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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'ld 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!
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 unrolled and my name
put in the book of virtue!
Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way,
And merrily hent the stile-a:
A merry heart goes all the day,
Your sad tires in a mile-a.
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' the land, you have obscured
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 attired, sworn, 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 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-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: