Читать книгу The Winter's Tale (The Unabridged Play) + The Classic Biography - Sidney Lee - Страница 19

[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 sheepshearing

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 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 pr’ythee, darken not

The mirth o’ the 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

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’ the table, now i’ the 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 retir’d,

As if you were a feasted one, and not

The hostess of the meeting: pray you, bid

These unknown friends to us 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’ the feast: come on,

And bid us welcome to your sheepshearing,

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’ the 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, o’er 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 the 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.—Now, my fairest friend,

I would I had some flowers o’ the 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 lett’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 ordering your affairs,

To sing them too: when you do dance, I wish you

A wave o’ the 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 it,

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-mouth’d 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’ the rainbow; points, more than all the lawyers in Bohemia can learnedly handle, though they come to him by the 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

Pr’ythee bring him in; and let him approach singing.

PERDITA

Forewarn him that he use no scurrilous words in his 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 promis’d 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: may be 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 off 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 a-life; 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 long’d 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 the 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.

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.]

[Re-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 the squire.

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 the 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 the 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’ the 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 altering 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

Pr’ythee 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 sheephook!—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, who 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 further,

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.—[To FLORIZEL.] 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.—[To PERDITA.] O cursèd 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’ the 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 hide

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 oppórtune 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’ the 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.

CA MILLO

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 the 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’ the father’s person; kisses the hands

Of your fresh princess; o’er and o’er divides him

‘Twixt his unkindness and his kindness,—the 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’ the rear our birth.

CAMILLO

I cannot say ‘tis pity

She lacks instruction; 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.]

[Re-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 riband, 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 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, pr’ythee dispatch: the gentleman is half flay’d already.

AUTOLYCUS

Are you in earnest, sir?—[Aside.] I smell the trick on’t.

FLORIZEL

Dispatch, I pr’ythee.

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 seaside.

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 cutpurse; 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.

[Re-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-à-pie, 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’ the 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 the 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 seaside; 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.]