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money, I pray you; that kills my heart. |
CLOWN. What manner of fellow was he that robb'd you? |
AUTOLYCUS. A fellow, sir, that I have known to go about with |
troll-my-dames; 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 whipt out of the court. |
CLOWN. His vices, you would say; there's no virtue whipt 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 compass'd 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 |
look'd 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-fac'd sir; no, sweet sir. |
CLOWN. Then fare thee well. I must go buy spices for our |
sheep-shearing. |
AUTOLYCUS. Prosper you, sweet sir! Exit 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 shearers prove sheep, let me be unroll'd, |
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 |
SCENE IV. |
Bohemia. The 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 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 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 th' pow'r 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 any thing |
That you behold the while. Your guests are coming. |
Lift up your countenance, as it were the day |
Of celebration of that nuptial which |
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