to me. Then whither goest? Say, whither?_
CLOWN. We’ll have this song out anon by ourselves. My father and the gentlemen are in sad talk, and we’ll not trouble them. Come, bring away thy pack after me. Wenches, I’ll buy for you both. Pedlar, let’s have the first choice. Follow me, girls.
[Exit with Dorcas and Mopsa.]
AUTOLYCUS. [Aside.] And you shall pay well for ’em.
SONG.
_Will you buy any tape, Or lace for your cape, My dainty duck, my dear-a? Any silk, any thread, Any toys for your head, Of the new’st and fin’st, fin’st wear-a? Come to the pedlar; Money’s a meddler That doth utter all men’s ware-a._
[Exit.]
Enter Servant.
SERVANT. Master, there is three carters, three shepherds, three neat-herds, three swine-herds, that have made themselves all men of hair. They call themselves saltiers, and they have dance which the wenches say is a gallimaufry of gambols, because they are not in ’t; but they themselves are o’ the mind (if it be not too rough for some that know little but bowling) it will please plentifully.
SHEPHERD. Away! we’ll none on ’t. Here has been too much homely foolery already. I know, sir, we weary you.
POLIXENES. You weary those that refresh us: pray, let’s see these four threes of herdsmen.
SERVANT. One three of them, by their own report, sir, hath danced before the king; and not the worst of the three but jumps twelve foot and a half by th’ square.
SHEPHERD. Leave your prating: since these good men are pleased, let them come in; but quickly now.
SERVANT. Why, they stay at door, sir.
[Exit.]
Enter Twelve Rustics, habited like Satyrs. They dance, and then exeunt.
POLIXENES. O, father, you’ll know more of that hereafter. [To Camillo.] Is it not too far gone? ’Tis time to part them. He’s simple and tells much. [To Florizel.] How now, fair shepherd! Your heart is full of something that does take Your mind from feasting. Sooth, when I was young And handed love, as you do, I was wont To load my she with knacks: I would have ransack’d The pedlar’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.
FLORIZEL. 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 th’ northern blasts twice o’er.
POLIXENES. What follows this? How prettily the 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.
FLORIZEL. Do, and be witness to ’t.
POLIXENES. And this my neighbour, too?
FLORIZEL. And he, and more 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 knowledge 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.
POLIXENES. Fairly offer’d.
CAMILLO. This shows a sound affection.
SHEPHERD. But my daughter, Say you the like to him?
PERDITA. 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.
SHEPHERD. 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.
FLORIZEL. 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.
SHEPHERD. Come, your hand; And, daughter, yours.
POLIXENES. Soft, swain, awhile, beseech you; Have you a father?
FLORIZEL. I have; but what of him?
POLIXENES. Knows he of this?
FLORIZEL. He neither does nor shall.
POLIXENES. 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?
FLORIZEL. No, good sir; He has his health, and ampler strength indeed Than most have of his age.
POLIXENES. 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.
FLORIZEL. 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.
POLIXENES. Let him know ’t.
FLORIZEL. He shall not.
POLIXENES. Prithee let him.
FLORIZEL. No, he must not.
SHEPHERD. Let him, my son: he shall not need to grieve At knowing of thy choice.
FLORIZEL. Come, come, he must not. Mark our contract.
POLIXENES. [Discovering himself.] Mark your divorce, young sir, Whom son I dare not call; thou art too base To be acknowledged: thou a sceptre’s heir, That thus affects a sheep-hook! 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, whom of force must know The royal fool thou cop’st with,—
SHEPHERD. O, my heart!
POLIXENES. I’ll have thy beauty scratch’d with briers 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 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 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.
[Exit.]
PERDITA. Even here undone. I was not much afeard, for once or twice I was about to speak, and tell him plainly The selfsame sun that shines upon his court Hides not his visage from our cottage, but Looks on alike. [To Florizel.] Will’t please you, sir, be gone? I told you what would come of 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.
CAMILLO. Why, how now, father! Speak ere thou diest.
SHEPHERD. I cannot speak, nor think, Nor dare to know that which I know. O sir, You have undone a man of fourscore three, That thought to fill his grave in quiet; yea, To die upon the bed my father died, 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, That knew’st this was the prince, and wouldst adventure To mingle faith with him! Undone, undone! If I might die within this hour, I have liv’d To die when I desire.
[Exit.]
FLORIZEL. Why look you so upon me? I am but sorry, not afeard; delay’d, But nothing alt’red: what I was, I am: More straining on for plucking back; not following My leash unwillingly.
CAMILLO. 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.
FLORIZEL. I not purpose it. I think Camillo?
CAMILLO. Even he, my lord.
PERDITA. How often have I told you ’twould be thus! How often said my dignity would last But till ’twere known!
FLORIZEL. It cannot fail but by The violation of my faith; and then Let nature crush the sides o’ th’ earth together And mar the seeds within! Lift up thy looks. From my succession wipe me, father; I Am heir to my affection.
CAMILLO. Be advis’d.
FLORIZEL. I am, and by my fancy. If my reason Will thereto be obedient, I have reason; If not, my senses, better pleas’d with madness, Do bid it welcome.
CAMILLO. This is desperate, sir.
FLORIZEL. So call it: but it does fulfil my vow. I needs must think it honesty. Camillo, Not for Bohemia, nor the pomp that may Be thereat glean’d; for all the sun sees or The close earth wombs, or the profound seas hides In unknown fathoms, will I break my oath To this my fair belov’d. Therefore, I pray you, As you have ever been my father’s honour’d friend, When he shall miss me,—as, in faith, I mean not To see him any more,—cast your good counsels Upon his passion: let myself and fortune Tug for the time to come. This you may know, And so deliver, I am put to sea With her whom here I cannot hold on shore; And, most opportune to her need, I have A vessel rides fast by, but not prepar’d For this design. What course I mean to hold Shall nothing benefit your knowledge, nor Concern me the reporting.
CAMILLO. O my lord, I would your spirit were easier for advice, Or stronger for your need.
FLORIZEL. Hark, Perdita. [Takes her aside.] [To Camillo.] I’ll hear you by and by.
CAMILLO. He’s irremovable, Resolv’d for flight. Now were I happy if His going I could frame to serve my turn, Save him from danger, do him love and honour, Purchase the sight again of dear Sicilia And that unhappy king, my master, whom I so much thirst to see.
FLORIZEL. Now, good Camillo, I am so fraught with curious business that I leave out ceremony.
CAMILLO. Sir, I think You have heard of my poor services, i’ th’ love That I have borne your father?
FLORIZEL. Very nobly Have you deserv’d: it is my father’s music To speak your deeds, not little of his care To have them recompens’d as thought on.
CAMILLO. Well, my lord, If you may please to think I love the king, And, through him, what’s nearest to him, which is Your gracious self, embrace but my direction, If your more ponderous and settled project May suffer alteration. On mine honour, I’ll point you where you shall have such receiving As shall become your highness; where you may Enjoy your mistress; from the whom, I see, There’s no disjunction to be made, but by, As heavens forfend, your ruin. Marry her, And with my best endeavours in your absence Your discontenting father strive to qualify And bring him up to liking.
FLORIZEL. How, Camillo, May this, almost a miracle, be done? That I may call thee something more than man, And after that trust to thee.
CAMILLO. Have you thought on A place whereto you’ll go?
FLORIZEL. Not any yet. But as th’ unthought-on accident is guilty To what we wildly do, so we profess Ourselves to be the slaves of chance, and flies Of every wind that blows.
CAMILLO. Then list to me: This follows, if you will not change your purpose, But undergo this flight, make for Sicilia, And there present yourself and your fair princess, For so, I see, she must be, ’fore Leontes: She shall be habited as it becomes The partner of your bed. Methinks I see Leontes opening his free arms and weeping His welcomes forth; asks thee, the son, forgiveness, As ’twere i’ th’ father’s person; kisses the hands Of your fresh princess; o’er and o’er divides him ’Twixt his unkindness and his kindness. Th’ one He chides to hell, and bids the other grow Faster than thought or time.
FLORIZEL. Worthy Camillo, What colour for my visitation shall I Hold up before him?
CAMILLO. Sent by the king your father To greet him and to give him comforts. Sir, The manner of your bearing towards him, with What you (as from your father) shall deliver, Things known betwixt us three, I’ll write you down, The which shall point you forth at every sitting What you must say; that he shall not perceive But that you have your father’s bosom there And speak his very heart.
FLORIZEL. I am bound to you: There is some sap in this.
CAMILLO. A course more promising Than a wild dedication of yourselves To unpath’d waters, undream’d shores, most certain To miseries enough: no hope to help you, But as you shake off one to take another: Nothing so certain as your anchors, who Do their best office if they can but stay you Where you’ll be loath to be. Besides, you know Prosperity’s the very bond of love, Whose fresh complexion and whose heart together Affliction alters.
PERDITA. One of these is true: I think affliction may subdue the cheek, But not take in the mind.
CAMILLO. Yea, say you so? There shall not at your father’s house, these seven years Be born another such.
FLORIZEL. My good Camillo, She is as forward of her breeding as She is i’ th’ rear our birth.
CAMILLO. I cannot say ’tis pity She lacks instructions, for she seems a mistress To most that teach.
PERDITA. Your pardon, sir; for this I’ll blush you thanks.
FLORIZEL. My prettiest Perdita! But, O, the thorns we stand upon! Camillo, Preserver of my father, now of me, The medicine of our house, how shall we do? We are not furnish’d like Bohemia’s son, Nor shall appear in Sicilia.
CAMILLO. My lord, Fear none of this. I think you know my fortunes Do all lie there: it shall be so my care To have you royally appointed as if The scene you play were mine. For instance, sir, That you may know you shall not want,—one word. [They talk aside.]
Enter Autolycus.
AUTOLYCUS. Ha, ha! what a fool Honesty is! and Trust, his sworn brother, a very simple gentleman! I have sold all my trumpery. Not a counterfeit stone, not a ribbon, glass, pomander, brooch, table-book, ballad, knife, tape, glove, shoe-tie, bracelet, horn-ring, to keep my pack from fasting. They throng who should buy first, as if my trinkets had been hallowed and brought a benediction to the buyer: by which means I saw whose purse was best in picture; and what I saw, to my good use I remembered. My clown (who wants but something to be a reasonable man) grew so in love with the wenches’ song that he would not stir his pettitoes till he had both tune and words; which so drew the rest of the herd to me that all their other senses stuck in ears: you might have pinched a placket, it was senseless; ’twas nothing to geld a codpiece of a purse; I would have filed keys off that hung in chains: no hearing, no feeling, but my sir’s song, and admiring the nothing of it. So that in this time of lethargy I picked and cut most of their festival purses; and had not the old man come in with a whoobub against his daughter and the king’s son, and scared my choughs from the chaff, I had not left a purse alive in the whole army.
Camillo, Florizel and Perdita come forward.
CAMILLO. Nay, but my letters, by this means being there So soon as you arrive, shall clear that doubt.
FLORIZEL. And those that you’ll procure from king Leontes?
CAMILLO. Shall satisfy your father.
PERDITA. Happy be you! All that you speak shows fair.
CAMILLO. [Seeing Autolycus.] Who have we here? We’ll make an instrument of this; omit Nothing may give us aid.
AUTOLYCUS. [Aside.] If they have overheard me now,—why, hanging.
CAMILLO. How now, good fellow! why shakest thou so? Fear not, man; here’s no harm intended to thee.
AUTOLYCUS. I am a poor fellow, sir.
CAMILLO. Why, be so still; here’s nobody will steal that from thee: yet, for the outside of thy poverty we must make an exchange; therefore discase thee instantly,—thou must think there’s a necessity in’t—and change garments with this gentleman: though the pennyworth on his side be the worst, yet hold thee, there’s some boot.
[Giving money.]
AUTOLYCUS. I am a poor fellow, sir: [Aside.] I know ye well enough.
CAMILLO. Nay, prithee dispatch: the gentleman is half flayed already.
AUTOLYCUS. Are you in earnest, sir? [Aside.] I smell the trick on’t.
FLORIZEL. Dispatch, I prithee.
AUTOLYCUS. Indeed, I have had earnest; but I cannot with conscience take it.
CAMILLO. Unbuckle, unbuckle.
[Florizel and Autolycus exchange garments.]
Fortunate mistress,—let my prophecy Come home to you!—you must retire yourself Into some covert. Take your sweetheart’s hat And pluck it o’er your brows, muffle your face, Dismantle you; and, as you can, disliken The truth of your own seeming; that you may (For I do fear eyes over) to shipboard Get undescried.
PERDITA. I see the play so lies That I must bear a part.
CAMILLO. No remedy. Have you done there?
FLORIZEL. Should I now meet my father, He would not call me son.
CAMILLO. Nay, you shall have no hat. [Giving it to Perdita.] Come, lady, come. Farewell, my friend.
AUTOLYCUS. Adieu, sir.
FLORIZEL. O Perdita, what have we twain forgot? Pray you a word.
[They converse apart.]
CAMILLO. [Aside.] What I do next, shall be to tell the king Of this escape, and whither they are bound; Wherein my hope is I shall so prevail To force him after: in whose company I shall re-view Sicilia; for whose sight I have a woman’s longing.
FLORIZEL. Fortune speed us! Thus we set on, Camillo, to the sea-side.
CAMILLO. The swifter speed the better.
[Exeunt Florizel, Perdita and Camillo.]
AUTOLYCUS. I understand the business, I hear it. To have an open ear, a quick eye, and a nimble hand, is necessary for a cut-purse; a good nose is requisite also, to smell out work for the other senses. I see this is the time that the unjust man doth thrive. What an exchange had this been without boot! What a boot is here with this exchange! Sure the gods do this year connive at us, and we may do anything extempore. The prince himself is about a piece of iniquity, stealing away from his father with his clog at his heels: if I thought it were a piece of honesty to acquaint the king withal, I would not do’t: I hold it the more knavery to conceal it; and therein am I constant to my profession.
Enter Clown and Shepherd.
Aside, aside; here is more matter for a hot brain: every lane’s end, every shop, church, session, hanging, yields a careful man work.
CLOWN. See, see; what a man you are now! There is no other way but to tell the king she’s a changeling, and none of your flesh and blood.
SHEPHERD. Nay, but hear me.
CLOWN. Nay, but hear me.
SHEPHERD. Go to, then.
CLOWN. She being none of your flesh and blood, your flesh and blood has not offended the king; and so your flesh and blood is not to be punished by him. Show those things you found about her, those secret things, all but what she has with her: this being done, let the law go whistle, I warrant you.
SHEPHERD. I will tell the king all, every word, yea, and his son’s pranks too; who, I may say, is no honest man neither to his father nor to me, to go about to make me the king’s brother-in-law.
CLOWN. Indeed, brother-in-law was the farthest off you could have been to him, and then your blood had been the dearer by I know how much an ounce.
AUTOLYCUS. [Aside.] Very wisely, puppies!
SHEPHERD. Well, let us to the king: there is that in this fardel will make him scratch his beard.
AUTOLYCUS. [Aside.] I know not what impediment this complaint may be to the flight of my master.
CLOWN. Pray heartily he be at’ palace.
AUTOLYCUS. [Aside.] Though I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes by chance. Let me pocket up my pedlar’s excrement. [Takes off his false beard.] How now, rustics! whither are you bound?
SHEPHERD. To the palace, an it like your worship.
AUTOLYCUS. Your affairs there, what, with whom, the condition of that fardel, the place of your dwelling, your names, your ages, of what having, breeding, and anything that is fitting to be known? discover!
CLOWN. We are but plain fellows, sir.
AUTOLYCUS. A lie; you are rough and hairy. Let me have no lying. It becomes none but tradesmen, and they often give us soldiers the lie; but we pay them for it with stamped coin, not stabbing steel; therefore they do not give us the lie.
CLOWN. Your worship had like to have given us one, if you had not taken yourself with the manner.
SHEPHERD. Are you a courtier, an ’t like you, sir?
AUTOLYCUS. Whether it like me or no, I am a courtier. Seest thou not the air of the court in these enfoldings? hath not my gait in it the measure of the court? receives not thy nose court-odour from me? reflect I not on thy baseness court-contempt? Think’st thou, for that I insinuate, or toaze from thee thy business, I am therefore no courtier? I am courtier cap-a-pe, and one that will either push on or pluck back thy business there. Whereupon I command thee to open thy affair.
SHEPHERD. My business, sir, is to the king.
AUTOLYCUS. What advocate hast thou to him?
SHEPHERD. I know not, an ’t like you.
CLOWN. Advocate’s the court-word for a pheasant. Say you have none.
SHEPHERD. None, sir; I have no pheasant, cock nor hen.
AUTOLYCUS. How bless’d are we that are not simple men! Yet nature might have made me as these are, Therefore I will not disdain.
CLOWN. This cannot be but a great courtier.
SHEPHERD. His garments are rich, but he wears them not handsomely.
CLOWN. He seems to be the more noble in being fantastical: a great man, I’ll warrant; I know by the picking on’s teeth.
AUTOLYCUS. The fardel there? What’s i’ th’ fardel? Wherefore that box?
SHEPHERD. Sir, there lies such secrets in this fardel and box which none must know but the king; and which he shall know within this hour, if I may come to th’ speech of him.
AUTOLYCUS. Age, thou hast lost thy labour.
SHEPHERD. Why, sir?
AUTOLYCUS. The king is not at the palace; he is gone aboard a new ship to purge melancholy and air himself: for, if thou beest capable of things serious, thou must know the king is full of grief.
SHEPHERD. So ’tis said, sir; about his son, that should have married a shepherd’s daughter.
AUTOLYCUS. If that shepherd be not in hand-fast, let him fly. The curses he shall have, the tortures he shall feel, will break the back of man, the heart of monster.
CLOWN. Think you so, sir?
AUTOLYCUS. Not he alone shall suffer what wit can make heavy and vengeance bitter; but those that are germane to him, though removed fifty times, shall all come under the hangman: which, though it be great pity, yet it is necessary. An old sheep-whistling rogue, a ram-tender, to offer to have his daughter come into grace! Some say he shall be stoned; but that death is too soft for him, say I. Draw our throne into a sheepcote! All deaths are too few, the sharpest too easy.
CLOWN. Has the old man e’er a son, sir, do you hear, an ’t like you, sir?
AUTOLYCUS. He has a son, who shall be flayed alive; then ’nointed over with honey, set on the head of a wasp’s nest; then stand till he be three quarters and a dram dead; then recovered again with aqua-vitæ or some other hot infusion; then, raw as he is, and in the hottest day prognostication proclaims, shall he be set against a brick wall, the sun looking with a southward eye upon him, where he is to behold him with flies blown to death. But what talk we of these traitorly rascals, whose miseries are to be smiled at, their offences being so capital? Tell me (for you seem to be honest plain men) what you have to the king. Being something gently considered, I’ll bring you where he is aboard, tender your persons to his presence, whisper him in your behalfs; and if it be in man besides the king to effect your suits, here is man shall do it.
CLOWN. He seems to be of great authority: close with him, give him gold; and though authority be a stubborn bear, yet he is oft led by the nose with gold: show the inside of your purse to the outside of his hand, and no more ado. Remember: “ston’d” and “flayed alive”.
SHEPHERD. An ’t please you, sir, to undertake the business for us, here is that gold I have. I’ll make it as much more, and leave this young man in pawn till I bring it you.
AUTOLYCUS. After I have done what I promised?
SHEPHERD. Ay, sir.
AUTOLYCUS. Well, give me the moiety. Are you a party in this business?
CLOWN. In some sort, sir: but though my case be a pitiful one, I hope I shall not be flayed out of it.
AUTOLYCUS. O, that’s the case of the shepherd’s son. Hang him, he’ll be made an example.
CLOWN. Comfort, good comfort! We must to the king and show our strange sights. He must know ’tis none of your daughter nor my sister; we are gone else. Sir, I will give you as much as this old man does when the business is performed, and remain, as he says, your pawn till it be brought you.
AUTOLYCUS. I will trust you. Walk before toward the sea-side; go on the right-hand. I will but look upon the hedge, and follow you.
CLOWN. We are blessed in this man, as I may say, even blessed.
SHEPHERD. Let’s before, as he bids us. He was provided to do us good.
[Exeunt Shepherd and Clown.]
AUTOLYCUS. If I had a mind to be honest, I see Fortune would not suffer me: she drops booties in my mouth. I am courted now with a double occasion: gold, and a means to do the prince my master good; which who knows how that may turn back to my advancement? I will bring these two moles, these blind ones, aboard him. If he think it fit to shore them again and that the complaint they have to the king concerns him nothing, let him call me rogue for being so far officious; for I am proof against that title and what shame else belongs to ’t. To him will I present them. There may be matter in it.
[Exit.]
Act V, Scene I — Sicilia. A Room in the palace of Leontes
Enter Leontes, Cleomenes, Dion, Paulina and others.
CLEOMENES Sir, you have done enough, and have perform’d A saint-like sorrow: no fault could you make Which you have not redeem’d; indeed, paid down More penitence than done trespass: at the last, Do as the heavens have done, forget your evil; With them, forgive yourself.
LEONTES. Whilst I remember Her and her virtues, I cannot forget My blemishes in them; and so still think of The wrong I did myself: which was so much That heirless it hath made my kingdom, and Destroy’d the sweet’st companion that e’er man Bred his hopes out of.
PAULINA. True, too true, my lord. If, one by one, you wedded all the world, Or from the all that are took something good, To make a perfect woman, she you kill’d Would be unparallel’d.
LEONTES. I think so. Kill’d! She I kill’d! I did so: but thou strik’st me Sorely, to say I did: it is as bitter Upon thy tongue as in my thought. Now, good now, Say so but seldom.
CLEOMENES Not at all, good lady. You might have spoken a thousand things that would Have done the time more benefit and grac’d Your kindness better.
PAULINA. You are one of those Would have him wed again.
DION. If you would not so, You pity not the state, nor the remembrance Of his most sovereign name; consider little What dangers, by his highness’ fail of issue, May drop upon his kingdom, and devour Incertain lookers-on. What were more holy Than to rejoice the former queen is well? What holier than, for royalty’s repair, For present comfort, and for future good, To bless the bed of majesty again With a sweet fellow to ’t?
PAULINA. There is none worthy, Respecting her that’s gone. Besides, the gods Will have fulfill’d their secret purposes; For has not the divine Apollo said, Is ’t not the tenor of his oracle, That king Leontes shall not have an heir Till his lost child be found? Which that it shall, Is all as monstrous to our human reason As my Antigonus to break his grave And come again to me; who, on my life, Did perish with the infant. ’Tis your counsel My lord should to the heavens be contrary, Oppose against their wills. [To Leontes.] Care not for issue; The crown will find an heir. Great Alexander Left his to th’ worthiest; so his successor Was like to be the best.
LEONTES. Good Paulina, Who hast the memory of Hermione, I know, in honour, O that ever I Had squar’d me to thy counsel! Then, even now, I might have look’d upon my queen’s full eyes, Have taken treasure from her lips,—
PAULINA. And left them More rich for what they yielded.
LEONTES. Thou speak’st truth. No more such wives; therefore, no wife: one worse, And better us’d, would make her sainted spirit Again possess her corpse, and on this stage, (Where we offenders now appear) soul-vexed, And begin “Why to me?”
PAULINA. Had she such power, She had just cause.
LEONTES. She had; and would incense me To murder her I married.
PAULINA. I should so. Were I the ghost that walk’d, I’d bid you mark Her eye, and tell me for what dull part in ’t You chose her: then I’d shriek, that even your ears Should rift to hear me; and the words that follow’d Should be “Remember mine.”
LEONTES. Stars, stars, And all eyes else dead coals! Fear thou no wife; I’ll have no wife, Paulina.
PAULINA. Will you swear Never to marry but by my free leave?
LEONTES. Never, Paulina; so be bless’d my spirit!
PAULINA. Then, good my lords, bear witness to his oath.
CLEOMENES You tempt him over-much.
PAULINA. Unless another, As like Hermione as is her picture, Affront his eye.
CLEOMENES Good madam,—
PAULINA. I have done. Yet, if my lord will marry,—if you will, sir, No remedy but you will,—give me the office To choose you a queen: she shall not be so young As was your former, but she shall be such As, walk’d your first queen’s ghost, it should take joy To see her in your arms.
LEONTES. My true Paulina, We shall not marry till thou bid’st us.
PAULINA. That Shall be when your first queen’s again in breath; Never till then.
Enter a Servant.
SERVANT. One that gives out himself Prince Florizel, Son of Polixenes, with his princess (she The fairest I have yet beheld) desires access To your high presence.
LEONTES. What with him? he comes not Like to his father’s greatness: his approach, So out of circumstance and sudden, tells us ’Tis not a visitation fram’d, but forc’d By need and accident. What train?
SERVANT. But few, And those but mean.
LEONTES. His princess, say you, with him?
SERVANT. Ay, the most peerless piece of earth, I think, That e’er the sun shone bright on.
PAULINA. O Hermione, As every present time doth boast itself Above a better gone, so must thy grave Give way to what’s seen now! Sir, you yourself Have said and writ so,—but your writing now Is colder than that theme,—‘She had not been, Nor was not to be equall’d’; thus your verse Flow’d with her beauty once; ’tis shrewdly ebb’d, To say you have seen a better.
SERVANT. Pardon, madam: The one I have almost forgot,—your pardon;— The other, when she has obtain’d your eye, Will have your tongue too. This is a creature, Would she begin a sect, might quench the zeal Of all professors else; make proselytes Of who she but bid follow.
PAULINA. How! not women?
SERVANT. Women will love her that she is a woman More worth than any man; men, that she is The rarest of all women.
LEONTES. Go, Cleomenes; Yourself, assisted with your honour’d friends, Bring them to our embracement.
[Exeunt Cleomenes and others.]
Still, ’tis strange He thus should steal upon us.
PAULINA. Had our prince, Jewel of children, seen this hour, he had pair’d Well with this lord. There was not full a month Between their births.
LEONTES. Prithee no more; cease; Thou know’st He dies to me again when talk’d of: sure, When I shall see this gentleman, thy speeches Will bring me to consider that which may Unfurnish me of reason. They are come.
Enter Florizel, Perdita, Cleomenes and others.
Your mother was most true to wedlock, prince; For she did print your royal father off, Conceiving you. Were I but twenty-one, Your father’s image is so hit in you, His very air, that I should call you brother, As I did him, and speak of something wildly By us perform’d before. Most dearly welcome! And your fair princess,—goddess! O, alas! I lost a couple that ’twixt heaven and earth Might thus have stood, begetting wonder, as You, gracious couple, do! And then I lost,— All mine own folly,—the society, Amity too, of your brave father, whom, Though bearing misery, I desire my life Once more to look on him.
FLORIZEL. By his command Have I here touch’d Sicilia, and from him Give you all greetings that a king, at friend, Can send his brother: and, but infirmity, Which waits upon worn times, hath something seiz’d His wish’d ability, he had himself The lands and waters ’twixt your throne and his Measur’d, to look upon you; whom he loves, He bade me say so,—more than all the sceptres And those that bear them living.
LEONTES. O my brother,— Good gentleman!—the wrongs I have done thee stir Afresh within me; and these thy offices, So rarely kind, are as interpreters Of my behind-hand slackness! Welcome hither, As is the spring to the earth. And hath he too Expos’d this paragon to the fearful usage, At least ungentle, of the dreadful Neptune, To greet a man not worth her pains, much less Th’ adventure of her person?
FLORIZEL. Good, my lord, She came from Libya.
LEONTES. Where the warlike Smalus, That noble honour’d lord, is fear’d and lov’d?
FLORIZEL. Most royal sir, from thence; from him, whose daughter His tears proclaim’d his, parting with her: thence, A prosperous south-wind friendly, we have cross’d, To execute the charge my father gave me For visiting your highness: my best train I have from your Sicilian shores dismiss’d; Who for Bohemia bend, to signify Not only my success in Libya, sir, But my arrival, and my wife’s, in safety Here, where we are.
LEONTES. The blessed gods Purge all infection from our air whilst you Do climate here! You have a holy father, A graceful gentleman; against whose person, So sacred as it is, I have done sin, For which the heavens, taking angry note, Have left me issueless. And your father’s bless’d, As he from heaven merits it, with you, Worthy his goodness. What might I have been, Might I a son and daughter now have look’d on, Such goodly things as you!
Enter a Lord.
LORD. Most noble sir, That which I shall report will bear no credit, Were not the proof so nigh. Please you, great sir, Bohemia greets you from himself by me; Desires you to attach his son, who has— His dignity and duty both cast off— Fled from his father, from his hopes, and with A shepherd’s daughter.
LEONTES. Where’s Bohemia? speak.
LORD. Here in your city; I now came from him. I speak amazedly, and it becomes My marvel and my message. To your court Whiles he was hast’ning—in the chase, it seems, Of this fair couple—meets he on the way The father of this seeming lady and Her brother, having both their country quitted With this young prince.
FLORIZEL. Camillo has betray’d me; Whose honour and whose honesty till now, Endur’d all weathers.
LORD. Lay ’t so to his charge. He’s with the king your father.
LEONTES. Who? Camillo?
LORD. Camillo, sir; I spake with him; who now Has these poor men in question. Never saw I Wretches so quake: they kneel, they kiss the earth; Forswear themselves as often as they speak. Bohemia stops his ears, and threatens them With divers deaths in death.
PERDITA. O my poor father! The heaven sets spies upon us, will not have Our contract celebrated.
LEONTES. You are married?
FLORIZEL. We are not, sir, nor are we like to be. The stars, I see, will kiss the valleys first. The odds for high and low’s alike.
LEONTES. My lord, Is this the daughter of a king?
FLORIZEL. She is, When once she is my wife.
LEONTES. That “once”, I see by your good father’s speed, Will come on very slowly. I am sorry, Most sorry, you have broken from his liking, Where you were tied in duty; and as sorry Your choice is not so rich in worth as beauty, That you might well enjoy her.
FLORIZEL. Dear, look up: Though Fortune, visible an enemy, Should chase us with my father, power no jot Hath she to change our loves. Beseech you, sir, Remember since you ow’d no more to time Than I do now: with thought of such affections, Step forth mine advocate. At your request My father will grant precious things as trifles.
LEONTES. Would he do so, I’d beg your precious mistress, Which he counts but a trifle.
PAULINA. Sir, my liege, Your eye hath too much youth in ’t: not a month ’Fore your queen died, she was more worth such gazes Than what you look on now.
LEONTES. I thought of her Even in these looks I made. [To Florizel.] But your petition Is yet unanswer’d. I will to your father. Your honour not o’erthrown by your desires, I am friend to them and you: upon which errand I now go toward him; therefore follow me, And mark what way I make. Come, good my lord.
[Exeunt.]
Act V, Scene II — The same. Before the Palace
Enter Autolycus and a Gentleman.
AUTOLYCUS. Beseech you, sir, were you present at this relation?
FIRST GENTLEMAN. I was by at the opening of the fardel, heard the old shepherd deliver the manner how he found it: whereupon, after a little amazedness, we were all commanded out of the chamber; only this, methought I heard the shepherd say he found the child.
AUTOLYCUS. I would most gladly know the issue of it.
FIRST GENTLEMAN. I make a broken delivery of the business; but the changes I perceived in the king and Camillo were very notes of admiration. They seemed almost, with staring on one another, to tear the cases of their eyes. There was speech in their dumbness, language in their very gesture; they looked as they had heard of a world ransomed, or one destroyed. A notable passion of wonder appeared in them; but the wisest beholder, that knew no more but seeing could not say if th’ importance were joy or sorrow; but in the extremity of the one, it must needs be. Here comes a gentleman that happily knows more.
Enter a Gentleman.
The news, Rogero?
SECOND GENTLEMAN. Nothing but bonfires: the oracle is fulfilled: the king’s daughter is found: such a deal of wonder is broken out within this hour that ballad-makers cannot be able to express it. Here comes the Lady Paulina’s steward: he can deliver you more.
Enter a third Gentleman.
How goes it now, sir? This news, which is called true, is so like an old tale that the verity of it is in strong suspicion. Has the king found his heir?
THIRD GENTLEMAN. Most true, if ever truth were pregnant by circumstance. That which you hear you’ll swear you see, there is such unity in the proofs. The mantle of Queen Hermione’s, her jewel about the neck of it, the letters of Antigonus found with it, which they know to be his character; the majesty of the creature in resemblance of the mother, the affection of nobleness which nature shows above her breeding, and many other evidences proclaim her with all certainty to be the king’s daughter. Did you see the meeting of the two kings?
SECOND GENTLEMAN. No.
THIRD GENTLEMAN. Then you have lost a sight which was to be seen, cannot be spoken of. There might you have beheld one joy crown another, so and in such manner that it seemed sorrow wept to take leave of them, for their joy waded in tears. There was casting up of eyes, holding up of hands, with countenance of such distraction that they were to be known by garment, not by favour. Our king, being ready to leap out of himself for joy of his found daughter, as if that joy were now become a loss, cries “O, thy mother, thy mother!” then asks Bohemia forgiveness; then embraces his son-in-law; then again worries he his daughter with clipping her; now he thanks the old shepherd, which stands by like a weather-bitten conduit of many kings’ reigns. I never heard of such another encounter, which lames report to follow it, and undoes description to do it.
SECOND GENTLEMAN. What, pray you, became of Antigonus, that carried hence the child?
THIRD GENTLEMAN. Like an old tale still, which will have matter to rehearse, though credit be asleep and not an ear open. He was torn to pieces with a bear: this avouches the shepherd’s son, who has not only his innocence, which seems much, to justify him, but a handkerchief and rings of his that Paulina knows.
FIRST GENTLEMAN. What became of his bark and his followers?
THIRD GENTLEMAN. Wrecked the same instant of their master’s death, and in the view of the shepherd: so that all the instruments which aided to expose the child were even then lost when it was found. But O, the noble combat that ’twixt joy and sorrow was fought in Paulina! She had one eye declined for the loss of her husband, another elevated that the oracle was fulfilled. She lifted the princess from the earth, and so locks her in embracing, as if she would pin her to her heart, that she might no more be in danger of losing.
FIRST GENTLEMAN. The dignity of this act was worth the audience of kings and princes; for by such was it acted.
THIRD GENTLEMAN. One of the prettiest touches of all, and that which angled for mine eyes (caught the water, though not the fish) was, when at the relation of the queen’s death (with the manner how she came to it bravely confessed and lamented by the king) how attentiveness wounded his daughter; till, from one sign of dolour to another, she did, with an “Alas,” I would fain say, bleed tears, for I am sure my heart wept blood. Who was most marble there changed colour; some swooned, all sorrowed: if all the world could have seen it, the woe had been universal.
FIRST GENTLEMAN. Are they returned to the court?
THIRD GENTLEMAN. No: the princess hearing of her mother’s statue, which is in the keeping of Paulina,—a piece many years in doing and now newly performed by that rare Italian master, Julio Romano, who, had he himself eternity, and could put breath into his work, would beguile Nature of her custom, so perfectly he is her ape: he so near to Hermione hath done Hermione that they say one would speak to her and stand in hope of answer. Thither with all greediness of affection are they gone, and there they intend to sup.
SECOND GENTLEMAN. I thought she had some great matter there in hand; for she hath privately twice or thrice a day, ever since the death of Hermione, visited that removed house. Shall we thither, and with our company piece the rejoicing?
FIRST GENTLEMAN. Who would be thence that has the benefit of access? Every wink of an eye some new grace will be born. Our absence makes us unthrifty to our knowledge. Let’s along.
[Exeunt Gentlemen.]
AUTOLYCUS. Now, had I not the dash of my former life in me, would preferment drop on my head. I brought the old man and his son aboard the prince; told him I heard them talk of a fardel and I know not what. But he at that time over-fond of the shepherd’s daughter (so he then took her to be), who began to be much sea-sick, and himself little better, extremity of weather continuing, this mystery remained undiscover’d. But ’tis all one to me; for had I been the finder-out of this secret, it would not have relish’d among my other discredits.
Enter Shepherd and Clown.
Here come those I have done good to against my will, and already appearing in the blossoms of their fortune.
SHEPHERD. Come, boy; I am past more children, but thy sons and daughters will be all gentlemen born.
CLOWN. You are well met, sir. You denied to fight with me this other day, because I was no gentleman born. See you these clothes? Say you see them not and think me still no gentleman born: you were best say these robes are not gentlemen born. Give me the lie, do; and try whether I am not now a gentleman born.
AUTOLYCUS. I know you are now, sir, a gentleman born.
CLOWN. Ay, and have been so any time these four hours.
SHEPHERD. And so have I, boy!
CLOWN. So you have: but I was a gentleman born before my father; for the king’s son took me by the hand and called me brother; and then the two kings called my father brother; and then the prince, my brother, and the princess, my sister, called my father father; and so we wept; and there was the first gentleman-like tears that ever we shed.
SHEPHERD. We may live, son, to shed many more.
CLOWN. Ay; or else ’twere hard luck, being in so preposterous estate as we are.
AUTOLYCUS. I humbly beseech you, sir, to pardon me all the faults I have committed to your worship, and to give me your good report to the prince my master.
SHEPHERD. Prithee, son, do; for we must be gentle, now we are gentlemen.
CLOWN. Thou wilt amend thy life?
AUTOLYCUS. Ay, an it like your good worship.
CLOWN. Give me thy hand: I will swear to the prince thou art as honest a true fellow as any is in Bohemia.
SHEPHERD. You may say it, but not swear it.
CLOWN. Not swear it, now I am a gentleman? Let boors and franklins say it, I’ll swear it.
SHEPHERD. How if it be false, son?
CLOWN. If it be ne’er so false, a true gentleman may swear it in the behalf of his friend. And I’ll swear to the prince thou art a tall fellow of thy hands and that thou wilt not be drunk; but I know thou art no tall fellow of thy hands and that thou wilt be drunk: but I’ll swear it; and I would thou wouldst be a tall fellow of thy hands.
AUTOLYCUS. I will prove so, sir, to my power.
CLOWN. Ay, by any means, prove a tall fellow: if I do not wonder how thou dar’st venture to be drunk, not being a tall fellow, trust me not. Hark! the kings and the princes, our kindred, are going to see the queen’s picture. Come, follow us: we’ll be thy good masters.
[Exeunt.]