{"collection":"sks","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/browse/sks/ff/twt.htm","path":"sks/ff/twt.htm","source_url":"https://sacred-texts.com/sks/ff/twt.htm","text":"Actus Primus. Scoena Prima.\nEnter Camillo and Archidamus.\nArch. If you shall chance (Camillo) to visit Bohemia, on\nthe like occasion whereon my seruices are now\non-foot, you shall see (as I haue said) great difference\nbetwixt our Bohemia, and your Sicilia\nCam. I thinke, this comming Summer, the King of\nSicilia meanes to pay Bohemia the Visitation, which hee\niustly owes him\nArch. Wherein our Entertainment shall shame vs: we\nwill be iustified in our Loues: for indeed-\nCam. 'Beseech you-\nArch. Verely I speake it in the freedome of my knowledge:\nwe cannot with such magnificence- in so rare-\nI know not what to say- Wee will giue you sleepie\nDrinkes, that your Sences (vn-intelligent of our insufficience)\nmay, though they cannot prayse vs, as little accuse\nvs\nCam. You pay a great deale to deare, for what's giuen\nfreely\nArch. 'Beleeue me, I speake as my vnderstanding instructs\nme, and as mine honestie puts it to vtterance\nCam. Sicilia cannot shew himselfe ouer-kind to Bohemia:\nThey were trayn'd together in their Childhoods;\nand there rooted betwixt them then such an affection,\nwhich cannot chuse but braunch now. Since their more\nmature Dignities, and Royall Necessities, made seperation\nof their Societie, their Encounters (though not Personall)\nhath been Royally attornyed with enter-change of\nGifts, Letters, louing Embassies, that they haue seem'd to\nbe together, though absent: shooke hands, as ouer a Vast;\nand embrac'd as it were from the ends of opposed Winds.\nThe Heauens continue their Loues\nArch. I thinke there is not in the World, either Malice\nor Matter, to alter it. You haue an vnspeakable comfort\nof your young Prince Mamillius: it is a Gentleman of the\ngreatest Promise, that euer came into my Note\nCam. I very well agree with you, in the hopes of him:\nit is a gallant Child; one, that (indeed) Physicks the Subiect,\nmakes old hearts fresh: they that went on Crutches\nere he was borne, desire yet their life, to see him a Man\nArch. Would they else be content to die?\nCam. Yes; if there were no other excuse, why they should\ndesire to liue\nArch. If the King had no Sonne, they would desire to\nliue on Crutches till he had one.\nExeunt.\nScoena Secunda.\nEnter Leontes, Hermione, Mamillius, Polixenes, Camillo.\nPol. Nine Changes of the Watry-Starre hath been\nThe Shepheards Note, since we haue left our Throne\nWithout a Burthen: Time as long againe\nWould be fill'd vp (my Brother) with our Thanks,\nAnd yet we should, for perpetuitie,\nGoe hence in debt: And therefore, like a Cypher\n(Yet standing in rich place) I multiply\nWith one we thanke you, many thousands moe,\nThat goe before it\nLeo. Stay your Thanks a while,\nAnd pay them when you part\nPol. Sir, that's to morrow:\nI am question'd by my feares, of what may chance,\nOr breed vpon our absence, that may blow\nNo sneaping Winds at home, to make vs say,\nThis is put forth too truly: besides, I haue stay'd\nTo tyre your Royaltie\nLeo. We are tougher (Brother)\nThen you can put vs to't\nPol. No longer stay\nLeo. One Seue' night longer\nPol. Very sooth, to morrow\nLeo. Wee'le part the time betweene's then: and in that\nIle no gaine-saying\nPol. Presse me not ('beseech you) so:\nThere is no Tongue that moues; none, none i'th' World\nSo soone as yours, could win me: so it should now,\nWere there necessitie in your request, although\n'Twere needfull I deny'd it. My Affaires\nDoe euen drag me home-ward: which to hinder,\nWere (in your Loue) a Whip to me; my stay,\nTo you a Charge, and Trouble: to saue both,\nFarewell (our Brother.)\nLeo. Tongue-ty'd our Queene? speake you\nHer. I had thought (Sir) to haue held my peace, vntill\nYou had drawne Oathes from him, not to stay: you (Sir)\nCharge him too coldly. Tell him, you are sure\nAll in Bohemia's well: this satisfaction,\nThe by-gone-day proclaym'd, say this to him,\nHe's beat from his best ward\nLeo. Well said, Hermione\nHer. To tell, he longs to see his Sonne, were strong:\nBut let him say so then, and let him goe;\nBut let him sweare so, and he shall not stay,\nWee'l thwack him hence with Distaffes.\nYet of your Royall presence, Ile aduenture\nThe borrow of a Weeke. When at Bohemia\nYou take my Lord, Ile giue him my Commission,\nTo let him there a Moneth, behind the Gest\nPrefix'd for's parting: yet (good-deed) Leontes,\nI loue thee not a Iarre o'th' Clock, behind\nWhat Lady she her Lord. You'le stay?\nPol. No, Madame\nHer. Nay, but you will?\nPol. I may not verely\nHer. Verely?\nYou put me off with limber Vowes: but I,\nThough you would seek t' vnsphere the Stars with Oaths,\nShould yet say, Sir, no going: Verely\nYou shall not goe; a Ladyes Verely 'is\nAs potent as a Lords. Will you goe yet?\nForce me to keepe you as a Prisoner,\nNot like a Guest: so you shall pay your Fees\nWhen you depart, and saue your Thanks. How say you?\nMy Prisoner? or my Guest? by your dread Verely,\nOne of them you shall be\nPol. Your Guest then, Madame:\nTo be your Prisoner, should import offending;\nWhich is for me, lesse easie to commit,\nThen you to punish\nHer. Not your Gaoler then,\nBut your kind Hostesse. Come, Ile question you\nOf my Lords Tricks, and yours, when you were Boyes:\nYou were pretty Lordings then?\nPol. We were (faire Queene)\nTwo Lads, that thought there was no more behind,\nBut such a day to morrow, as to day,\nAnd to be Boy eternall\nHer. Was not my Lord\nThe veryer Wag o'th' two?\nPol. We were as twyn'd Lambs, that did frisk i'th' Sun,\nAnd bleat the one at th' other: what we chang'd,\nWas Innocence, for Innocence: we knew not\nThe Doctrine of ill-doing, nor dream'd\nThat any did: Had we pursu'd that life,\nAnd our weake Spirits ne're been higher rear'd\nWith stronger blood, we should haue answer'd Heauen\nBoldly, not guilty; the Imposition clear'd,\nHereditarie ours\nHer. By this we gather\nYou haue tript since\nPol. O my most sacred Lady,\nTemptations haue since then been borne to's: for\nIn those vnfledg'd dayes, was my Wife a Girle;\nYour precious selfe had then not cross'd the eyes\nOf my young Play-fellow\nHer. Grace to boot:\nOf this make no conclusion, least you say\nYour Queene and I are Deuils: yet goe on,\nTh' offences we haue made you doe, wee'le answere,\nIf you first sinn'd with vs: and that with vs\nYou did continue fault; and that you slipt not\nWith any, but with vs\nLeo. Is he woon yet?\nHer. Hee'le stay (my Lord.)\nLeo. At my request, he would not:\nHermione (my dearest) thou neuer spoak'st\nTo better purpose\nHer. Neuer?\nLeo. Neuer, but once\nHer. What? haue I twice said well? when was't before?\nI prethee tell me: cram's with prayse, and make's\nAs fat as tame things: One good deed, dying tonguelesse,\nSlaughters a thousand, wayting vpon that.\nOur prayses are our Wages. You may ride's\nWith one soft Kisse a thousand Furlongs, ere\nWith Spur we heat an Acre. But to th' Goale:\nMy last good deed, was to entreat his stay.\nWhat was my first? it ha's an elder Sister,\nOr I mistake you: O, would her Name were Grace.\nBut once before I spoke to th' purpose? when?\nNay, let me haue't: I long\nLeo. Why, that was when\nThree crabbed Moneths had sowr'd themselues to death,\nEre I could make thee open thy white Hand:\nA clap thy selfe, my Loue; then didst thou vtter,\nI am yours for euer\nHer. 'Tis Grace indeed.\nWhy lo-you now; I haue spoke to th' purpose twice:\nThe one, for euer earn'd a Royall Husband;\nTh' other, for some while a Friend\nLeo. Too hot, too hot:\nTo mingle friendship farre, is mingling bloods.\nI haue Tremor Cordis on me: my heart daunces,\nBut not for ioy; not ioy. This Entertainment\nMay a free face put on: deriue a Libertie\nFrom Heartinesse, from Bountie, fertile Bosome,\nAnd well become the Agent: 't may; I graunt:\nBut to be padling Palmes, and pinching Fingers,\nAs now they are, and making practis'd Smiles\nAs in a Looking-Glasse; and then to sigh, as 'twere\nThe Mort o'th' Deere: oh, that is entertainment\nMy Bosome likes not, nor my Browes. Mamillius,\nArt thou my Boy?\nMam. I, my good Lord\nLeo. I'fecks:\nWhy that's my Bawcock: what? has't smutch'd thy Nose?\nThey say it is a Coppy out of mine. Come Captaine,\nWe must be neat; not neat, but cleanly, Captaine:\nAnd yet the Steere, the Heycfer, and the Calfe,\nAre all call'd Neat. Still Virginalling\nVpon his Palme? How now (you wanton Calfe)\nArt thou my Calfe?\nMam. Yes, if you will (my Lord.)\nLeo. Thou want'st a rough pash, & the shoots that I haue\nTo be full, like me: yet they say we are\nAlmost as like as Egges; Women say so,\n(That will say any thing.) But were they false\nAs o're-dy'd Blacks, as Wind, as Waters; false\nAs Dice are to be wish'd, by one that fixes\nNo borne 'twixt his and mine; yet were it true,\nTo say this Boy were like me. Come (Sir Page)\nLooke on me with your Welkin eye: sweet Villaine,\nMost dear'st, my Collop: Can thy Dam, may't be\nAffection? thy Intention stabs the Center.\nThou do'st make possible things not so held,\nCommunicat'st with Dreames (how can this be?)\nWith what's vnreall: thou coactiue art,\nAnd fellow'st nothing. Then 'tis very credent,\nThou may'st co-ioyne with something, and thou do'st,\n(And that beyond Commission) and I find it,\n(And that to the infection of my Braines,\nAnd hardning of my Browes.)\nPol. What meanes Sicilia?\nHer. He something seemes vnsetled\nPol. How? my Lord?\nLeo. What cheere? how is't with you, best Brother?\nHer. You look as if you held a Brow of much distraction:\nAre you mou'd (my Lord?)\nLeo. No, in good earnest.\nHow sometimes Nature will betray it's folly?\nIt's tendernesse? and make it selfe a Pastime\nTo harder bosomes? Looking on the Lynes\nOf my Boyes face, me thoughts I did requoyle\nTwentie three yeeres, and saw my selfe vn-breech'd,\nIn my greene Veluet Coat; my Dagger muzzel'd,\nLeast it should bite it's Master, and so proue\n(As Ornaments oft do's) too dangerous:\nHow like (me thought) I then was to this Kernell,\nThis Squash, this Gentleman. Mine honest Friend,\nWill you take Egges for Money?\nMam. No (my Lord) Ile fight\nLeo. You will: why happy man be's dole. My Brother\nAre you so fond of your young Prince, as we\nDoe seeme to be of ours?\nPol. If at home (Sir)\nHe's all my Exercise, my Mirth, my Matter;\nNow my sworne Friend, and then mine Enemy;\nMy Parasite, my Souldier: States-man; all:\nHe makes a Iulyes day, short as December,\nAnd with his varying childnesse, cures in me\nThoughts, that would thick my blood\nLeo. So stands this Squire\nOffic'd with me: We two will walke (my Lord)\nAnd leaue you to your grauer steps. Hermione,\nHow thou lou'st vs, shew in our Brothers welcome;\nLet what is deare in Sicily, be cheape:\nNext to thy selfe, and my young Rouer, he's\nApparant to my heart\nHer. If you would seeke vs,\nWe are yours i'th' Garden: shall's attend you there?\nLeo. To your owne bents dispose you: you'le be found,\nBe you beneath the Sky: I am angling now,\n(Though you perceiue me not how I giue Lyne)\nGoe too, goe too.\nHow she holds vp the Neb? the Byll to him?\nAnd armes her with the boldnesse of a Wife\nTo her allowing Husband. Gone already,\nYnch-thick, knee-deepe; ore head and eares a fork'd one.\nGoe play (Boy) play: thy Mother playes, and I\nPlay too; but so disgrac'd a part, whose issue\nWill hisse me to my Graue: Contempt and Clamor\nWill be my Knell. Goe play (Boy) play, there haue been\n(Or I am much deceiu'd) Cuckolds ere now,\nAnd many a man there is (euen at this present,\nNow, while I speake this) holds his Wife by th' Arme,\nThat little thinkes she ha's been sluyc'd in's absence,\nAnd his Pond fish'd by his next Neighbor (by\nSir Smile, his Neighbor:) nay, there's comfort in't,\nWhiles other men haue Gates, and those Gates open'd\n(As mine) against their will. Should all despaire\nThat haue reuolted Wiues, the tenth of Mankind\nWould hang themselues. Physick for't, there's none:\nIt is a bawdy Planet, that will strike\nWhere 'tis predominant; and 'tis powrefull: thinke it:\nFrom East, West, North, and South, be it concluded,\nNo Barricado for a Belly. Know't,\nIt will let in and out the Enemy,\nWith bag and baggage: many thousand on's\nHaue the Disease, and feele't not. How now Boy?\nMam. I am like you say\nLeo. Why, that's some comfort.\nWhat? Camillo there?\nCam. I, my good Lord\nLeo. Goe play (Mamillius) thou'rt an honest man:\nCamillo, this great Sir will yet stay longer\nCam. You had much adoe to make his Anchor hold,\nWhen you cast out, it still came home\nLeo. Didst note it?\nCam. He would not stay at your Petitions, made\nHis Businesse more materiall\nLeo. Didst perceiue it?\nThey're here with me already; whisp'ring, rounding:\nSicilia is a so-forth: 'tis farre gone,\nWhen I shall gust it last. How cam't (Camillo)\nThat he did stay?\nCam. At the good Queenes entreatie\nLeo. At the Queenes be't: Good should be pertinent,\nBut so it is, it is not. Was this taken\nBy any vnderstanding Pate but thine?\nFor thy Conceit is soaking, will draw in\nMore then the common Blocks. Not noted, is't,\nBut of the finer Natures? by some Seueralls\nOf Head-peece extraordinarie? Lower Messes\nPerchance are to this Businesse purblind? say\nCam. Businesse, my Lord? I thinke most vnderstand\nBohemia stayes here longer\nLeo. Ha?\nCam. Stayes here longer\nLeo. I, but why?\nCam. To satisfie your Highnesse, and the Entreaties\nOf our most gracious Mistresse\nLeo. Satisfie?\nTh' entreaties of your Mistresse? Satisfie?\nLet that suffice. I haue trusted thee (Camillo)\nWith all the neerest things to my heart, as well\nMy Chamber-Councels, wherein (Priest-like) thou\nHast cleans'd my Bosome: I, from thee departed\nThy Penitent reform'd: but we haue been\nDeceiu'd in thy Integritie, deceiu'd\nIn that which seemes so\nCam. Be it forbid (my Lord.)\nLeo. To bide vpon't: thou art not honest: or\nIf thou inclin'st that way, thou art a Coward,\nWhich hoxes honestie behind, restrayning\nFrom Course requir'd: or else thou must be counted\nA Seruant, grafted in my serious Trust,\nAnd therein negligent: or else a Foole,\nThat seest a Game play'd home, the rich Stake drawne,\nAnd tak'st it all for ieast\nCam. My gracious Lord,\nI may be negligent, foolish, and fearefull,\nIn euery one of these, no man is free,\nBut that his negligence, his folly, feare,\nAmong the infinite doings of the World,\nSometime puts forth in your affaires (my Lord.)\nIf euer I were wilfull-negligent,\nIt was my folly: if industriously\nI play'd the Foole, it was my negligence,\nNot weighing well the end: if euer fearefull\nTo doe a thing, where I the issue doubted,\nWhereof the execution did cry out\nAgainst the non-performance, 'twas a feare\nWhich oft infects the wisest: these (my Lord)\nAre such allow'd Infirmities, that honestie\nIs neuer free of. But beseech your Grace\nBe plainer with me, let me know my Trespas\nBy it's owne visage; if I then deny it,\n'Tis none of mine\nLeo. Ha' not you seene Camillo?\n(But that's past doubt: you haue, or your eye-glasse\nIs thicker then a Cuckolds Horne) or heard?\n(For to a Vision so apparant, Rumor\nCannot be mute) or thought? (for Cogitation\nResides not in that man, that do's not thinke)\nMy Wife is slipperie? If thou wilt confesse,\nOr else be impudently negatiue,\nTo haue nor Eyes, nor Eares, nor Thought, then say\nMy Wife's a Holy-Horse, deserues a Name\nAs ranke as any Flax-Wench, that puts to\nBefore her troth-plight: say't, and iustify't\nCam. I would not be a stander-by, to heare\nMy Soueraigne Mistresse clouded so, without\nMy present vengeance taken: 'shrew my heart,\nYou neuer spoke what did become you lesse\nThen this; which to reiterate, were sin\nAs deepe as that, though true\nLeo. Is whispering nothing?\nIs leaning Cheeke to Cheeke? is meating Noses?\nKissing with in-side Lip? stopping the Cariere\nOf Laughter, with a sigh? (a Note infallible\nOf breaking Honestie) horsing foot on foot?\nSkulking in corners? wishing Clocks more swift?\nHoures, Minutes? Noone, Mid-night? and all Eyes\nBlind with the Pin and Web, but theirs; theirs onely,\nThat would vnseene be wicked? Is this nothing?\nWhy then the World, and all that's in't, is nothing,\nThe couering Skie is nothing, Bohemia nothing,\nMy Wife is nothing, nor Nothing haue these Nothings,\nIf this be nothing\nCam. Good my Lord, be cur'd\nOf this diseas'd Opinion, and betimes,\nFor 'tis most dangerous\nLeo. Say it be, 'tis true\nCam. No, no, my Lord\nLeo. It is: you lye, you lye:\nI say thou lyest Camillo, and I hate thee,\nPronounce thee a grosse Lowt, a mindlesse Slaue,\nOr else a houering Temporizer, that\nCanst with thine eyes at once see good and euill,\nInclining to them both: were my Wiues Liuer\nInfected (as her life) she would not liue\nThe running of one Glasse\nCam. Who do's infect her?\nLeo. Why he that weares her like her Medull, hanging\nAbout his neck (Bohemia) who, if I\nHad Seruants true about me, that bare eyes\nTo see alike mine Honor, as their Profits,\n(Their owne particular Thrifts) they would doe that\nWhich should vndoe more doing: I, and thou\nHis Cup-bearer, whom I from meaner forme\nHaue Bench'd, and rear'd to Worship, who may'st see\nPlainely, as Heauen sees Earth, and Earth sees Heauen,\nHow I am gall'd, might'st be-spice a Cup,\nTo giue mine Enemy a lasting Winke:\nWhich Draught to me, were cordiall\nCam. Sir (my Lord)\nI could doe this, and that with no rash Potion,\nBut with a lingring Dram, that should not worke\nMaliciously, like Poyson: But I cannot\nBeleeue this Crack to be in my dread Mistresse\n(So soueraignely being Honorable.)\nI haue lou'd thee,\nLeo. Make that thy question, and goe rot:\nDo'st thinke I am so muddy, so vnsetled,\nTo appoint my selfe in this vexation?\nSully the puritie and whitenesse of my Sheetes\n(Which to preserue, is Sleepe; which being spotted,\nIs Goades, Thornes, Nettles, Tayles of Waspes)\nGiue scandall to the blood o'th' Prince, my Sonne,\n(Who I doe thinke is mine, and loue as mine)\nWithout ripe mouing to't? Would I doe this?\nCould man so blench?\nCam. I must beleeue you (Sir)\nI doe, and will fetch off Bohemia for't:\nProuided, that when hee's remou'd, your Highnesse\nWill take againe your Queene, as yours at first,\nEuen for your Sonnes sake, and thereby for sealing\nThe Iniurie of Tongues, in Courts and Kingdomes\nKnowne, and ally'd to yours\nLeo. Thou do'st aduise me,\nEuen so as I mine owne course haue set downe:\nIle giue no blemish to her Honor, none\nCam. My Lord,\nGoe then; and with a countenance as cleare\nAs Friendship weares at Feasts, keepe with Bohemia,\nAnd with your Queene: I am his Cup-bearer,\nIf from me he haue wholesome Beueridge,\nAccount me not your Seruant\nLeo. This is all:\nDo't, and thou hast the one halfe of my heart;\nDo't not, thou splitt'st thine owne\nCam. Ile do't, my Lord\nLeo. I wil seeme friendly, as thou hast aduis'd me.\nExit\nCam. O miserable Lady. But for me,\nWhat case stand I in? I must be the poysoner\nOf good Polixenes, and my ground to do't,\nIs the obedience to a Master; one,\nWho in Rebellion with himselfe, will haue\nAll that are his, so too. To doe this deed,\nPromotion followes: If I could find example\nOf thousand's that had struck anoynted Kings,\nAnd flourish'd after, Il'd not do't: But since\nNor Brasse, nor Stone, nor Parchment beares not one,\nLet Villanie it selfe forswear't. I must\nForsake the Court: to do't, or no, is certaine\nTo me a breake-neck. Happy Starre raigne now,\nHere comes Bohemia.\nEnter Polixenes.\nPol. This is strange: Me thinkes\nMy fauor here begins to warpe. Not speake?\nGood day Camillo\nCam. Hayle most Royall Sir\nPol. What is the Newes i'th' Court?\nCam. None rare (my Lord.)\nPol. The King hath on him such a countenance,\nAs he had lost some Prouince, and a Region\nLou'd, as he loues himselfe: euen now I met him\nWith customarie complement, when hee\nWafting his eyes to th' contrary, and falling\nA Lippe of much contempt, speedes from me, and\nSo leaues me, to consider what is breeding,\nThat changes thus his Manners\nCam. I dare not know (my Lord.)\nPol. How, dare not? doe not? doe you know, and dare not?\nBe intelligent to me, 'tis thereabouts:\nFor to your selfe, what you doe know, you must,\nAnd cannot say, you dare not. Good Camillo,\nYour chang'd complexions are to me a Mirror,\nWhich shewes me mine chang'd too: for I must be\nA partie in this alteration, finding\nMy selfe thus alter'd with't\nCam. There is a sicknesse\nWhich puts some of vs in distemper, but\nI cannot name the Disease, and it is caught\nOf you, that yet are well\nPol. How caught of me?\nMake me not sighted like the Basilisque.\nI haue look'd on thousands, who haue sped the better\nBy my regard, but kill'd none so: Camillo,\nAs you are certainely a Gentleman, thereto\nClerke-like experienc'd, which no lesse adornes\nOur Gentry, then our Parents Noble Names,\nIn whose successe we are gentle: I beseech you,\nIf you know ought which do's behoue my knowledge,\nThereof to be inform'd, imprison't not\nIn ignorant concealement\nCam. I may not answere\nPol. A Sicknesse caught of me, and yet I well?\nI must be answer'd. Do'st thou heare Camillo,\nI coniure thee, by all the parts of man,\nWhich Honor do's acknowledge, whereof the least\nIs not this Suit of mine, that thou declare\nWhat incidencie thou do'st ghesse of harme\nIs creeping toward me; how farre off, how neere,\nWhich way to be preuented, if to be:\nIf not, how best to beare it\nCam. Sir, I will tell you,\nSince I am charg'd in Honor, and by him\nThat I thinke Honorable: therefore marke my counsaile,\nWhich must be eu'n as swiftly followed, as\nI meane to vtter it; or both your selfe, and me,\nCry lost, and so good night\nPol. On, good Camillo\nCam. I am appointed him to murther you\nPol. By whom, Camillo?\nCam. By the King\nPol. For what?\nCam. He thinkes, nay with all confidence he sweares,\nAs he had seen't, or beene an Instrument\nTo vice you to't, that you haue toucht his Queene\nForbiddenly\nPol. Oh then, my best blood turne\nTo an infected Gelly, and my Name\nBe yoak'd with his, that did betray the Best:\nTurne then my freshest Reputation to\nA sauour, that may strike the dullest Nosthrill\nWhere I arriue, and my approch be shun'd,\nNay hated too, worse then the great'st Infection\nThat ere was heard, or read\nCam. Sweare his thought ouer\nBy each particular Starre in Heauen, and\nBy all their Influences; you may as well\nForbid the Sea for to obey the Moone,\nAs (or by Oath) remoue, or (Counsaile) shake\nThe Fabrick of his Folly, whose foundation\nIs pyl'd vpon his Faith, and will continue\nThe standing of his Body\nPol. How should this grow?\nCam. I know not: but I am sure 'tis safer to\nAuoid what's growne, then question how 'tis borne.\nIf therefore you dare trust my honestie,\nThat lyes enclosed in this Trunke, which you\nShall beare along impawnd, away to Night,\nYour Followers I will whisper to the Businesse,\nAnd will by twoes, and threes, at seuerall Posternes,\nCleare them o'th' Citie: For my selfe, Ile put\nMy fortunes to your seruice (which are here\nBy this discouerie lost.) Be not vncertaine,\nFor by the honor of my Parents, I\nHaue vttred Truth: which if you seeke to proue,\nI dare not stand by; nor shall you be safer,\nThen one condemnd by the Kings owne mouth:\nThereon his Execution sworne\nPol. I doe beleeue thee:\nI saw his heart in's face. Giue me thy hand,\nBe Pilot to me, and thy places shall\nStill neighbour mine. My Ships are ready, and\nMy people did expect my hence departure\nTwo dayes agoe. This Iealousie\nIs for a precious Creature: as shee's rare,\nMust it be great; and, as his Person's mightie,\nMust it be violent: and, as he do's conceiue,\nHe is dishonor'd by a man, which euer\nProfess'd to him: why his Reuenges must\nIn that be made more bitter. Feare ore-shades me:\nGood Expedition be my friend, and comfort\nThe gracious Queene, part of his Theame; but nothing\nOf his ill-ta'ne suspition. Come Camillo,\nI will respect thee as a Father, if\nThou bear'st my life off, hence: Let vs auoid\nCam. It is in mine authoritie to command\nThe Keyes of all the Posternes: Please your Highnesse\nTo take the vrgent houre. Come Sir, away.\nExeunt.\nActus Secundus. Scena Prima.\nEnter Hermione, Mamillius, Ladies: Leontes, Antigonus, Lords.\nHer. Take the Boy to you: he so troubles me,\n'Tis past enduring\nLady. Come (my gracious Lord)\nShall I be your play-fellow?\nMam. No, Ile none of you\nLady. Why (my sweet Lord?)\nMam. You'le kisse me hard, and speake to me, as if\nI were a Baby still. I loue you better\n2.Lady. And why so (my Lord?)\nMam. Not for because\nYour Browes are blacker (yet black-browes they say\nBecome some Women best, so that there be not\nToo much haire there, but in a Cemicircle,\nOr a halfe-Moone, made with a Pen.)\n2.Lady. Who taught 'this?\nMam. I learn'd it out of Womens faces: pray now,\nWhat colour are your eye-browes?\nLady. Blew (my Lord.)\nMam. Nay, that's a mock: I haue seene a Ladies Nose\nThat ha's beene blew, but not her eye-browes\nLady. Harke ye,\nThe Queene (your Mother) rounds apace: we shall\nPresent our seruices to a fine new Prince\nOne of these dayes, and then youl'd wanton with vs,\nIf we would haue you\n2.Lady. She is spread of late\nInto a goodly Bulke (good time encounter her.)\nHer. What wisdome stirs amongst you? Come Sir, now\nI am for you againe: 'Pray you sit by vs,\nAnd tell's a Tale\nMam. Merry, or sad, shal't be?\nHer. As merry as you will\nMam. A sad Tale's best for Winter:\nI haue one of Sprights, and Goblins\nHer. Let's haue that (good Sir.)\nCome-on, sit downe, come-on, and doe your best,\nTo fright me with your Sprights: you're powrefull at it\nMam. There was a man\nHer. Nay, come sit downe: then on\nMam. Dwelt by a Church-yard: I will tell it softly,\nYond Crickets shall not heare it\nHer. Come on then, and giu't me in mine eare\nLeon. Was hee met there? his Traine? Camillo with\nhim?\nLord. Behind the tuft of Pines I met them, neuer\nSaw I men scowre so on their way: I eyed them\nEuen to their Ships\nLeo. How blest am I\nIn my iust Censure? in my true Opinion?\nAlack, for lesser knowledge, how accurs'd,\nIn being so blest? There may be in the Cup\nA Spider steep'd, and one may drinke; depart,\nAnd yet partake no venome: (for his knowledge\nIs not infected) but if one present\nTh' abhor'd Ingredient to his eye, make knowne\nHow he hath drunke, he cracks his gorge, his sides\nWith violent Hefts: I haue drunke, and seene the Spider.\nCamillo was his helpe in this, his Pandar:\nThere is a Plot against my Life, my Crowne;\nAll's true that is mistrusted: that false Villaine,\nWhom I employ'd, was pre-employ'd by him:\nHe ha's discouer'd my Designe, and I\nRemaine a pinch'd Thing; yea, a very Trick\nFor them to play at will: how came the Posternes\nSo easily open?\nLord. By his great authority,\nWhich often hath no lesse preuail'd, then so,\nOn your command\nLeo. I know't too well.\nGiue me the Boy, I am glad you did not nurse him:\nThough he do's beare some signes of me, yet you\nHaue too much blood in him\nHer. What is this? Sport?\nLeo. Beare the Boy hence, he shall not come about her,\nAway with him, and let her sport her selfe\nWith that shee's big-with, for 'tis Polixenes\nHa's made thee swell thus\nHer. But Il'd say he had not;\nAnd Ile be sworne you would beleeue my saying,\nHow e're you leane to th' Nay-ward\nLeo. You (my Lords)\nLooke on her, marke her well: be but about\nTo say she is a goodly Lady, and\nThe iustice of your hearts will thereto adde\n'Tis pitty shee's not honest: Honorable;\nPrayse her but for this her without-dore-Forme,\n(Which on my faith deserues high speech) and straight\nThe Shrug, the Hum, or Ha, (these Petty-brands\nThat Calumnie doth vse; Oh, I am out,\nThat Mercy do's, for Calumnie will seare\nVertue it selfe) these Shrugs, these Hum's, and Ha's,\nWhen you haue said shee's goodly, come betweene,\nEre you can say shee's honest: But be't knowne\n(From him that ha's most cause to grieue it should be)\nShee's an Adultresse\nHer. Should a Villaine say so,\n(The most replenish'd Villaine in the World)\nHe were as much more Villaine: you (my Lord)\nDoe but mistake\nLeo. You haue mistooke (my Lady)\nPolixenes for Leontes: O thou Thing,\n(Which Ile not call a Creature of thy place,\nLeast Barbarisme (making me the precedent)\nShould a like Language vse to all degrees,\nAnd mannerly distinguishment leaue out,\nBetwixt the Prince and Begger:) I haue said\nShee's an Adultresse, I haue said with whom:\nMore; shee's a Traytor, and Camillo is\nA Federarie with her, and one that knowes\nWhat she should shame to know her selfe,\nBut with her most vild Principall: that shee's\nA Bed-swaruer, euen as bad as those\nThat Vulgars giue bold'st Titles; I, and priuy\nTo this their late escape\nHer. No (by my life)\nPriuy to none of this: how will this grieue you,\nWhen you shall come to clearer knowledge, that\nYou thus haue publish'd me? Gentle my Lord,\nYou scarce can right me throughly, then, to say\nYou did mistake\nLeo. No: if I mistake\nIn those Foundations which I build vpon,\nThe Centre is not bigge enough to beare\nA Schoole-Boyes Top. Away with her, to Prison:\nHe who shall speake for her, is a farre-off guiltie,\nBut that he speakes\nHer. There's some ill Planet raignes:\nI must be patient, till the Heauens looke\nWith an aspect more fauorable. Good my Lords,\nI am not prone to weeping (as our Sex\nCommonly are) the want of which vaine dew\nPerchance shall dry your pitties: but I haue\nThat honorable Griefe lodg'd here, which burnes\nWorse then Teares drowne: 'beseech you all (my Lords)\nWith thoughts so qualified, as your Charities\nShall best instruct you, measure me; and so\nThe Kings will be perform'd\nLeo. Shall I be heard?\nHer. Who is't that goes with me? 'beseech your Highnes\nMy Women may be with me, for you see\nMy plight requires it. Doe not weepe (good Fooles)\nThere is no cause: When you shall know your Mistris\nHa's deseru'd Prison, then abound in Teares,\nAs I come out; this Action I now goe on,\nIs for my better grace. Adieu (my Lord)\nI neuer wish'd to see you sorry, now\nI trust I shall: my Women come, you haue leaue\nLeo. Goe, doe our bidding: hence\nLord. Beseech your Highnesse call the Queene againe\nAntig. Be certaine what you do (Sir) least your Iustice\nProue violence, in the which three great ones suffer,\nYour Selfe, your Queene, your Sonne\nLord. For her (my Lord)\nI dare my life lay downe, and will do't (Sir)\nPlease you t' accept it, that the Queene is spotlesse\nI'th' eyes of Heauen, and to you (I meane\nIn this, which you accuse her.)\nAntig. If it proue\nShee's otherwise, Ile keepe my Stables where\nI lodge my Wife, Ile goe in couples with her:\nThen when I feele, and see her, no farther trust her:\nFor euery ynch of Woman in the World,\nI, euery dram of Womans flesh is false,\nIf she be\nLeo. Hold your peaces\nLord. Good my Lord\nAntig. It is for you we speake, not for our selues:\nYou are abus'd, and by some putter on,\nThat will be damn'd for't: would I knew the Villaine,\nI would Land-damne him: be she honor-flaw'd,\nI haue three daughters: the eldest is eleuen;\nThe second, and the third, nine: and some fiue:\nIf this proue true, they'l pay for't. By mine Honor\nIle gell'd em all: fourteene they shall not see\nTo bring false generations: they are co-heyres,\nAnd I had rather glib my selfe, then they\nShould not produce faire issue\nLeo. Cease, no more:\nYou smell this businesse with a sence as cold\nAs is a dead-mans nose: but I do see't, and feel't,\nAs you feele doing thus: and see withall\nThe Instruments that feele\nAntig. If it be so,\nWe neede no graue to burie honesty,\nThere's not a graine of it, the face to sweeten\nOf the whole dungy-earth\nLeo. What? lacke I credit?\nLord. I had rather you did lacke then I (my Lord)\nVpon this ground: and more it would content me\nTo haue her Honor true, then your suspition\nBe blam'd for't how you might\nLeo. Why what neede we\nCommune with you of this? but rather follow\nOur forcefull instigation? Our prerogatiue\nCals not your Counsailes, but our naturall goodnesse\nImparts this: which, if you, or stupified,\nOr seeming so, in skill, cannot, or will not\nRellish a truth, like vs: informe your selues,\nWe neede no more of your aduice: the matter,\nThe losse, the gaine, the ord'ring on't,\nIs all properly ours\nAntig. And I wish (my Liege)\nYou had onely in your silent iudgement tride it,\nWithout more ouerture\nLeo. How could that be?\nEither thou art most ignorant by age,\nOr thou wer't borne a foole: Camillo's flight\nAdded to their Familiarity\n(Which was as grosse, as euer touch'd coniecture,\nThat lack'd sight onely, nought for approbation\nBut onely seeing, all other circumstances\nMade vp to'th deed) doth push-on this proceeding.\nYet, for a greater confirmation\n(For in an Acte of this importance, 'twere\nMost pitteous to be wilde) I haue dispatch'd in post,\nTo sacred Delphos, to Appollo's Temple,\nCleomines and Dion, whom you know\nOf stuff'd-sufficiency: Now, from the Oracle\nThey will bring all, whose spirituall counsaile had\nShall stop, or spurre me. Haue I done well?\nLord. Well done (my Lord.)\nLeo. Though I am satisfide, and neede no more\nThen what I know, yet shall the Oracle\nGiue rest to th' mindes of others; such as he\nWhose ignorant credulitie, will not\nCome vp to th' truth. So haue we thought it good\nFrom our free person, she should be confinde,\nLeast that the treachery of the two, fled hence,\nBe left her to performe. Come follow vs,\nWe are to speake in publique: for this businesse\nWill raise vs all\nAntig. To laughter, as I take it,\nIf the good truth, were knowne.\nExeunt.\nScena Secunda.\nEnter Paulina, a Gentleman, Gaoler, Emilia.\nPaul. The Keeper of the prison, call to him:\nLet him haue knowledge who I am. Good Lady,\nNo Court in Europe is too good for thee,\nWhat dost thou then in prison? Now good Sir,\nYou know me, do you not?\nGao. For a worthy Lady,\nAnd one, who much I honour\nPau. Pray you then,\nConduct me to the Queene\nGao. I may not (Madam)\nTo the contrary I haue expresse commandment\nPau. Here's ado, to locke vp honesty & honour from\nTh' accesse of gentle visitors. Is't lawfull pray you\nTo see her Women? Any of them? Emilia?\nGao. So please you (Madam)\nTo put a-part these your attendants, I\nShall bring Emilia forth\nPau. I pray now call her:\nWith-draw your selues\nGao. And Madam,\nI must be present at your Conference\nPau. Well: be't so: prethee.\nHeere's such adoe, to make no staine, a staine,\nAs passes colouring. Deare Gentlewoman,\nHow fares our gracious Lady?\nEmil. As well as one so great, and so forlorne\nMay hold together: On her frights, and greefes\n(Which neuer tender Lady hath borne greater)\nShe is, something before her time, deliuer'd\nPau. A boy?\nEmil. A daughter, and a goodly babe,\nLusty, and like to liue: the Queene receiues\nMuch comfort in't: Sayes, my poore prisoner,\nI am innocent as you,\nPau. I dare be sworne:\nThese dangerous, vnsafe Lunes i'th' King, beshrew them:\nHe must be told on't, and he shall: the office\nBecomes a woman best. Ile take't vpon me,\nIf I proue hony-mouth'd, let my tongue blister.\nAnd neuer to my red-look'd Anger bee\nThe Trumpet any more: pray you (Emilia)\nCommend my best obedience to the Queene,\nIf she dares trust me with her little babe,\nI'le shew't the King, and vndertake to bee\nHer Aduocate to th' lowd'st. We do not know\nHow he may soften at the sight o'th' Childe:\nThe silence often of pure innocence\nPerswades, when speaking failes\nEmil. Most worthy Madam,\nYour honor, and your goodnesse is so euident,\nThat your free vndertaking cannot misse\nA thriuing yssue: there is no Lady liuing\nSo meete for this great errand; please your Ladiship\nTo visit the next roome, Ile presently\nAcquaint the Queene of your most noble offer,\nWho, but to day hammered of this designe,\nBut durst not tempt a minister of honour\nLeast she should be deny'd\nPaul. Tell her (Emilia)\nIle vse that tongue I haue: If wit flow from't\nAs boldnesse from my bosome, le't not be doubted\nI shall do good,\nEmil. Now be you blest for it.\nIle to the Queene: please you come something neerer\nGao. Madam, if't please the Queene to send the babe,\nI know not what I shall incurre, to passe it,\nHauing no warrant\nPau. You neede not feare it (sir)\nThis Childe was prisoner to the wombe, and is\nBy Law and processe of great Nature, thence\nFree'd, and enfranchis'd, not a partie to\nThe anger of the King, nor guilty of\n(If any be) the trespasse of the Queene\nGao. I do beleeue it\nPaul. Do not you feare: vpon mine honor, I\nWill stand betwixt you, and danger.\nExeunt.\nScaena Tertia.\nEnter Leontes, Seruants, Paulina, Antigonus, and Lords.\nLeo. Nor night, nor day, no rest: It is but weaknesse\nTo beare the matter thus: meere weaknesse, if\nThe cause were not in being: part o'th cause,\nShe, th' Adultresse: for the harlot-King\nIs quite beyond mine Arme, out of the blanke\nAnd leuell of my braine: plot-proofe: but shee,\nI can hooke to me: say that she were gone,\nGiuen to the fire, a moity of my rest\nMight come to me againe. Whose there?\nSer. My Lord\nLeo. How do's the boy?\nSer. He tooke good rest to night: 'tis hop'd\nHis sicknesse is discharg'd\nLeo. To see his Noblenesse,\nConceyuing the dishonour of his Mother.\nHe straight declin'd, droop'd, tooke it deeply,\nFasten'd, and fix'd the shame on't in himselfe:\nThrew-off his Spirit, his Appetite, his Sleepe,\nAnd down-right languish'd. Leaue me solely: goe,\nSee how he fares: Fie, fie, no thought of him,\nThe very thought of my Reuenges that way\nRecoyle vpon me: in himselfe too mightie,\nAnd in his parties, his Alliance; Let him be,\nVntill a time may serue. For present vengeance\nTake it on her: Camillo, and Polixenes\nLaugh at me: make their pastime at my sorrow:\nThey should not laugh, if I could reach them, nor\nShall she, within my powre.\nEnter Paulina.\nLord. You must not enter\nPaul. Nay rather (good my Lords) be second to me:\nFeare you his tyrannous passion more (alas)\nThen the Queenes life? A gracious innocent soule,\nMore free, then he is iealous\nAntig. That's enough\nSer. Madam; he hath not slept to night, commanded\nNone should come at him\nPau. Not so hot (good Sir)\nI come to bring him sleepe. 'Tis such as you\nThat creepe like shadowes by him, and do sighe\nAt each his needlesse heauings: such as you\nNourish the cause of his awaking. I\nDo come with words, as medicinall, as true;\n(Honest, as either;) to purge him of that humor,\nThat presses him from sleepe\nLeo. Who noyse there, hoe?\nPau. No noyse (my Lord) but needfull conference,\nAbout some Gossips for your Highnesse\nLeo. How?\nAway with that audacious Lady. Antigonus,\nI charg'd thee that she should not come about me,\nI knew she would\nAnt. I told her so (my Lord)\nOn your displeasures perill, and on mine,\nShe should not visit you\nLeo. What? canst not rule her?\nPaul. From all dishonestie he can: in this\n(Vnlesse he take the course that you haue done)\nCommit me, for committing honor, trust it,\nHe shall not rule me:\nAnt. La-you now, you heare,\nWhen she will take the raine, I let her run,\nBut shee'l not stumble\nPaul. Good my Liege, I come:\nAnd I beseech you heare me, who professes\nMy selfe your loyall Seruant, your Physitian,\nYour most obedient Counsailor: yet that dares\nLesse appeare so, in comforting your Euilles,\nThen such as most seeme yours. I say, I come\nFrom your good Queene\nLeo. Good Queene?\nPaul. Good Queene (my Lord) good Queene,\nI say good Queene,\nAnd would by combate, make her good so, were I\nA man, the worst about you\nLeo. Force her hence\nPau. Let him that makes but trifles of his eyes\nFirst hand me: on mine owne accord, Ile off,\nBut first, Ile do my errand. The good Queene\n(For she is good) hath brought you forth a daughter,\nHeere 'tis. Commends it to your blessing\nLeo. Out:\nA mankinde Witch? Hence with her, out o' dore:\nA most intelligencing bawd\nPaul. Not so:\nI am as ignorant in that, as you,\nIn so entit'ling me: and no lesse honest\nThen you are mad: which is enough, Ile warrant\n(As this world goes) to passe for honest:\nLeo. Traitors;\nWill you not push her out? Giue her the Bastard,\nThou dotard, thou art woman-tyr'd: vnroosted\nBy thy dame Partlet heere. Take vp the Bastard,\nTake't vp, I say: giue't to thy Croane\nPaul. For euer\nVnvenerable be thy hands, if thou\nTak'st vp the Princesse, by that forced basenesse\nWhich he ha's put vpon't\nLeo. He dreads his Wife\nPaul. So I would you did: then 'twere past all doubt\nYoul'd call your children, yours\nLeo. A nest of Traitors\nAnt. I am none, by this good light\nPau. Nor I: nor any\nBut one that's heere: and that's himselfe: for he,\nThe sacred Honor of himselfe, his Queenes,\nHis hopefull Sonnes, his Babes, betrayes to Slander,\nWhose sting is sharper then the Swords; and will not\n(For as the case now stands, it is a Curse\nHe cannot be compell'd too't) once remoue\nThe Root of his Opinion, which is rotten,\nAs euer Oake, or Stone was sound\nLeo. A Callat\nOf boundlesse tongue, who late hath beat her Husband,\nAnd now bayts me: This Brat is none of mine,\nIt is the Issue of Polixenes.\nHence with it, and together with the Dam,\nCommit them to the fire\nPaul. It is yours:\nAnd might we lay th' old Prouerb to your charge,\nSo like you, 'tis the worse. Behold (my Lords)\nAlthough the Print be little, the whole Matter\nAnd Coppy of the Father: (Eye, Nose, Lippe,\nThe trick of's Frowne, his Fore-head, nay, the Valley,\nThe pretty dimples of his Chin, and Cheeke; his Smiles:\nThe very Mold, and frame of Hand, Nayle, Finger.)\nAnd thou good Goddesse Nature, which hast made it\nSo like to him that got it, if thou hast\nThe ordering of the Mind too, 'mongst all Colours\nNo Yellow in't, least she suspect, as he do's,\nHer Children, not her Husbands\nLeo. A grosse Hagge:\nAnd Lozell, thou art worthy to be hang'd,\nThat wilt not stay her Tongue\nAntig. Hang all the Husbands\nThat cannot doe that Feat, you'le leaue your selfe\nHardly one Subiect\nLeo. Once more take her hence\nPaul. A most vnworthy, and vnnaturall Lord\nCan doe no more\nLeo. Ile ha' thee burnt\nPaul. I care not:\nIt is an Heretique that makes the fire,\nNot she which burnes in't. Ile not call you Tyrant:\nBut this most cruell vsage of your Queene\n(Not able to produce more accusation\nThen your owne weake-hindg'd Fancy) something sauors\nOf Tyrannie, and will ignoble make you,\nYea, scandalous to the World\nLeo. On your Allegeance,\nOut of the Chamber with her. Were I a Tyrant,\nWhere were her life? she durst not call me so,\nIf she did know me one. Away with her\nPaul. I pray you doe not push me, Ile be gone.\nLooke to your Babe (my Lord) 'tis yours: Ioue send her\nA better guiding Spirit. What needs these hands?\nYou that are thus so tender o're his Follyes,\nWill neuer doe him good, not one of you.\nSo, so: Farewell, we are gone.\nEnter.\nLeo. Thou (Traytor) hast set on thy Wife to this.\nMy Child? away with't? euen thou, that hast\nA heart so tender o're it, take it hence,\nAnd see it instantly consum'd with fire.\nEuen thou, and none but thou. Take it vp straight:\nWithin this houre bring me word 'tis done,\n(And by good testimonie) or Ile seize thy life,\nWith what thou else call'st thine: if thou refuse,\nAnd wilt encounter with my Wrath, say so;\nThe Bastard-braynes with these my proper hands\nShall I dash out. Goe, take it to the fire,\nFor thou sett'st on thy Wife\nAntig. I did not, Sir:\nThese Lords, my Noble Fellowes, if they please,\nCan cleare me in't\nLords. We can: my Royall Liege,\nHe is not guiltie of her comming hither\nLeo. You're lyers all\nLord. Beseech your Highnesse, giue vs better credit:\nWe haue alwayes truly seru'd you, and beseech'\nSo to esteeme of vs: and on our knees we begge,\n(As recompence of our deare seruices\nPast, and to come) that you doe change this purpose,\nWhich being so horrible, so bloody, must\nLead on to some foule Issue. We all kneele\nLeo. I am a Feather for each Wind that blows:\nShall I liue on, to see this Bastard kneele,\nAnd call me Father? better burne it now,\nThen curse it then. But be it: let it liue.\nIt shall not neyther. You Sir, come you hither:\nYou that haue beene so tenderly officious\nWith Lady Margerie, your Mid-wife there,\nTo saue this Bastards life; for 'tis a Bastard,\nSo sure as this Beard's gray. What will you aduenture,\nTo saue this Brats life?\nAntig. Any thing (my Lord)\nThat my abilitie may vndergoe,\nAnd Noblenesse impose: at least thus much;\nIle pawne the little blood which I haue left,\nTo saue the Innocent: any thing possible\nLeo. It shall be possible: Sweare by this Sword\nThou wilt performe my bidding\nAntig. I will (my Lord.)\nLeo. Marke, and performe it: seest thou? for the faile\nOf any point in't, shall not onely be\nDeath to thy selfe, but to thy lewd-tongu'd Wife,\n(Whom for this time we pardon) We enioyne thee,\nAs thou art Liege-man to vs, that thou carry\nThis female Bastard hence, and that thou beare it\nTo some remote and desart place, quite out\nOf our Dominions; and that there thou leaue it\n(Without more mercy) to it owne protection,\nAnd fauour of the Climate: as by strange fortune\nIt came to vs, I doe in Iustice charge thee,\nOn thy Soules perill, and thy Bodyes torture,\nThat thou commend it strangely to some place,\nWhere Chance may nurse, or end it: take it vp\nAntig. I sweare to doe this: though a present death\nHad beene more mercifull. Come on (poore Babe)\nSome powerfull Spirit instruct the Kytes and Rauens\nTo be thy Nurses. Wolues and Beares, they say,\n(Casting their sauagenesse aside) haue done\nLike offices of Pitty. Sir, be prosperous\nIn more then this deed do's require; and Blessing\nAgainst this Crueltie, fight on thy side\n(Poore Thing, condemn'd to losse.)\nEnter.\nLeo. No: Ile not reare\nAnothers Issue.\nEnter a Seruant.\nSeru. Please' your Highnesse, Posts\nFrom those you sent to th' Oracle, are come\nAn houre since: Cleomines and Dion,\nBeing well arriu'd from Delphos, are both landed,\nHasting to th' Court\nLord. So please you (Sir) their speed\nHath beene beyond accompt\nLeo. Twentie three dayes\nThey haue beene absent: 'tis good speed: fore-tells\nThe great Apollo suddenly will haue\nThe truth of this appeare: Prepare you Lords,\nSummon a Session, that we may arraigne\nOur most disloyall Lady: for as she hath\nBeen publikely accus'd, so shall she haue\nA iust and open Triall. While she liues,\nMy heart will be a burthen to me. Leaue me,\nAnd thinke vpon my bidding.\nExeunt.\nActus Tertius. Scena Prima.\nEnter Cleomines and Dion.\nCleo. The Clymat's delicate, the Ayre most sweet,\nFertile the Isle, the Temple much surpassing\nThe common prayse it beares\nDion. I shall report,\nFor most it caught me, the Celestiall Habits,\n(Me thinkes I so should terme them) and the reuerence\nOf the graue Wearers. O, the Sacrifice,\nHow ceremonious, solemne, and vn-earthly\nIt was i'th' Offring?\nCleo. But of all, the burst\nAnd the eare-deaff'ning Voyce o'th' Oracle,\nKin to Ioues Thunder, so surpriz'd my Sence,\nThat I was nothing\nDio. If th' euent o'th' Iourney\nProue as successefull to the Queene (O be't so)\nAs it hath beene to vs, rare, pleasant, speedie,\nThe time is worth the vse on't\nCleo. Great Apollo\nTurne all to th' best: these Proclamations,\nSo forcing faults vpon Hermione,\nI little like\nDio. The violent carriage of it\nWill cleare, or end the Businesse, when the Oracle\n(Thus by Apollo's great Diuine seal'd vp)\nShall the Contents discouer: something rare\nEuen then will rush to knowledge. Goe: fresh Horses,\nAnd gracious be the issue.\nExeunt.\nScoena Secunda.\nEnter Leontes, Lords, Officers: Hermione (as to her Triall) Ladies:\nCleomines, Dion.\nLeo. This Sessions (to our great griefe we pronounce)\nEuen pushes 'gainst our heart. The partie try'd,\nThe Daughter of a King, our Wife, and one\nOf vs too much belou'd. Let vs be clear'd\nOf being tyrannous, since we so openly\nProceed in Iustice, which shall haue due course,\nEuen to the Guilt, or the Purgation:\nProduce the Prisoner\nOfficer. It is his Highnesse pleasure, that the Queene\nAppeare in person, here in Court. Silence\nLeo. Reade the Indictment\nOfficer. Hermione, Queene to the worthy Leontes, King\nof Sicilia, thou art here accused and arraigned of High Treason,\nin committing Adultery with Polixenes King of Bohemia,\nand conspiring with Camillo to take away the Life of our\nSoueraigne\nLord the King, thy Royall Husband: the pretence whereof\nbeing by circumstances partly layd open, thou (Hermione) contrary\nto the Faith and Allegeance of a true Subiect, didst counsaile\nand ayde them, for their better safetie, to flye away by\nNight\nHer. Since what I am to say, must be but that\nWhich contradicts my Accusation, and\nThe testimonie on my part, no other\nBut what comes from my selfe, it shall scarce boot me\nTo say, Not guiltie: mine Integritie\nBeing counted Falsehood, shall (as I expresse it)\nBe so receiu'd. But thus, if Powres Diuine\nBehold our humane Actions (as they doe)\nI doubt not then, but Innocence shall make\nFalse Accusation blush, and Tyrannie\nTremble at Patience. You (my Lord) best know\n(Whom least will seeme to doe so) my past life\nHath beene as continent, as chaste, as true,\nAs I am now vnhappy; which is more\nThen Historie can patterne, though deuis'd,\nAnd play'd, to take Spectators. For behold me,\nA Fellow of the Royall Bed, which owe\nA Moitie of the Throne: a great Kings Daughter,\nThe Mother to a hopefull Prince, here standing\nTo prate and talke for Life, and Honor, fore\nWho please to come, and heare. For Life, I prize it\nAs I weigh Griefe (which I would spare:) For Honor,\n'Tis a deriuatiue from me to mine,\nAnd onely that I stand for. I appeale\nTo your owne Conscience (Sir) before Polixenes\nCame to your Court, how I was in your grace,\nHow merited to be so: Since he came,\nWith what encounter so vncurrant, I\nHaue strayn'd t' appeare thus; if one iot beyond\nThe bound of Honor, or in act, or will\nThat way enclining, hardned be the hearts\nOf all that heare me, and my neer'st of Kin\nCry fie vpon my Graue\nLeo. I ne're heard yet,\nThat any of these bolder Vices wanted\nLesse Impudence to gaine-say what they did,\nThen to performe it first\nHer. That's true enough,\nThough 'tis a saying (Sir) not due to me\nLeo. You will not owne it\nHer. More then Mistresse of,\nWhich comes to me in name of Fault, I must not\nAt all acknowledge. For Polixenes\n(With whom I am accus'd) I doe confesse\nI lou'd him, as in Honor he requir'd:\nWith such a kind of Loue, as might become\nA Lady like me; with a Loue, euen such,\nSo, and no other, as your selfe commanded:\nWhich, not to haue done, I thinke had been in me\nBoth Disobedience, and Ingratitude\nTo you, and toward your Friend, whose Loue had spoke,\nEuen since it could speake, from an Infant, freely,\nThat it was yours. Now for Conspiracie,\nI know not how it tastes, though it be dish'd\nFor me to try how: All I know of it,\nIs, that Camillo was an honest man;\nAnd why he left your Court, the Gods themselues\n(Wotting no more then I) are ignorant\nLeo. You knew of his departure, as you know\nWhat you haue vnderta'ne to doe in's absence\nHer. Sir,\nYou speake a Language that I vnderstand not:\nMy Life stands in the leuell of your Dreames,\nWhich Ile lay downe\nLeo. Your Actions are my Dreames.\nYou had a Bastard by Polixenes,\nAnd I but dream'd it: As you were past all shame,\n(Those of your Fact are so) so past all truth;\nWhich to deny, concernes more then auailes: for as\nThy Brat hath been cast out, like to it selfe,\nNo Father owning it (which is indeed\nMore criminall in thee, then it) so thou\nShalt feele our Iustice; in whose easiest passage,\nLooke for no lesse then death\nHer. Sir, spare your Threats:\nThe Bugge which you would fright me with, I seeke:\nTo me can Life be no commoditie;\nThe crowne and comfort of my Life (your Fauor)\nI doe giue lost, for I doe feele it gone,\nBut know not how it went. My second Ioy,\nAnd first Fruits of my body, from his presence\nI am bar'd, like one infectious. My third comfort\n(Star'd most vnluckily) is from my breast\n(The innocent milke in it most innocent mouth)\nHal'd out to murther. My selfe on euery Post\nProclaym'd a Strumpet: With immodest hatred\nThe Child-bed priuiledge deny'd, which longs\nTo Women of all fashion. Lastly, hurried\nHere, to this place, i'th' open ayre, before\nI haue got strength of limit. Now (my Liege)\nTell me what blessings I haue here aliue,\nThat I should feare to die? Therefore proceed:\nBut yet heare this: mistake me not: no Life,\n(I prize it not a straw) but for mine Honor,\nWhich I would free: if I shall be condemn'd\nVpon surmizes (all proofes sleeping else,\nBut what your Iealousies awake) I tell you\n'Tis Rigor, and not Law. Your Honors all,\nI doe referre me to the Oracle:\nApollo be my Iudge\nLord. This your request\nIs altogether iust: therefore bring forth\n(And in Apollo's Name) his Oracle\nHer. The Emperor of Russia was my Father.\nOh that he were aliue, and here beholding\nHis Daughters Tryall: that he did but see\nThe flatnesse of my miserie; yet with eyes\nOf Pitty, not Reuenge\nOfficer. You here shal sweare vpon this Sword of Iustice,\nThat you (Cleomines and Dion) haue\nBeen both at Delphos, and from thence haue brought\nThis seal'd-vp Oracle, by the Hand deliuer'd\nOf great Apollo's Priest; and that since then,\nYou haue not dar'd to breake the holy Seale,\nNor read the Secrets in't\nCleo. Dio. All this we sweare\nLeo. Breake vp the Seales, and read\nOfficer. Hermione is chast, Polixenes blamelesse, Camillo\na true Subiect, Leontes a iealous Tyrant, his innocent Babe\ntruly begotten, and the King shall liue without an Heire, if that\nwhich is lost, be not found\nLords. Now blessed be the great Apollo\nHer. Praysed\nLeo. Hast thou read truth?\nOffic. I (my Lord) euen so as it is here set downe\nLeo. There is no truth at all i'th' Oracle:\nThe Sessions shall proceed: this is meere falsehood\nSer. My Lord the King: the King?\nLeo. What is the businesse?\nSer. O Sir, I shall be hated to report it.\nThe Prince your Sonne, with meere conceit, and feare\nOf the Queenes speed, is gone\nLeo. How? gone?\nSer. Is dead\nLeo. Apollo's angry, and the Heauens themselues\nDoe strike at my Iniustice. How now there?\nPaul. This newes is mortall to the Queene: Look downe\nAnd see what Death is doing\nLeo. Take her hence:\nHer heart is but o're-charg'd: she will recouer.\nI haue too much beleeu'd mine owne suspition:\n'Beseech you tenderly apply to her\nSome remedies for life. Apollo pardon\nMy great prophanenesse 'gainst thine Oracle.\nIle reconcile me to Polixenes,\nNew woe my Queene, recall the good Camillo\n(Whom I proclaime a man of Truth, of Mercy:)\nFor being transported by my Iealousies\nTo bloody thoughts, and to reuenge, I chose\nCamillo for the minister, to poyson\nMy friend Polixenes: which had been done,\nBut that the good mind of Camillo tardied\nMy swift command: though I with Death, and with\nReward, did threaten and encourage him,\nNot doing it, and being done: he (most humane,\nAnd fill'd with Honor) to my Kingly Guest\nVnclasp'd my practise, quit his fortunes here\n(Which you knew great) and to the hazard\nOf all Incertainties, himselfe commended,\nNo richer then his Honor: How he glisters\nThrough my Rust? and how his Pietie\nDo's my deeds make the blacker?\nPaul. Woe the while:\nO cut my Lace, least my heart (cracking it)\nBreake too\nLord. What fit is this? good Lady?\nPaul. What studied torments (Tyrant) hast for me?\nWhat Wheeles? Racks? Fires? What flaying? boyling?\nIn Leads, or Oyles? What old, or newer Torture\nMust I receiue? whose euery word deserues\nTo taste of thy most worst. Thy Tyranny\n(Together working with thy Iealousies,\nFancies too weake for Boyes, too greene and idle\nFor Girles of Nine) O thinke what they haue done,\nAnd then run mad indeed: starke-mad: for all\nThy by-gone fooleries were but spices of it.\nThat thou betrayed'st Polixenes, 'twas nothing,\n(That did but shew thee, of a Foole, inconstant,\nAnd damnable ingratefull:) Nor was't much.\nThou would'st haue poyson'd good Camillo's Honor,\nTo haue him kill a King: poore Trespasses,\nMore monstrous standing by: whereof I reckon\nThe casting forth to Crowes, thy Baby-daughter,\nTo be or none, or little; though a Deuill\nWould haue shed water out of fire, ere don't;\nNor is't directly layd to thee, the death\nOf the young Prince, whose honorable thoughts\n(Thoughts high for one so tender) cleft the heart\nThat could conceiue a grosse and foolish Sire\nBlemish'd his gracious Dam: this is not, no,\nLayd to thy answere: but the last: O Lords,\nWhen I haue said, cry woe: the Queene, the Queene,\nThe sweet'st, deer'st creature's dead: & vengeance for't\nNot drop'd downe yet\nLord. The higher powres forbid\nPau. I say she's dead: Ile swear't. If word, nor oath\nPreuaile not, go and see: if you can bring\nTincture, or lustre in her lip, her eye\nHeate outwardly, or breath within, Ile serue you\nAs I would do the Gods. But, O thou Tyrant,\nDo not repent these things, for they are heauier\nThen all thy woes can stirre: therefore betake thee\nTo nothing but dispaire. A thousand knees,\nTen thousand yeares together, naked, fasting,\nVpon a barren Mountaine, and still Winter\nIn storme perpetuall, could not moue the Gods\nTo looke that way thou wer't\nLeo. Go on, go on:\nThou canst not speake too much, I haue deseru'd\nAll tongues to talke their bittrest\nLord. Say no more;\nHow ere the businesse goes, you haue made fault\nI'th boldnesse of your speech\nPau. I am sorry for't;\nAll faults I make, when I shall come to know them,\nI do repent: Alas, I haue shew'd too much\nThe rashnesse of a woman: he is toucht\nTo th' Noble heart. What's gone, and what's past helpe\nShould be past greefe: Do not receiue affliction\nAt my petition; I beseech you, rather\nLet me be punish'd, that haue minded you\nOf what you should forget. Now (good my Liege)\nSir, Royall Sir, forgiue a foolish woman:\nThe loue I bore your Queene (Lo, foole againe)\nIle speake of her no more, nor of your Children:\nIle not remember you of my owne Lord,\n(Who is lost too:) take your patience to you,\nAnd Ile say nothing\nLeo. Thou didst speake but well,\nWhen most the truth: which I receyue much better,\nThen to be pittied of thee. Prethee bring me\nTo the dead bodies of my Queene, and Sonne,\nOne graue shall be for both: Vpon them shall\nThe causes of their death appeare (vnto\nOur shame perpetuall) once a day, Ile visit\nThe Chappell where they lye, and teares shed there\nShall be my recreation. So long as Nature\nWill beare vp with this exercise, so long\nI dayly vow to vse it. Come, and leade me\nTo these sorrowes.\nExeunt.\nScaena Tertia.\nEnter Antigonus, a Marriner, Babe, Sheepeheard, and Clowne.\nAnt. Thou art perfect then, our ship hath toucht vpon\nThe Desarts of Bohemia\nMar. I (my Lord) and feare\nWe haue Landed in ill time: the skies looke grimly,\nAnd threaten present blusters. In my conscience\nThe heauens with that we haue in hand, are angry,\nAnd frowne vpon's\nAnt. Their sacred wil's be done: go get a-boord,\nLooke to thy barke, Ile not be long before\nI call vpon thee\nMar. Make your best haste, and go not\nToo-farre i'th Land: 'tis like to be lowd weather,\nBesides this place is famous for the Creatures\nOf prey, that keepe vpon't\nAntig. Go thou away,\nIle follow instantly\nMar. I am glad at heart\nTo be so ridde o'th businesse.\nExit\nAnt. Come, poore babe;\nI haue heard (but not beleeu'd) the Spirits o'th' dead\nMay walke againe: if such thing be, thy Mother\nAppear'd to me last night: for ne're was dreame\nSo like a waking. To me comes a creature,\nSometimes her head on one side, some another,\nI neuer saw a vessell of like sorrow\nSo fill'd, and so becomming: in pure white Robes\nLike very sanctity she did approach\nMy Cabine where I lay: thrice bow'd before me,\nAnd (gasping to begin some speech) her eyes\nBecame two spouts; the furie spent, anon\nDid this breake from her. Good Antigonus,\nSince Fate (against thy better disposition)\nHath made thy person for the Thrower-out\nOf my poore babe, according to thine oath,\nPlaces remote enough are in Bohemia,\nThere weepe, and leaue it crying: and for the babe\nIs counted lost for euer, Perdita\nI prethee call't: For this vngentle businesse\nPut on thee, by my Lord, thou ne're shalt see\nThy Wife Paulina more: and so, with shriekes\nShe melted into Ayre. Affrighted much,\nI did in time collect my selfe, and thought\nThis was so, and no slumber: Dreames, are toyes,\nYet for this once, yea superstitiously,\nI will be squar'd by this. I do beleeue\nHermione hath suffer'd death, and that\nApollo would (this being indeede the issue\nOf King Polixenes) it should heere be laide\n(Either for life, or death) vpon the earth\nOf it's right Father. Blossome, speed thee well,\nThere lye, and there thy charracter: there these,\nWhich may if Fortune please, both breed thee (pretty)\nAnd still rest thine. The storme beginnes, poore wretch,\nThat for thy mothers fault, art thus expos'd\nTo losse, and what may follow. Weepe I cannot,\nBut my heart bleedes: and most accurst am I\nTo be by oath enioyn'd to this. Farewell,\nThe day frownes more and more: thou'rt like to haue\nA lullabie too rough: I neuer saw\nThe heauens so dim, by day. A sauage clamor?\nWell may I get a-boord: This is the Chace,\nI am gone for euer.\nExit pursued by a Beare.\nShep. I would there were no age betweene ten and\nthree and twenty, or that youth would sleep out the rest:\nfor there is nothing (in the betweene) but getting wenches\nwith childe, wronging the Auncientry, stealing,\nfighting, hearke you now: would any but these boyldebraines\nof nineteene, and two and twenty hunt this weather?\nThey haue scarr'd away two of my best Sheepe,\nwhich I feare the Wolfe will sooner finde then the Maister;\nif any where I haue them, 'tis by the sea-side, brouzing\nof Iuy. Good-lucke (and't be thy will) what haue\nwe heere? Mercy on's, a Barne? A very pretty barne; A\nboy, or a Childe I wonder? (A pretty one, a verie prettie\none) sure some Scape; Though I am not bookish, yet I\ncan reade Waiting-Gentlewoman in the scape: this has\nbeene some staire-worke, some Trunke-worke, some\nbehinde-doore\nworke: they were warmer that got this,\nthen the poore Thing is heere. Ile take it vp for pity, yet\nIle tarry till my sonne come: he hallow'd but euen now.\nWhoa-ho-hoa.\nEnter Clowne.\nClo. Hilloa, loa\nShep. What? art so neere? If thou'lt see a thing to\ntalke on, when thou art dead and rotten, come hither:\nwhat ayl'st thou, man?\nClo. I haue seene two such sights, by Sea & by Land:\nbut I am not to say it is a Sea, for it is now the skie, betwixt\nthe Firmament and it, you cannot thrust a bodkins\npoint\nShep. Why boy, how is it?\nClo. I would you did but see how it chafes, how it rages,\nhow it takes vp the shore, but that's not to the point:\nOh, the most pitteous cry of the poore soules, sometimes\nto see 'em, and not to see 'em: Now the Shippe boaring\nthe Moone with her maine Mast, and anon swallowed\nwith yest and froth, as you'ld thrust a Corke into a hogshead.\nAnd then for the Land-seruice, to see how the\nBeare tore out his shoulder-bone, how he cride to mee\nfor helpe, and said his name was Antigonus, a Nobleman:\nBut to make an end of the Ship, to see how the Sea flapdragon'd\nit: but first, how the poore soules roared, and\nthe sea mock'd them: and how the poore Gentleman roared,\nand the Beare mock'd him, both roaring lowder\nthen the sea, or weather\nShep. Name of mercy, when was this boy?\nClo. Now, now: I haue not wink'd since I saw these\nsights: the men are not yet cold vnder water, nor the\nBeare halfe din'd on the Gentleman: he's at it now\nShep. Would I had bin by, to haue help'd the olde\nman\nClo. I would you had beene by the ship side, to haue\nhelp'd her; there your charity would haue lack'd footing\nShep. Heauy matters, heauy matters: but looke thee\nheere boy. Now blesse thy selfe: thou met'st with things\ndying, I with things new borne. Here's a sight for thee:\nLooke thee, a bearing-cloath for a Squires childe: looke\nthee heere, take vp, take vp (Boy:) open't: so, let's see, it\nwas told me I should be rich by the Fairies. This is some\nChangeling: open't: what's within, boy?\nClo. You're a mad olde man: If the sinnes of your\nyouth are forgiuen you, you're well to liue. Golde, all\nGold\nShep. This is Faiery Gold boy, and 'twill proue so: vp\nwith't, keepe it close: home, home, the next way. We\nare luckie (boy) and to bee so still requires nothing but\nsecrecie. Let my sheepe go: Come (good boy) the next\nway home\nClo. Go you the next way with your Findings, Ile go\nsee if the Beare bee gone from the Gentleman, and how\nmuch he hath eaten: they are neuer curst but when they\nare hungry: if there be any of him left, Ile bury it\nShep. That's a good deed: if thou mayest discerne by\nthat which is left of him, what he is, fetch me to th' sight\nof him\nClowne. 'Marry will I: and you shall helpe to put him\ni'th' ground\nShep. 'Tis a lucky day, boy, and wee'l do good deeds\non't.\nExeunt.\nActus Quartus. Scena Prima.\nEnter Time, the Chorus.\nTime. I that please some, try all: both ioy and terror\nOf good, and bad: that makes, and vnfolds error,\nNow take vpon me (in the name of Time)\nTo vse my wings: Impute it not a crime\nTo me, or my swift passage, that I slide\nOre sixteene yeeres, and leaue the growth vntride\nOf that wide gap, since it is in my powre\nTo orethrow Law, and in one selfe-borne howre\nTo plant, and orewhelme Custome. Let me passe\nThe same I am, ere ancient'st Order was,\nOr what is now receiu'd. I witnesse to\nThe times that brought them in, so shall I do\nTo th' freshest things now reigning, and make stale\nThe glistering of this present, as my Tale\nNow seemes to it: your patience this allowing,\nI turne my glasse, and giue my Scene such growing\nAs you had slept betweene: Leontes leauing\nTh' effects of his fond iealousies, so greeuing\nThat he shuts vp himselfe. Imagine me\n(Gentle Spectators) that I now may be\nIn faire Bohemia, and remember well,\nI mentioned a sonne o'th' Kings, which Florizell\nI now name to you: and with speed so pace\nTo speake of Perdita, now growne in grace\nEquall with wond'ring. What of her insues\nI list not prophesie: but let Times newes\nBe knowne when 'tis brought forth. A shepherds daughter\nAnd what to her adheres, which followes after,\nIs th' argument of Time: of this allow,\nIf euer you haue spent time worse, ere now:\nIf neuer, yet that Time himselfe doth say,\nHe wishes earnestly, you neuer may.\nEnter.\nScena Secunda.\nEnter Polixenes, and Camillo.\nPol. I pray thee (good Camillo) be no more importunate:\n'tis a sicknesse denying thee any thing: a death to\ngrant this\nCam. It is fifteene yeeres since I saw my Countrey:\nthough I haue (for the most part) bin ayred abroad, I desire\nto lay my bones there. Besides, the penitent King\n(my Master) hath sent for me, to whose feeling sorrowes\nI might be some allay, or I oreweene to thinke so) which\nis another spurre to my departure\nPol. As thou lou'st me (Camillo) wipe not out the rest\nof thy seruices, by leauing me now: the neede I haue of\nthee, thine owne goodnesse hath made: better not to\nhaue had thee, then thus to want thee, thou hauing made\nme Businesses, (which none (without thee) can sufficiently\nmanage) must either stay to execute them thy selfe,\nor take away with thee the very seruices thou hast done:\nwhich if I haue not enough considered (as too much I\ncannot) to bee more thankefull to thee, shall bee my studie,\nand my profite therein, the heaping friendshippes.\nOf that fatall Countrey Sicillia, prethee speake no more,\nwhose very naming, punnishes me with the remembrance\nof that penitent (as thou calst him) and reconciled King\nmy brother, whose losse of his most precious Queene &\nChildren, are euen now to be a-fresh lamented. Say to\nme, when saw'st thou the Prince Florizell my son? Kings\nare no lesse vnhappy, their issue, not being gracious, then\nthey are in loosing them, when they haue approued their\nVertues\nCam. Sir, it is three dayes since I saw the Prince: what\nhis happier affayres may be, are to me vnknowne: but I\nhaue (missingly) noted, he is of late much retyred from\nCourt, and is lesse frequent to his Princely exercises then\nformerly he hath appeared\nPol. I haue considered so much (Camillo) and with\nsome care, so farre, that I haue eyes vnder my seruice,\nwhich looke vpon his remouednesse: from whom I haue\nthis Intelligence, that he is seldome from the house of a\nmost homely shepheard: a man (they say) that from very\nnothing, and beyond the imagination of his neighbors,\nis growne into an vnspeakable estate\nCam. I haue heard (sir) of such a man, who hath a\ndaughter of most rare note: the report of her is extended\nmore, then can be thought to begin from such a cottage\nPol. That's likewise part of my Intelligence: but (I\nfeare) the Angle that pluckes our sonne thither. Thou\nshalt accompany vs to the place, where we will (not appearing\nwhat we are) haue some question with the shepheard;\nfrom whose simplicity, I thinke it not vneasie to\nget the cause of my sonnes resort thether. 'Prethe be my\npresent partner in this busines, and lay aside the thoughts\nof Sicillia\nCam. I willingly obey your command\nPol. My best Camillo, we must disguise our selues.\nExit\nScena Tertia.\nEnter Autolicus singing\nWhen Daffadils begin to peere,\nWith heigh the Doxy ouer the dale,\nWhy then comes in the sweet o'the yeere,\nFor the red blood raigns in y winters pale.\nThe white sheete bleaching on the hedge,\nWith hey the sweet birds, O how they sing:\nDoth set my pugging tooth an edge,\nFor a quart of Ale is a dish for a King.\nThe Larke, that tirra Lyra chaunts,\nWith heigh, the Thrush and the Iay:\nAre Summer songs for me and my Aunts\nWhile we lye tumbling in the hay.\nI haue seru'd Prince Florizell, and in my time wore three\npile, but now I am out of seruice.\nBut shall I go mourne for that (my deere)\nthe pale Moone shines by night:\nAnd when I wander here, and there\nI then do most go right.\nIf Tinkers may haue leaue to liue,\nand beare the Sow-skin Bowget,\nThen my account I well may giue,\nand in the Stockes auouch-it.\nMy Trafficke is sheetes: when the Kite builds, looke to\nlesser Linnen. My Father nam'd me Autolicus, who being\n(as I am) lytter'd vnder Mercurie, was likewise a\nsnapper-vp of vnconsidered trifles: With Dye and drab,\nI purchas'd this Caparison, and my Reuennew is the silly\nCheate. Gallowes, and Knocke, are too powerfull on\nthe Highway. Beating and hanging are terrors to mee:\nFor the life to come, I sleepe out the thought of it. A\nprize, a prize.\nEnter Clowne.\nClo. Let me see, euery Leauen-weather toddes, euery\ntod yeeldes pound and odde shilling: fifteene hundred\nshorne, what comes the wooll too?\nAut. If the sprindge hold, the Cocke's mine\nClo. I cannot do't without Compters. Let mee see,\nwhat am I to buy for our Sheepe-shearing-Feast? Three\npound of Sugar, fiue pound of Currence, Rice: What\nwill this sister of mine do with Rice? But my father hath\nmade her Mistris of the Feast, and she layes it on. Shee\nhath made-me four and twenty Nose-gayes for the shearers\n(three-man song-men, all, and very good ones) but\nthey are most of them Meanes and Bases; but one Puritan\namongst them, and he sings Psalmes to horne-pipes.\nI must haue Saffron to colour the Warden Pies, Mace:\nDates, none: that's out of my note: Nutmegges, seuen;\na Race or two of Ginger, but that I may begge: Foure\npound of Prewyns, and as many of Reysons o'th Sun\nAut. Oh, that euer I was borne\nClo. I'th' name of me\nAut. Oh helpe me, helpe mee: plucke but off these\nragges: and then, death, death\nClo. Alacke poore soule, thou hast need of more rags\nto lay on thee, rather then haue these off\nAut. Oh sir, the loathsomnesse of them offend mee,\nmore then the stripes I haue receiued, which are mightie\nones and millions\nClo. Alas poore man, a million of beating may come\nto a great matter\nAut. I am rob'd sir, and beaten: my money, and apparrell\ntane from me, and these detestable things put vpon\nme\nClo. What, by a horse-man, or a foot-man?\nAut. A footman (sweet sir) a footman\nClo. Indeed, he should be a footman, by the garments\nhe has left with thee: If this bee a horsemans Coate, it\nhath seene very hot seruice. Lend me thy hand, Ile helpe\nthee. Come, lend me thy hand\nAut. Oh good sir, tenderly, oh\nClo. Alas poore soule\nAut. Oh good sir, softly, good sir: I feare (sir) my\nshoulder-blade is out\nClo. How now? Canst stand?\nAut. Softly, deere sir: good sir, softly: you ha done\nme a charitable office\nClo. Doest lacke any mony? I haue a little mony for\nthee\nAut. No, good sweet sir: no, I beseech you sir: I haue\na Kinsman not past three quarters of a mile hence, vnto\nwhome I was going: I shall there haue money, or anie\nthing I want: Offer me no money I pray you, that killes\nmy heart\nClow. What manner of Fellow was hee that robb'd\nyou?\nAut. A fellow (sir) that I haue knowne to goe about\nwith Troll-my-dames: I knew him once a seruant of the\nPrince: I cannot tell good sir, for which of his Vertues\nit was, but hee was certainely Whipt out of the\nCourt\nClo. His vices you would say: there's no vertue whipt\nout of the Court: they cherish it to make it stay there;\nand yet it will no more but abide\nAut. Vices I would say (Sir.) I know this man well,\nhe hath bene since an Ape-bearer, then a Processe-seruer\n(a Bayliffe) then hee compast a Motion of the Prodigall\nsonne, and married a Tinkers wife, within a Mile where\nmy Land and Liuing lyes; and (hauing flowne ouer many\nknauish professions) he setled onely in Rogue: some\ncall him Autolicus\nClo. Out vpon him: Prig, for my life Prig: he haunts\nWakes, Faires, and Beare-baitings\nAut. Very true sir: he sir hee: that's the Rogue that\nput me into this apparrell\nClo. Not a more cowardly Rogue in all Bohemia; If\nyou had but look'd bigge, and spit at him, hee'ld haue\nrunne\nAut. I must confesse to you (sir) I am no fighter: I am\nfalse of heart that way, & that he knew I warrant him\nClo. How do you now?\nAut. Sweet sir, much better then I was: I can stand,\nand walke: I will euen take my leaue of you, & pace softly\ntowards my Kinsmans\nClo. Shall I bring thee on the way?\nAut. No, good fac'd sir, no sweet sir\nClo. Then fartheewell, I must go buy Spices for our\nsheepe-shearing.\nEnter.\nAut. Prosper you sweet sir. Your purse is not hot enough\nto purchase your Spice: Ile be with you at your\nsheepe-shearing too: If I make not this Cheat bring out\nanother, and the sheerers proue sheepe, let me be vnrold,\nand my name put in the booke of Vertue.\nSong. Iog-on, Iog-on, the foot-path way,\nAnd merrily hent the Stile-a:\nA merry heart goes all the day,\nYour sad tyres in a Mile-a.\nEnter.\nScena Quarta.\nEnter Florizell, Perdita, Shepherd, Clowne, Polixenes, Camillo,\nMopsa,\nDorcas, Seruants, Autolicus.\nFlo. These your vnvsuall weeds, to each part of you\nDo's giue a life: no Shepherdesse, but Flora\nPeering in Aprils front. This your sheepe-shearing,\nIs as a meeting of the petty Gods,\nAnd you the Queene on't\nPerd. Sir: my gracious Lord,\nTo chide at your extreames, it not becomes me:\n(Oh pardon, that I name them:) your high selfe\nThe gracious marke o'th' Land, you haue obscur'd\nWith a Swaines wearing: and me (poore lowly Maide)\nMost Goddesse-like prank'd vp: But that our Feasts\nIn euery Messe, haue folly; and the Feeders\nDigest with a Custome, I should blush\nTo see you so attyr'd: sworne I thinke,\nTo shew my selfe a glasse\nFlo. I blesse the time\nWhen my good Falcon, made her flight a-crosse\nThy Fathers ground\nPerd. Now Ioue affoord you cause:\nTo me the difference forges dread (your Greatnesse\nHath not beene vs'd to feare:) euen now I tremble\nTo thinke your Father, by some accident\nShould passe this way, as you did: Oh the Fates,\nHow would he looke, to see his worke, so noble,\nVildely bound vp? What would he say? Or how\nShould I (in these my borrowed Flaunts) behold\nThe sternnesse of his presence?\nFlo. Apprehend\nNothing but iollity: the Goddes themselues\n(Humbling their Deities to loue) haue taken\nThe shapes of Beasts vpon them. Iupiter,\nBecame a Bull, and bellow'd: the greene Neptune\nA Ram, and bleated: and the Fire-roab'd-God\nGolden Apollo, a poore humble Swaine,\nAs I seeme now. Their transformations,\nWere neuer for a peece of beauty, rarer,\nNor in a way so chaste: since my desires\nRun not before mine honor: nor my Lusts\nBurne hotter then my Faith\nPerd. O but Sir,\nYour resolution cannot hold, when 'tis\nOppos'd (as it must be) by th' powre of the King:\nOne of these two must be necessities,\nWhich then will speake, that you must change this purpose,\nOr I my life\nFlo. Thou deer'st Perdita,\nWith these forc'd thoughts, I prethee darken not\nThe Mirth o'th' Feast: Or Ile be thine (my Faire)\nOr not my Fathers. For I cannot be\nMine owne, nor any thing to any, if\nI be not thine. To this I am most constant,\nThough destiny say no. Be merry (Gentle)\nStrangle such thoughts as these, with any thing\nThat you behold the while. Your guests are comming:\nLift vp your countenance, as it were the day\nOf celebration of that nuptiall, which\nWe two haue sworne shall come\nPerd. O Lady Fortune,\nStand you auspicious\nFlo. See, your Guests approach,\nAddresse your selfe to entertaine them sprightly,\nAnd let's be red with mirth\nShep. Fy (daughter) when my old wife liu'd: vpon\nThis day, she was both Pantler, Butler, Cooke,\nBoth Dame and Seruant: Welcom'd all: seru'd all,\nWould sing her song, and dance her turne: now heere\nAt vpper end o'th Table; now, i'th middle:\nOn his shoulder, and his: her face o' fire\nWith labour, and the thing she tooke to quench it\nShe would to each one sip. You are retyred,\nAs if you were a feasted one: and not\nThe Hostesse of the meeting: Pray you bid\nThese vnknowne friends to's welcome, for it is\nA way to make vs better Friends, more knowne.\nCome, quench your blushes, and present your selfe\nThat which you are, Mistris o'th' Feast. Come on,\nAnd bid vs welcome to your sheepe-shearing,\nAs your good flocke shall prosper\nPerd. Sir, welcome:\nIt is my Fathers will, I should take on mee\nThe Hostesseship o'th' day: you're welcome sir.\nGiue me those Flowres there (Dorcas.) Reuerend Sirs,\nFor you, there's Rosemary, and Rue, these keepe\nSeeming, and sauour all the Winter long:\nGrace, and Remembrance be to you both,\nAnd welcome to our Shearing\nPol. Shepherdesse,\n(A faire one are you:) well you fit our ages\nWith flowres of Winter\nPerd. Sir, the yeare growing ancient,\nNot yet on summers death, nor on the birth\nOf trembling winter, the fayrest flowres o'th season\nAre our Carnations, and streak'd Gilly-vors,\n(Which some call Natures bastards) of that kind\nOur rusticke Gardens barren, and I care not\nTo get slips of them\nPol. Wherefore (gentle Maiden)\nDo you neglect them\nPerd. For I haue heard it said,\nThere is an Art, which in their pidenesse shares\nWith great creating-Nature\nPol. Say there be:\nYet Nature is made better by no meane,\nBut Nature makes that Meane: so ouer that Art,\n(Which you say addes to Nature) is an Art\nThat Nature makes: you see (sweet Maid) we marry\nA gentler Sien, to the wildest Stocke,\nAnd make conceyue a barke of baser kinde\nBy bud of Nobler race. This is an Art\nWhich do's mend Nature: change it rather, but\nThe Art it selfe, is Nature\nPerd. So it is\nPol. Then make you Garden rich in Gilly' vors,\nAnd do not call them bastards\nPerd. Ile not put\nThe Dible in earth, to set one slip of them:\nNo more then were I painted, I would wish\nThis youth should say 'twer well: and onely therefore\nDesire to breed by me. Here's flowres for you:\nHot Lauender, Mints, Sauory, Mariorum,\nThe Mary-gold, that goes to bed with' Sun,\nAnd with him rises, weeping: These are flowres\nOf middle summer, and I thinke they are giuen\nTo men of middle age. Y'are very welcome\nCam. I should leaue grasing, were I of your flocke,\nAnd onely liue by gazing\nPerd. Out alas:\nYou'ld be so leane, that blasts of Ianuary\nWould blow you through and through. Now (my fairst Friend,\nI would I had some Flowres o'th Spring, that might\nBecome your time of day: and yours, and yours,\nThat weare vpon your Virgin-branches yet\nYour Maiden-heads growing: O Proserpina,\nFor the Flowres now, that (frighted) thou let'st fall\nFrom Dysses Waggon: Daffadils,\nThat come before the Swallow dares, and take\nThe windes of March with beauty: Violets (dim,\nBut sweeter then the lids of Iuno's eyes,\nOr Cytherea's breath) pale Prime-roses,\nThat dye vnmarried, ere they can behold\nBright Phoebus in his strength (a Maladie\nMost incident to Maids:) bold Oxlips, and\nThe Crowne Imperiall: Lillies of all kinds,\n(The Flowre-de-Luce being one.) O, these I lacke,\nTo make you Garlands of) and my sweet friend,\nTo strew him o're, and ore\nFlo. What? like a Coarse?\nPerd. No, like a banke, for Loue to lye, and play on:\nNot like a Coarse: or if: not to be buried,\nBut quicke, and in mine armes. Come, take your flours,\nMe thinkes I play as I haue seene them do\nIn Whitson-Pastorals: Sure this Robe of mine\nDo's change my disposition:\nFlo. What you do,\nStill betters what is done. When you speake (Sweet)\nI'ld haue you do it euer: When you sing,\nI'ld haue you buy, and sell so: so giue Almes,\nPray so: and for the ord'ring your Affayres,\nTo sing them too. When you do dance, I wish you\nA waue o'th Sea, that you might euer do\nNothing but that: moue still, still so:\nAnd owne no other Function. Each your doing,\n(So singular, in each particular)\nCrownes what you are doing, in the present deeds,\nThat all your Actes, are Queenes\nPerd. O Doricles,\nYour praises are too large: but that your youth\nAnd the true blood which peepes fairely through't,\nDo plainly giue you out an vnstain'd Shepherd\nWith wisedome, I might feare (my Doricles)\nYou woo'd me the false way\nFlo. I thinke you haue\nAs little skill to feare, as I haue purpose\nTo put you to't. But come, our dance I pray,\nYour hand (my Perdita:) so Turtles paire\nThat neuer meane to part\nPerd. Ile sweare for 'em\nPol. This is the prettiest Low-borne Lasse, that euer\nRan on the greene-sord: Nothing she do's, or seemes\nBut smackes of something greater then her selfe,\nToo Noble for this place\nCam. He tels her something\nThat makes her blood looke on't: Good sooth she is\nThe Queene of Curds and Creame\nClo. Come on: strike vp\nDorcas. Mopsa must be your Mistris: marry Garlick\nto mend her kissing with\nMop. Now in good time\nClo. Not a word, a word, we stand vpon our manners,\nCome, strike vp.\nHeere a Daunce of Shepheards and Shephearddesses.\nPol. Pray good Shepheard, what faire Swaine is this,\nWhich dances with your daughter?\nShep. They call him Doricles, and boasts himselfe\nTo haue a worthy Feeding; but I haue it\nVpon his owne report, and I beleeue it:\nHe lookes like sooth: he sayes he loues my daughter,\nI thinke so too; for neuer gaz'd the Moone\nVpon the water, as hee'l stand and reade\nAs 'twere my daughters eyes: and to be plaine,\nI thinke there is not halfe a kisse to choose\nWho loues another best\nPol. She dances featly\nShep. So she do's any thing, though I report it\nThat should be silent: If yong Doricles\nDo light vpon her, she shall bring him that\nWhich he not dreames of.\nEnter Seruant.\nSer. O Master: if you did but heare the Pedler at the\ndoore, you would neuer dance againe after a Tabor and\nPipe: no, the Bag-pipe could not moue you: hee singes\nseuerall Tunes, faster then you'l tell money: hee vtters\nthem as he had eaten ballads, and all mens eares grew to\nhis Tunes\nClo. He could neuer come better: hee shall come in:\nI loue a ballad but euen too well, if it be dolefull matter\nmerrily set downe: or a very pleasant thing indeede, and\nsung lamentably\nSer. He hath songs for man, or woman, of all sizes:\nNo Milliner can so fit his customers with Gloues: he has\nthe prettiest Loue-songs for Maids, so without bawdrie\n(which is strange,) with such delicate burthens of Dildo's\nand Fadings: Iump-her, and thump-her; and where\nsome stretch-mouth'd Rascall, would (as it were) meane\nmischeefe, and breake a fowle gap into the Matter, hee\nmakes the maid to answere, Whoop, doe me no harme good\nman: put's him off, slights him, with Whoop, doe mee no\nharme good man\nPol. This is a braue fellow\nClo. Beleeue mee, thou talkest of an admirable conceited\nfellow, has he any vnbraided Wares?\nSer. Hee hath Ribbons of all the colours i'th Rainebow;\nPoints, more then all the Lawyers in Bohemia, can\nlearnedly handle, though they come to him by th' grosse:\nInckles, Caddysses, Cambrickes, Lawnes: why he sings\nem ouer, as they were Gods, or Goddesses: you would\nthinke a Smocke were a shee-Angell, he so chauntes to\nthe sleeue-hand, and the worke about the square on't\nClo. Pre'thee bring him in, and let him approach singing\nPerd. Forewarne him, that he vse no scurrilous words\nin's tunes\nClow. You haue of these Pedlers, that haue more in\nthem, then youl'd thinke (Sister.)\nPerd. I, good brother, or go about to thinke.\nEnter Autolicus singing.\nLawne as white as driuen Snow,\nCypresse blacke as ere was Crow,\nGloues as sweete as Damaske Roses,\nMaskes for faces, and for noses:\nBugle-bracelet, Necke-lace Amber,\nPerfume for a Ladies Chamber:\nGolden Quoifes, and Stomachers\nFor my Lads, to giue their deers:\nPins, and poaking-stickes of steele.\nWhat Maids lacke from head to heele:\nCome buy of me, come: come buy, come buy,\nBuy Lads, or else your Lasses cry: Come buy\nClo. If I were not in loue with Mopsa, thou shouldst\ntake no money of me, but being enthrall'd as I am, it will\nalso be the bondage of certaine Ribbons and Gloues\nMop. I was promis'd them against the Feast, but they\ncome not too late now\nDor. He hath promis'd you more then that, or there\nbe lyars\nMop. He hath paid you all he promis'd you: 'May be\nhe has paid you more, which will shame you to giue him\nagaine\nClo. Is there no manners left among maids? Will they\nweare their plackets, where they should bear their faces?\nIs there not milking-time? When you are going to bed?\nOr kill-hole? To whistle of these secrets, but you must\nbe tittle-tatling before all our guests? 'Tis well they are\nwhispring: clamor your tongues, and not a word more\nMop. I haue done; Come you promis'd me a tawdrylace,\nand a paire of sweet Gloues\nClo. Haue I not told thee how I was cozen'd by the\nway, and lost all my money\nAut. And indeed Sir, there are Cozeners abroad, therfore\nit behooues men to be wary\nClo. Feare not thou man, thou shalt lose nothing here\nAut. I hope so sir, for I haue about me many parcels\nof charge\nClo. What hast heere? Ballads?\nMop. Pray now buy some: I loue a ballet in print, a\nlife, for then we are sure they are true\nAut. Here's one, to a very dolefull tune, how a Vsurers\nwife was brought to bed of twenty money baggs at\na burthen, and how she long'd to eate Adders heads, and\nToads carbonado'd\nMop. Is it true, thinke you?\nAut. Very true, and but a moneth old\nDor. Blesse me from marrying a Vsurer\nAut. Here's the Midwiues name to't: one Mist[ris]. Tale-Porter,\nand fiue or six honest Wiues, that were present.\nWhy should I carry lyes abroad?\nMop. 'Pray you now buy it\nClo. Come-on, lay it by: and let's first see moe Ballads:\nWee'l buy the other things anon\nAut. Here's another ballad of a Fish, that appeared\nvpon the coast, on wensday the fourescore of April, fortie\nthousand fadom aboue water, & sung this ballad against\nthe hard hearts of maids: it was thought she was a Woman,\nand was turn'd into a cold fish, for she wold not exchange\nflesh with one that lou'd her: The Ballad is very\npittifull, and as true\nDor. Is it true too, thinke you\nAutol. Fiue Iustices hands at it, and witnesses more\nthen my packe will hold\nClo. Lay it by too; another\nAut. This is a merry ballad, but a very pretty one\nMop. Let's haue some merry ones\nAut. Why this is a passing merry one, and goes to the\ntune of two maids wooing a man: there's scarse a Maide\nwestward but she sings it: 'tis in request, I can tell you\nMop. We can both sing it: if thou'lt beare a part, thou\nshalt heare, 'tis in three parts\nDor. We had the tune on't, a month agoe\nAut. I can beare my part, you must know 'tis my occupation:\nHaue at it with you:\nSong\nGet you hence, for I must goe\nAut. Where it fits not you to know\nDor. Whether?\nMop. O whether?\nDor. Whether?\nMop. It becomes thy oath full well,\nThou to me thy secrets tell\nDor: Me too: Let me go thether:\nMop: Or thou goest to th' Grange, or Mill,\nDor: If to either thou dost ill,\nAut: Neither\nDor: What neither?\nAut: Neither:\nDor: Thou hast sworne my Loue to be,\nMop: Thou hast sworne it more to mee.\nThen whether goest? Say whether?\nClo. Wee'l haue this song out anon by our selues: My\nFather, and the Gent. are in sad talke, & wee'll not trouble\nthem: Come bring away thy pack after me, Wenches Ile\nbuy for you both: Pedler let's haue the first choice; folow\nme girles\nAut. And you shall pay well for 'em.\nSong.\nWill you buy any Tape, or Lace for your Cape?\nMy dainty Ducke, my deere-a?\nAny Silke, any Thred, any Toyes for your head\nOf the news't, and fins't, fins't weare-a.\nCome to the Pedler, Money's a medler,\nThat doth vtter all mens ware-a.\nExit\nSeruant. Mayster, there is three Carters, three Shepherds,\nthree Neat-herds, three Swine-herds y haue made\nthemselues all men of haire, they cal themselues Saltiers,\nand they haue a Dance, which the Wenches say is a gally-maufrey\nof Gambols, because they are not in't: but\nthey themselues are o'th' minde (if it bee not too rough\nfor some, that know little but bowling) it will please\nplentifully\nShep. Away: Wee'l none on't; heere has beene too\nmuch homely foolery already. I know (Sir) wee wearie\nyou\nPol. You wearie those that refresh vs: pray let's see\nthese foure-threes of Heardsmen\nSer. One three of them, by their owne report (Sir,)\nhath danc'd before the King: and not the worst of the\nthree, but iumpes twelue foote and a halfe by th' squire\nShep. Leaue your prating, since these good men are\npleas'd, let them come in: but quickly now\nSer. Why, they stay at doore Sir.\nHeere a Dance of twelue Satyres.\nPol. O Father, you'l know more of that heereafter:\nIs it not too farre gone? 'Tis time to part them,\nHe's simple, and tels much. How now (faire shepheard)\nYour heart is full of something, that do's take\nYour minde from feasting. Sooth, when I was yong,\nAnd handed loue, as you do; I was wont\nTo load my Shee with knackes: I would haue ransackt\nThe Pedlers silken Treasury, and haue powr'd it\nTo her acceptance: you haue let him go,\nAnd nothing marted with him. If your Lasse\nInterpretation should abuse, and call this\nYour lacke of loue, or bounty, you were straited\nFor a reply at least, if you make a care\nOf happie holding her\nFlo. Old Sir, I know\nShe prizes not such trifles as these are:\nThe gifts she lookes from me, are packt and lockt\nVp in my heart, which I haue giuen already,\nBut not deliuer'd. O heare me breath my life\nBefore this ancient Sir, whom (it should seeme)\nHath sometime lou'd: I take thy hand, this hand,\nAs soft as Doues-downe, and as white as it,\nOr Ethyopians tooth, or the fan'd snow, that's bolted\nBy th' Northerne blasts, twice ore\nPol. What followes this?\nHow prettily th' yong Swaine seemes to wash\nThe hand, was faire before? I haue put you out,\nBut to your protestation: Let me heare\nWhat you professe\nFlo. Do, and be witnesse too't\nPol. And this my neighbour too?\nFlo. And he, and more\nThen he, and men: the earth, the heauens, and all;\nThat were I crown'd the most Imperiall Monarch\nThereof most worthy: were I the fayrest youth\nThat euer made eye swerue, had force and knowledge\nMore then was euer mans, I would not prize them\nWithout her Loue; for her, employ them all,\nCommend them, and condemne them to her seruice,\nOr to their owne perdition\nPol. Fairely offer'd\nCam. This shewes a sound affection\nShep. But my daughter,\nSay you the like to him\nPer. I cannot speake\nSo well, (nothing so well) no, nor meane better\nBy th' patterne of mine owne thoughts, I cut out\nThe puritie of his\nShep. Take hands, a bargaine;\nAnd friends vnknowne, you shall beare witnesse to't:\nI giue my daughter to him, and will make\nHer Portion, equall his\nFlo. O, that must bee\nI'th Vertue of your daughter: One being dead,\nI shall haue more then you can dreame of yet,\nEnough then for your wonder: but come-on,\nContract vs fore these Witnesses\nShep. Come, your hand:\nAnd daughter, yours\nPol. Soft Swaine a-while, beseech you,\nHaue you a Father?\nFlo. I haue: but what of him?\nPol. Knowes he of this?\nFlo. He neither do's, nor shall\nPol. Me-thinkes a Father,\nIs at the Nuptiall of his sonne, a guest\nThat best becomes the Table: Pray you once more\nIs not your Father growne incapeable\nOf reasonable affayres? Is he not stupid\nWith Age, and altring Rheumes? Can he speake? heare?\nKnow man, from man? Dispute his owne estate?\nLies he not bed-rid? And againe, do's nothing\nBut what he did, being childish?\nFlo. No good Sir:\nHe has his health, and ampler strength indeede\nThen most haue of his age\nPol. By my white beard,\nYou offer him (if this be so) a wrong\nSomething vnfilliall: Reason my sonne\nShould choose himselfe a wife, but as good reason\nThe Father (all whose ioy is nothing else\nBut faire posterity) should hold some counsaile\nIn such a businesse\nFlo. I yeeld all this;\nBut for some other reasons (my graue Sir)\nWhich 'tis not fit you know, I not acquaint\nMy Father of this businesse\nPol. Let him know't\nFlo. He shall not\nPol. Prethee let him\nFlo. No, he must not\nShep. Let him (my sonne) he shall not need to greeue\nAt knowing of thy choice\nFlo. Come, come, he must not:\nMarke our Contract\nPol. Marke your diuorce (yong sir)\nWhom sonne I dare not call: Thou art too base\nTo be acknowledge. Thou a Scepters heire,\nThat thus affects a sheepe-hooke? Thou, old Traitor,\nI am sorry, that by hanging thee, I can\nBut shorten thy life one weeke. And thou, fresh peece\nOf excellent Witchcraft, whom of force must know\nThe royall Foole thou coap'st with\nShep. Oh my heart\nPol. Ile haue thy beauty scratcht with briers & made\nMore homely then thy state. For thee (fond boy)\nIf I may euer know thou dost but sigh,\nThat thou no more shalt neuer see this knacke (as neuer\nI meane thou shalt) wee'l barre thee from succession,\nNot hold thee of our blood, no not our Kin,\nFarre then Deucalion off: (marke thou my words)\nFollow vs to the Court. Thou Churle, for this time\n(Though full of our displeasure) yet we free thee\nFrom the dead blow of it. And you Enchantment,\nWorthy enough a Heardsman: yea him too,\nThat makes himselfe (but for our Honor therein)\nVnworthy thee. If euer henceforth, thou\nThese rurall Latches, to his entrance open,\nOr hope his body more, with thy embraces,\nI will deuise a death, as cruell for thee\nAs thou art tender to't.\nEnter.\nPerd. Euen heere vndone:\nI was not much a-fear'd: for once, or twice\nI was about to speake, and tell him plainely,\nThe selfe-same Sun, that shines vpon his Court,\nHides not his visage from our Cottage, but\nLookes on alike. Wilt please you (Sir) be gone?\nI told you what would come of this: Beseech you\nOf your owne state take care: This dreame of mine\nBeing now awake, Ile Queene it no inch farther,\nBut milke my Ewes, and weepe\nCam. Why how now Father,\nSpeake ere thou dyest\nShep. I cannot speake, nor thinke,\nNor dare to know, that which I know: O Sir,\nYou haue vndone a man of fourescore three,\nThat thought to fill his graue in quiet: yea,\nTo dye vpon the bed my father dy'de,\nTo lye close by his honest bones; but now\nSome Hangman must put on my shrowd, and lay me\nWhere no Priest shouels-in dust. Oh cursed wretch,\nThat knew'st this was the Prince, and wouldst aduenture\nTo mingle faith with him. Vndone, vndone:\nIf I might dye within this houre, I haue liu'd\nTo die when I desire.\nEnter.\nFlo. Why looke you so vpon me?\nI am but sorry, not affear'd: delaid,\nBut nothing altred: What I was, I am:\nMore straining on, for plucking backe; not following\nMy leash vnwillingly\nCam. Gracious my Lord,\nYou know my Fathers temper: at this time\nHe will allow no speech: (which I do ghesse\nYou do not purpose to him:) and as hardly\nWill he endure your sight, as yet I feare;\nThen till the fury of his Highnesse settle\nCome not before him\nFlo. I not purpose it:\nI thinke Camillo\nCam. Euen he, my Lord\nPer. How often haue I told you 'twould be thus?\nHow often said my dignity would last\nBut till 'twer knowne?\nFlo. It cannot faile, but by\nThe violation of my faith, and then\nLet Nature crush the sides o'th earth together,\nAnd marre the seeds within. Lift vp thy lookes:\nFrom my succession wipe me (Father) I\nAm heyre to my affection\nCam. Be aduis'd\nFlo. I am: and by my fancie, if my Reason\nWill thereto be obedient: I haue reason:\nIf not, my sences better pleas'd with madnesse,\nDo bid it welcome\nCam. This is desperate (sir.)\nFlo. So call it: but it do's fulfill my vow:\nI needs must thinke it honesty. Camillo,\nNot for Bohemia, nor the pompe that may\nBe thereat gleaned: for all the Sun sees, or\nThe close earth wombes, or the profound seas, hides\nIn vnknowne fadomes, will I breake my oath\nTo this my faire belou'd: Therefore, I pray you,\nAs you haue euer bin my Fathers honour'd friend,\nWhen he shall misse me, as (in faith I meane not\nTo see him any more) cast your good counsailes\nVpon his passion: Let my selfe, and Fortune\nTug for the time to come. This you may know,\nAnd so deliuer, I am put to Sea\nWith her, who heere I cannot hold on shore:\nAnd most opportune to her neede, I haue\nA Vessell rides fast by, but not prepar'd\nFor this designe. What course I meane to hold\nShall nothing benefit your knowledge, nor\nConcerne me the reporting\nCam. O my Lord,\nI would your spirit were easier for aduice,\nOr stronger for your neede\nFlo. Hearke Perdita,\nIle heare you by and by\nCam. Hee's irremoueable,\nResolu'd for flight: Now were I happy if\nHis going, I could frame to serue my turne,\nSaue him from danger, do him loue and honor,\nPurchase the sight againe of deere Sicillia,\nAnd that vnhappy King, my Master, whom\nI so much thirst to see\nFlo. Now good Camillo,\nI am so fraught with curious businesse, that\nI leaue out ceremony\nCam. Sir, I thinke\nYou haue heard of my poore seruices, i'th loue\nThat I haue borne your Father?\nFlo. Very nobly\nHaue you deseru'd: It is my Fathers Musicke\nTo speake your deeds: not little of his care\nTo haue them recompenc'd, as thought on\nCam. Well (my Lord)\nIf you may please to thinke I loue the King,\nAnd through him, what's neerest to him, which is\nYour gracious selfe; embrace but my direction,\nIf your more ponderous and setled proiect\nMay suffer alteration. On mine honor,\nIle point you where you shall haue such receiuing\nAs shall become your Highnesse, where you may\nEnioy your Mistris; from the whom, I see\nThere's no disiunction to be made, but by\n(As heauens forefend) your ruine: Marry her,\nAnd with my best endeuours, in your absence,\nYour discontenting Father, striue to qualifie\nAnd bring him vp to liking\nFlo. How Camillo\nMay this (almost a miracle) be done?\nThat I may call thee something more then man,\nAnd after that trust to thee\nCam. Haue you thought on\nA place whereto you'l go?\nFlo. Not any yet:\nBut as th' vnthought-on accident is guiltie\nTo what we wildely do, so we professe\nOur selues to be the slaues of chance, and flyes\nOf euery winde that blowes\nCam. Then list to me:\nThis followes, if you will not change your purpose\nBut vndergo this flight: make for Sicillia,\nAnd there present your selfe, and your fayre Princesse,\n(For so I see she must be) 'fore Leontes;\nShe shall be habited, as it becomes\nThe partner of your Bed. Me thinkes I see\nLeontes opening his free Armes, and weeping\nHis Welcomes forth: asks thee there Sonne forgiuenesse,\nAs 'twere i'th' Fathers person: kisses the hands\nOf your fresh Princesse; ore and ore diuides him,\n'Twixt his vnkindnesse, and his Kindnesse: th' one\nHe chides to Hell, and bids the other grow\nFaster then Thought, or Time\nFlo. Worthy Camillo,\nWhat colour for my Visitation, shall I\nHold vp before him?\nCam. Sent by the King your Father\nTo greet him, and to giue him comforts. Sir,\nThe manner of your bearing towards him, with\nWhat you (as from your Father) shall deliuer,\nThings knowne betwixt vs three, Ile write you downe,\nThe which shall point you forth at euery sitting\nWhat you must say: that he shall not perceiue,\nBut that you haue your Fathers Bosome there,\nAnd speake his very Heart\nFlo. I am bound to you:\nThere is some sappe in this\nCam. A Course more promising,\nThen a wild dedication of your selues\nTo vnpath'd Waters, vndream'd Shores; most certaine,\nTo Miseries enough: no hope to helpe you,\nBut as you shake off one, to take another:\nNothing so certaine, as your Anchors, who\nDoe their best office, if they can but stay you,\nWhere you'le be loth to be: besides you know,\nProsperitie's the very bond of Loue,\nWhose fresh complexion, and whose heart together,\nAffliction alters\nPerd. One of these is true:\nI thinke Affliction may subdue the Cheeke,\nBut not take-in the Mind\nCam. Yea? say you so?\nThere shall not, at your Fathers House, these seuen yeeres\nBe borne another such\nFlo. My good Camillo,\nShe's as forward, of her Breeding, as\nShe is i'th' reare' our Birth\nCam. I cannot say, 'tis pitty\nShe lacks Instructions, for she seemes a Mistresse\nTo most that teach\nPerd. Your pardon Sir, for this,\nIle blush you Thanks\nFlo. My prettiest Perdita.\nBut O, the Thornes we stand vpon: (Camillo)\nPreseruer of my Father, now of me,\nThe Medicine of our House: how shall we doe?\nWe are not furnish'd like Bohemia's Sonne,\nNor shall appeare in Sicilia\nCam. My Lord,\nFeare none of this: I thinke you know my fortunes\nDoe all lye there: it shall be so my care,\nTo haue you royally appointed, as if\nThe Scene you play, were mine. For instance Sir,\nThat you may know you shall not want: one word.\nEnter Autolicus.\nAut. Ha, ha, what a Foole Honestie is? and Trust (his\nsworne brother) a very simple Gentleman. I haue sold\nall my Tromperie: not a counterfeit Stone, not a Ribbon,\nGlasse, Pomander, Browch, Table-booke, Ballad, Knife,\nTape, Gloue, Shooe-tye, Bracelet, Horne-Ring, to keepe\nmy Pack from fasting: they throng who should buy first,\nas if my Trinkets had beene hallowed, and brought a benediction\nto the buyer: by which meanes, I saw whose\nPurse was best in Picture; and what I saw, to my good\nvse, I remembred. My Clowne (who wants but something\nto be a reasonable man) grew so in loue with the\nWenches Song, that hee would not stirre his Petty-toes,\ntill he had both Tune and Words, which so drew the rest\nof the Heard to me, that all their other Sences stucke in\nEares: you might haue pinch'd a Placket, it was sencelesse;\n'twas nothing to gueld a Cod-peece of a Purse: I\nwould haue fill'd Keyes of that hung in Chaynes: no\nhearing, no feeling, but my Sirs Song, and admiring the\nNothing of it. So that in this time of Lethargie, I pickd\nand cut most of their Festiuall Purses: And had not the\nold-man come in with a Whoo-bub against his Daughter,\nand the Kings Sonne, and scar'd my Chowghes from\nthe Chaffe, I had not left a Purse aliue in the whole\nArmy\nCam. Nay, but my Letters by this meanes being there\nSo soone as you arriue, shall cleare that doubt\nFlo. And those that you'le procure from King Leontes?\nCam. Shall satisfie your Father\nPerd. Happy be you:\nAll that you speake, shewes faire\nCam. Who haue we here?\nWee'le make an Instrument of this: omit\nNothing may giue vs aide\nAut. If they haue ouer-heard me now: why hanging\nCam. How now (good Fellow)\nWhy shak'st thou so? Feare not (man)\nHere's no harme intended to thee\nAut. I am a poore Fellow, Sir\nCam. Why, be so still: here's no body will steale that\nfrom thee: yet for the out-side of thy pouertie, we must\nmake an exchange; therefore dis-case thee instantly (thou\nmust thinke there's a necessitie in't) and change Garments\nwith this Gentleman: Though the penny-worth (on his\nside) be the worst, yet hold thee, there's some boot\nAut. I am a poore Fellow, Sir: (I know ye well\nenough.)\nCam. Nay prethee dispatch: the Gentleman is halfe\nfled already\nAut. Are you in earnest, Sir? (I smell the trick on't.)\nFlo. Dispatch, I prethee\nAut. Indeed I haue had Earnest, but I cannot with\nconscience take it\nCam. Vnbuckle, vnbuckle.\nFortunate Mistresse (let my prophecie\nCome home to ye:) you must retire your selfe\nInto some Couert; take your sweet-hearts Hat\nAnd pluck it ore your Browes, muffle your face,\nDis-mantle you, and (as you can) disliken\nThe truth of your owne seeming, that you may\n(For I doe feare eyes ouer) to Ship-boord\nGet vndescry'd\nPerd. I see the Play so lyes,\nThat I must beare a part\nCam. No remedie:\nHaue you done there?\nFlo. Should I now meet my Father,\nHe would not call me Sonne\nCam. Nay, you shall haue no Hat:\nCome Lady, come: Farewell (my friend.)\nAut. Adieu, Sir\nFlo. O Perdita: what haue we twaine forgot?\n'Pray you a word\nCam. What I doe next, shall be to tell the King\nOf this escape, and whither they are bound;\nWherein, my hope is, I shall so preuaile,\nTo force him after: in whose company\nI shall re-view Sicilia; for whose sight,\nI haue a Womans Longing\nFlo. Fortune speed vs:\nThus we set on (Camillo) to th' Sea-side\nCam. The swifter speed, the better.\nEnter.\nAut. I vnderstand the businesse, I heare it: to haue an\nopen eare, a quick eye, and a nimble hand, is necessary for\na Cut-purse; a good Nose is requisite also, to smell out\nworke for th' other Sences. I see this is the time that the\nvniust man doth thriue. What an exchange had this been,\nwithout boot? What a boot is here, with this exchange?\nSure the Gods doe this yeere conniue at vs, and we may\ndoe any thing extempore. The Prince himselfe is about\na peece of Iniquitie (stealing away from his Father, with\nhis Clog at his heeles:) if I thought it were a peece of honestie\nto acquaint the King withall, I would not do't: I\nhold it the more knauerie to conceale it; and therein am\nI constant to my Profession.\nEnter Clowne and Shepheard.\nAside, aside, here is more matter for a hot braine: Euery\nLanes end, euery Shop, Church, Session, Hanging, yeelds\na carefull man worke\nClowne. See, see: what a man you are now? there is no\nother way, but to tell the King she's a Changeling, and\nnone of your flesh and blood\nShep. Nay, but heare me\nClow. Nay; but heare me\nShep. Goe too then\nClow. She being none of your flesh and blood, your\nflesh and blood ha's not offended the King, and so your\nflesh and blood is not to be punish'd by him. Shew those\nthings you found about her (those secret things, all but\nwhat she ha's with her:) This being done, let the Law goe\nwhistle: I warrant you\nShep. I will tell the King all, euery word, yea, and his\nSonnes prancks too; who, I may say, is no honest man,\nneither to his Father, nor to me, to goe about to make me\nthe Kings Brother in Law\nClow. Indeed Brother in Law was the farthest off you\ncould haue beene to him, and then your Blood had beene\nthe dearer, by I know how much an ounce\nAut. Very wisely (Puppies.)\nShep. Well: let vs to the King: there is that in this\nFarthell, will make him scratch his Beard\nAut. I know not what impediment this Complaint\nmay be to the flight of my Master\nClo. 'Pray heartily he be at' Pallace\nAut. Though I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes\nby chance: Let me pocket vp my Pedlers excrement.\nHow now (Rustiques) whither are you bound?\nShep. To th' Pallace (and it like your Worship.)\nAut. Your Affaires there? what? with whom? the\nCondition of that Farthell? the place of your dwelling?\nyour names? your ages? of what hauing? breeding, and\nany thing that is fitting to be knowne, discouer?\nClo. We are but plaine fellowes, Sir\nAut. A Lye; you are rough, and hayrie: Let me haue\nno lying; it becomes none but Trades-men, and they often\ngiue vs (Souldiers) the Lye, but wee pay them for it\nwith stamped Coyne, not stabbing Steele, therefore they\ndoe not giue vs the Lye\nClo. Your Worship had like to haue giuen vs one, if\nyou had not taken your selfe with the manner\nShep. Are you a Courtier, and't like you Sir?\nAut. Whether it like me, or no, I am a Courtier. Seest\nthou not the ayre of the Court, in these enfoldings? Hath\nnot my gate in it, the measure of the Court? Receiues not\nthy Nose Court-Odour from me? Reflect I not on thy\nBasenesse, Court-Contempt? Think'st thou, for that I\ninsinuate, at toaze from thee thy Businesse, I am therefore\nno Courtier? I am Courtier Capape; and one that\nwill eyther push-on, or pluck-back, thy Businesse there:\nwhereupon I command thee to open thy Affaire\nShep. My Businesse, Sir, is to the King\nAut. What Aduocate ha'st thou to him?\nShep. I know not (and't like you.)\nClo. Aduocate's the Court-word for a Pheazant: say\nyou haue none\nShep. None, Sir: I haue no Pheazant Cock, nor Hen\nAut. How blessed are we, that are not simple men?\nYet Nature might haue made me as these are,\nTherefore I will not disdaine\nClo. This cannot be but a great Courtier\nShep. His Garments are rich, but he weares them not\nhandsomely\nClo. He seemes to be the more Noble, in being fantasticall:\nA great man, Ile warrant; I know by the picking\non's Teeth\nAut. The Farthell there? What's i'th' Farthell?\nWherefore that Box?\nShep. Sir, there lyes such Secrets in this Farthell and\nBox, which none must know but the King, and which hee\nshall know within this houre, if I may come to th' speech\nof him\nAut. Age, thou hast lost thy labour\nShep. Why Sir?\nAut. The King is not at the Pallace, he is gone aboord\na new Ship, to purge Melancholy, and ayre himselfe: for\nif thou bee'st capable of things serious, thou must know\nthe King is full of griefe\nShep. So 'tis said (Sir:) about his Sonne, that should\nhaue marryed a Shepheards Daughter\nAut. If that Shepheard be not in hand-fast, let him\nflye; the Curses he shall haue, the Tortures he shall feele,\nwill breake the back of Man, the heart of Monster\nClo. Thinke you so, Sir?\nAut. Not hee alone shall suffer what Wit can make\nheauie, and Vengeance bitter; but those that are Iermaine\nto him (though remou'd fiftie times) shall all come vnder\nthe Hang-man: which, though it be great pitty, yet it is\nnecessarie. An old Sheepe-whistling Rogue, a Ram-tender,\nto offer to haue his Daughter come into grace? Some\nsay hee shall be ston'd: but that death is too soft for him\n(say I:) Draw our Throne into a Sheep-Coat? all deaths\nare too few, the sharpest too easie\nClo. Ha's the old-man ere a Sonne Sir (doe you heare)\nand't like you, Sir?\nAut. Hee ha's a Sonne: who shall be flayd aliue, then\n'noynted ouer with Honey, set on the head of a Waspes\nNest, then stand till he be three quarters and a dram dead:\nthen recouer'd againe with Aquavite, or some other hot\nInfusion: then, raw as he is (and in the hotest day Prognostication\nproclaymes) shall he be set against a Brick-wall,\n(the Sunne looking with a South-ward eye vpon him;\nwhere hee is to behold him, with Flyes blown to death.)\nBut what talke we of these Traitorly-Rascals, whose miseries\nare to be smil'd at, their offences being so capitall?\nTell me (for you seeme to be honest plaine men) what you\nhaue to the King: being something gently consider'd, Ile\nbring you where he is aboord, tender your persons to his\npresence, whisper him in your behalfes; and if it be in\nman, besides the King, to effect your Suites, here is man\nshall doe it\nClow. He seemes to be of great authoritie: close with\nhim, giue him Gold; and though Authoritie be a stubborne\nBeare, yet hee is oft led by the Nose with Gold:\nshew the in-side of your Purse to the out-side of his\nhand, and no more adoe. Remember ston'd, and flay'd\naliue\nShep. And't please you (Sir) to vndertake the Businesse\nfor vs, here is that Gold I haue: Ile make it as much\nmore, and leaue this young man in pawne, till I bring it\nyou\nAut. After I haue done what I promised?\nShep. I Sir\nAut. Well, giue me the Moitie: Are you a partie in\nthis Businesse?\nClow. In some sort, Sir: but though my case be a pittifull\none, I hope I shall not be flayd out of it\nAut. Oh, that's the case of the Shepheards Sonne:\nhang him, hee'le be made an example\nClow. Comfort, good comfort: We must to the King,\nand shew our strange sights: he must know 'tis none of\nyour Daughter, nor my Sister: wee are gone else. Sir, I\nwill giue you as much as this old man do's, when the Businesse\nis performed, and remaine (as he sayes) your pawne\ntill it be brought you\nAut. I will trust you. Walke before toward the Seaside,\ngoe on the right hand, I will but looke vpon the\nHedge, and follow you\nClow. We are bless'd, in this man: as I may say, euen\nbless'd\nShep. Let's before, as he bids vs: he was prouided to\ndoe vs good\nAut. If I had a mind to be honest, I see Fortune would\nnot suffer mee: shee drops Booties in my mouth. I am\ncourted now with a double occasion: (Gold, and a means\nto doe the Prince my Master good; which, who knowes\nhow that may turne backe to my aduancement?) I will\nbring these two Moales, these blind-ones, aboord him: if\nhe thinke it fit to shoare them againe, and that the Complaint\nthey haue to the King, concernes him nothing, let\nhim call me Rogue, for being so farre officious, for I am\nproofe against that Title, and what shame else belongs\nto't: To him will I present them, there may be matter in\nit.\nExeunt.\nActus Quintus. Scena Prima.\nEnter Leontes, Cleomines, Dion, Paulina, Seruants: Florizel,\nPerdita.\nCleo. Sir, you haue done enough, and haue perform'd\nA Saint-like Sorrow: No fault could you make,\nWhich you haue not redeem'd; indeed pay'd downe\nMore penitence, then done trespas: At the last\nDoe, as the Heauens haue done; forget your euill,\nWith them, forgiue your selfe\nLeo. Whilest I remember\nHer, and her Vertues, I cannot forget\nMy blemishes in them, and so still thinke of\nThe wrong I did my selfe: which was so much,\nThat Heire-lesse it hath made my Kingdome, and\nDestroy'd the sweet'st Companion, that ere man\nBred his hopes out of, true\nPaul. Too true (my Lord:)\nIf one by one, you wedded all the World,\nOr from the All that are, tooke something good,\nTo make a perfect Woman; she you kill'd,\nWould be vnparallell'd\nLeo. I thinke so. Kill'd?\nShe I kill'd? I did so: but thou strik'st me\nSorely, to say I did: it is as bitter\nVpon thy Tongue, as in my Thought. Now, good now,\nSay so but seldome\nCleo. Not at all, good Lady:\nYou might haue spoken a thousand things, that would\nHaue done the time more benefit, and grac'd\nYour kindnesse better\nPaul. You are one of those\nWould haue him wed againe\nDio. If you would not so,\nYou pitty not the State, nor the Remembrance\nOf his most Soueraigne Name: Consider little,\nWhat Dangers, by his Highnesse faile of Issue,\nMay drop vpon his Kingdome, and deuoure\nIncertaine lookers on. What were more holy,\nThen to reioyce the former Queene is well?\nWhat holyer, then for Royalties repayre,\nFor present comfort, and for future good,\nTo blesse the Bed of Maiestie againe\nWith a sweet Fellow to't?\nPaul. There is none worthy,\n(Respecting her that's gone:) besides the Gods\nWill haue fulfill'd their secret purposes:\nFor ha's not the Diuine Apollo said?\nIs't not the tenor of his Oracle,\nThat King Leontes shall not haue an Heire,\nTill his lost Child be found? Which, that it shall,\nIs all as monstrous to our humane reason,\nAs my Antigonus to breake his Graue,\nAnd come againe to me: who, on my life,\nDid perish with the Infant. 'Tis your councell,\nMy Lord should to the Heauens be contrary,\nOppose against their wills. Care not for Issue,\nThe Crowne will find an Heire. Great Alexander\nLeft his to th' Worthiest: so his Successor\nWas like to be the best\nLeo. Good Paulina,\nWho hast the memorie of Hermione\nI know in honor: O, that euer I\nHad squar'd me to thy councell: then, euen now,\nI might haue look'd vpon my Queenes full eyes,\nHaue taken Treasure from her Lippes\nPaul. And left them\nMore rich, for what they yeelded\nLeo. Thou speak'st truth:\nNo more such Wiues, therefore no Wife: one worse,\nAnd better vs'd, would make her Sainted Spirit\nAgaine possesse her Corps, and on this Stage\n(Where we Offendors now appeare) Soule-vext,\nAnd begin, why to me?\nPaul. Had she such power,\nShe had iust such cause\nLeo. She had, and would incense me\nTo murther her I marryed\nPaul. I should so:\nWere I the Ghost that walk'd, Il'd bid you marke\nHer eye, and tell me for what dull part in't\nYou chose her: then Il'd shrieke, that euen your eares\nShould rift to heare me, and the words that follow'd,\nShould be, Remember mine\nLeo. Starres, Starres,\nAnd all eyes else, dead coales: feare thou no Wife;\nIle haue no Wife, Paulina\nPaul. Will you sweare\nNeuer to marry, but by my free leaue?\nLeo. Neuer (Paulina) so be bless'd my Spirit\nPaul. Then good my Lords, beare witnesse to his Oath\nCleo. You tempt him ouer-much\nPaul. Vnlesse another,\nAs like Hermione, as is her Picture,\nAffront his eye\nCleo. Good Madame, I haue done\nPaul. Yet if my Lord will marry: if you will, Sir;\nNo remedie but you will: Giue me the Office\nTo chuse you a Queene: she shall not be so young\nAs was your former, but she shall be such\nAs (walk'd your first Queenes Ghost) it should take ioy\nTo see her in your armes\nLeo. My true Paulina,\nWe shall not marry, till thou bidst vs\nPaul. That\nShall be when your first Queene's againe in breath:\nNeuer till then.\nEnter a Seruant.\nSer. One that giues out himselfe Prince Florizell,\nSonne of Polixenes, with his Princesse (she\nThe fairest I haue yet beheld) desires accesse\nTo your high presence\nLeo. What with him? he comes not\nLike to his Fathers Greatnesse: his approach\n(So out of circumstance, and suddaine) tells vs,\n'Tis not a Visitation fram'd, but forc'd\nBy need, and accident. What Trayne?\nSer. But few,\nAnd those but meane\nLeo. His Princesse (say you) with him?\nSer. I: the most peerelesse peece of Earth, I thinke,\nThat ere the Sunne shone bright on\nPaul. Oh Hermione,\nAs euery present Time doth boast it selfe\nAboue a better, gone; so must thy Graue\nGiue way to what's seene now. Sir, you your selfe\nHaue said, and writ so; but your writing now\nIs colder then that Theame: she had not beene,\nNor was not to be equall'd, thus your Verse\nFlow'd with her Beautie once; 'tis shrewdly ebb'd,\nTo say you haue seene a better\nSer. Pardon, Madame:\nThe one, I haue almost forgot (your pardon:)\nThe other, when she ha's obtayn'd your Eye,\nWill haue your Tongue too. This is a Creature,\nWould she begin a Sect, might quench the zeale\nOf all Professors else; make Proselytes\nOf who she but bid follow\nPaul. How? not women?\nSer. Women will loue her, that she is a Woman\nMore worth then any Man: Men, that she is\nThe rarest of all Women\nLeo. Goe Cleomines,\nYour selfe (assisted with your honor'd Friends)\nBring them to our embracement. Still 'tis strange,\nHe thus should steale vpon vs.\nEnter\nPaul. Had our Prince\n(Iewell of Children) seene this houre, he had payr'd\nWell with this Lord; there was not full a moneth\nBetweene their births\nLeo. 'Prethee no more; cease: thou know'st\nHe dyes to me againe, when talk'd-of: sure\nWhen I shall see this Gentleman, thy speeches\nWill bring me to consider that, which may\nVnfurnish me of Reason. They are come.\nEnter Florizell, Perdita, Cleomines, and others.\nYour Mother was most true to Wedlock, Prince,\nFor she did print your Royall Father off,\nConceiuing you. Were I but twentie one,\nYour Fathers Image is so hit in you,\n(His very ayre) that I should call you Brother,\nAs I did him, and speake of something wildly\nBy vs perform'd before. Most dearely welcome,\nAnd your faire Princesse (Goddesse) oh: alas,\nI lost a couple, that 'twixt Heauen and Earth\nMight thus haue stood, begetting wonder, as\nYou (gracious Couple) doe: and then I lost\n(All mine owne Folly) the Societie,\nAmitie too of your braue Father, whom\n(Though bearing Miserie) I desire my life\nOnce more to looke on him\nFlo. By his command\nHaue I here touch'd Sicilia, and from him\nGiue you all greetings, that a King (at friend)\nCan send his Brother: and but Infirmitie\n(Which waits vpon worne times) hath something seiz'd\nHis wish'd Abilitie, he had himselfe\nThe Lands and Waters, 'twixt your Throne and his,\nMeasur'd, to looke vpon you; whom he loues\n(He bad me say so) more then all the Scepters,\nAnd those that beare them, liuing\nLeo. Oh my Brother,\n(Good Gentleman) the wrongs I haue done thee, stirre\nAfresh within me: and these thy offices\n(So rarely kind) are as Interpreters\nOf my behind-hand slacknesse. Welcome hither,\nAs is the Spring to th' Earth. And hath he too\nExpos'd this Paragon to th' fearefull vsage\n(At least vngentle) of the dreadfull Neptune,\nTo greet a man, not worth her paines; much lesse,\nTh' aduenture of her person?\nFlo. Good my Lord,\nShe came from Libia\nLeo. Where the Warlike Smalus,\nThat Noble honor'd Lord, is fear'd, and lou'd?\nFlo. Most Royall Sir,\nFrom thence: from him, whose Daughter\nHis Teares proclaym'd his parting with her: thence\n(A prosperous South-wind friendly) we haue cross'd,\nTo execute the Charge my Father gaue me,\nFor visiting your Highnesse: My best Traine\nI haue from your Sicilian Shores dismiss'd;\nWho for Bohemia bend, to signifie\nNot onely my successe in Libia (Sir)\nBut my arriuall, and my Wifes, in safetie\nHere, where we are\nLeo. The blessed Gods\nPurge all Infection from our Ayre, whilest you\nDoe Clymate here: you haue a holy Father,\nA graceful Gentleman, against whose person\n(So sacred as it is) I haue done sinne,\nFor which, the Heauens (taking angry note)\nHaue left me Issue-lesse: and your Father's bless'd\n(As he from Heauen merits it) with you,\nWorthy his goodnesse. What might I haue been,\nMight I a Sonne and Daughter now haue look'd on,\nSuch goodly things as you?\nEnter a Lord.\nLord. Most Noble Sir,\nThat which I shall report, will beare no credit,\nWere not the proofe so nigh. Please you (great Sir)\nBohemia greets you from himselfe, by me:\nDesires you to attach his Sonne, who ha's\n(His Dignitie, and Dutie both cast off)\nFled from his Father, from his Hopes, and with\nA Shepheards Daughter\nLeo. Where's Bohemia? speake:\nLord. Here, in your Citie: I now came from him.\nI speake amazedly, and it becomes\nMy meruaile, and my Message. To your Court\nWhiles he was hastning (in the Chase, it seemes,\nOf this faire Couple) meetes he on the way\nThe Father of this seeming Lady, and\nHer Brother, hauing both their Countrey quitted,\nWith this young Prince\nFlo. Camillo ha's betray'd me;\nWhose honor, and whose honestie till now,\nEndur'd all Weathers\nLord. Lay't so to his charge:\nHe's with the King your Father\nLeo. Who? Camillo?\nLord. Camillo (Sir:) I spake with him: who now\nHa's these poore men in question. Neuer saw I\nWretches so quake: they kneele, they kisse the Earth;\nForsweare themselues as often as they speake:\nBohemia stops his eares, and threatens them\nWith diuers deaths, in death\nPerd. Oh my poore Father:\nThe Heauen sets Spyes vpon vs, will not haue\nOur Contract celebrated\nLeo. You are marryed?\nFlo. We are not (Sir) nor are we like to be:\nThe Starres (I see) will kisse the Valleyes first:\nThe oddes for high and low's alike\nLeo. My Lord,\nIs this the Daughter of a King?\nFlo. She is,\nWhen once she is my Wife\nLeo. That once (I see) by your good Fathers speed,\nWill come-on very slowly. I am sorry\n(Most sorry) you haue broken from his liking,\nWhere you were ty'd in dutie: and as sorry,\nYour Choice is not so rich in Worth, as Beautie,\nThat you might well enioy her\nFlo. Deare, looke vp:\nThough Fortune, visible an Enemie,\nShould chase vs, with my Father; powre no iot\nHath she to change our Loues. Beseech you (Sir)\nRemember, since you ow'd no more to Time\nThen I doe now: with thought of such Affections,\nStep forth mine Aduocate: at your request,\nMy Father will graunt precious things, as Trifles\nLeo. Would he doe so, I'ld beg your precious Mistris,\nWhich he counts but a Trifle\nPaul. Sir (my Liege)\nYour eye hath too much youth in't: not a moneth\n'Fore your Queene dy'd, she was more worth such gazes,\nThen what you looke on now\nLeo. I thought of her,\nEuen in these Lookes I made. But your Petition\nIs yet vn-answer'd: I will to your Father:\nYour Honor not o're-throwne by your desires,\nI am friend to them, and you: Vpon which Errand\nI now goe toward him: therefore follow me,\nAnd marke what way I make: Come good my Lord.\nExeunt.\nScoena Secunda.\nEnter Autolicus, and a Gentleman.\nAut. Beseech you (Sir) were you present at this Relation?\nGent.1. I was by at the opening of the Farthell, heard\nthe old Shepheard deliuer the manner how he found it:\nWhereupon (after a little amazednesse) we were all commanded\nout of the Chamber: onely this (me thought) I\nheard the Shepheard say, he found the Child\nAut. I would most gladly know the issue of it\nGent.1. I make a broken deliuerie of the Businesse;\nbut the changes I perceiued in the King, and Camillo, were\nvery Notes of admiration: they seem'd almost, with staring\non one another, to teare the Cases of their Eyes.\nThere was speech in their dumbnesse, Language in their\nvery gesture: they look'd as they had heard of a World\nransom'd, or one destroyed: a notable passion of Wonder\nappeared in them: but the wisest beholder, that knew\nno more but seeing, could not say, if th' importance were\nIoy, or Sorrow; but in the extremitie of the one, it must\nneeds be.\nEnter another Gentleman.\nHere comes a Gentleman, that happily knowes more:\nThe Newes, Rogero\nGent.2. Nothing but Bon-fires: the Oracle is fulfill'd:\nthe Kings Daughter is found: such a deale of wonder is\nbroken out within this houre, that Ballad-makers cannot\nbe able to expresse it.\nEnter another Gentleman.\nHere comes the Lady Paulina's Steward, hee can deliuer\nyou more. How goes it now (Sir.) This Newes (which\nis call'd true) is so like an old Tale, that the veritie of it is\nin strong suspition: Ha's the King found his Heire?\nGent.3. Most true, if euer Truth were pregnant by\nCircumstance: That which you heare, you'le sweare\nyou see, there is such vnitie in the proofes. The Mantle\nof Queene Hermiones: her Iewell about the Neck of it:\nthe Letters of Antigonus found with it, which they know\nto be his Character: the Maiestie of the Creature, in resemblance\nof the Mother: the Affection of Noblenesse,\nwhich Nature shewes aboue her Breeding, and many other\nEuidences, proclayme her, with all certaintie, to be\nthe Kings Daughter. Did you see the meeting of the\ntwo Kings?\nGent.2. No\nGent.3. Then haue you lost a Sight which was to bee\nseene, cannot bee spoken of. There might you haue beheld\none Ioy crowne another, so and in such manner, that\nit seem'd Sorrow wept to take leaue of them: for their\nIoy waded in teares. There was casting vp of Eyes, holding\nvp of Hands, with Countenance of such distraction,\nthat they were to be knowne by Garment, not by Fauor.\nOur King being ready to leape out of himselfe, for ioy of\nhis found Daughter; as if that Ioy were now become a\nLosse, cryes, Oh, thy Mother, thy Mother: then askes\nBohemia forgiuenesse, then embraces his Sonne-in-Law:\nthen againe worryes he his Daughter, with clipping her.\nNow he thanks the old Shepheard (which stands by, like\na Weather-bitten Conduit, of many Kings Reignes.) I\nneuer heard of such another Encounter; which lames Report\nto follow it, and vndo's description to doe it\nGent.2. What, 'pray you, became of Antigonus, that\ncarryed hence the Child?\nGent.3. Like an old Tale still, which will haue matter\nto rehearse, though Credit be asleepe, and not an eare open;\nhe was torne to pieces with a Beare: This auouches\nthe Shepheards Sonne; who ha's not onely his Innocence\n(which seemes much) to iustifie him, but a Hand-kerchief\nand Rings of his, that Paulina knowes\nGent.1. What became of his Barke, and his Followers?\nGent.3. Wrackt the same instant of their Masters\ndeath, and in the view of the Shepheard: so that all the\nInstruments which ayded to expose the Child, were euen\nthen lost, when it was found. But oh the Noble Combat,\nthat 'twixt Ioy and Sorrow was fought in Paulina. Shee\nhad one Eye declin'd for the losse of her Husband, another\neleuated, that the Oracle was fulfill'd: Shee lifted the\nPrincesse from the Earth, and so locks her in embracing,\nas if shee would pin her to her heart, that shee might no\nmore be in danger of loosing\nGent.1. The Dignitie of this Act was worth the audience\nof Kings and Princes, for by such was it acted\nGent.3. One of the prettyest touches of all, and that\nwhich angl'd for mine Eyes (caught the Water, though\nnot the Fish) was, when at the Relation of the Queenes\ndeath (with the manner how shee came to't, brauely confess'd,\nand lamented by the King) how attentiuenesse\nwounded his Daughter, till (from one signe of dolour to\nanother) shee did (with an Alas) I would faine say, bleed\nTeares; for I am sure, my heart wept blood. Who was\nmost Marble, there changed colour: some swownded, all\nsorrowed: if all the World could haue seen't, the Woe\nhad beene vniuersall\nGent.1. Are they returned to the Court?\nGent.3. No: The Princesse hearing of her Mothers\nStatue (which is in the keeping of Paulina) a Peece many\nyeeres in doing, and now newly perform'd, by that rare\nItalian Master, Iulio Romano, who (had he himselfe Eternitie,\nand could put Breath into his Worke) would beguile\nNature of her Custome, so perfectly he is her Ape:\nHe so neere to Hermione, hath done Hermione, that they\nsay one would speake to her, and stand in hope of answer.\nThither (with all greedinesse of affection) are they gone,\nand there they intend to Sup\nGent.2. I thought she had some great matter there in\nhand, for shee hath priuately, twice or thrice a day, euer\nsince the death of Hermione, visited that remoued House.\nShall wee thither, and with our companie peece the Reioycing?\nGent.1. Who would be thence, that ha's the benefit\nof Accesse? euery winke of an Eye, some new Grace\nwill be borne: our Absence makes vs vnthriftie to our\nKnowledge. Let's along.\nEnter.\nAut. Now (had I not the dash of my former life in\nme) would Preferment drop on my head. I brought the\nold man and his Sonne aboord the Prince; told him, I\nheard them talke of a Farthell, and I know not what: but\nhe at that time ouer-fond of the Shepheards Daughter (so\nhe then tooke her to be) who began to be much Sea-sick,\nand himselfe little better, extremitie of Weather continuing,\nthis Mysterie remained vndiscouer'd. But 'tis all\none to me: for had I beene the finder-out of this Secret,\nit would not haue rellish'd among my other discredits.\nEnter Shepheard and Clowne.\nHere come those I haue done good to against my will,\nand alreadie appearing in the blossomes of their Fortune\nShep. Come Boy, I am past moe Children: but thy\nSonnes and Daughters will be all Gentlemen borne\nClow. You are well met (Sir:) you deny'd to fight\nwith mee this other day, because I was no Gentleman\nborne. See you these Clothes? say you see them not,\nand thinke me still no Gentleman borne: You were best\nsay these Robes are not Gentlemen borne. Giue me the\nLye: doe: and try whether I am not now a Gentleman\nborne\nAut. I know you are now (Sir) a Gentleman borne\nClow. I, and haue been so any time these foure houres\nShep. And so haue I, Boy\nClow. So you haue: but I was a Gentleman borne before\nmy Father: for the Kings Sonne tooke me by the\nhand, and call'd mee Brother: and then the two Kings\ncall'd my Father Brother: and then the Prince (my Brother)\nand the Princesse (my Sister) call'd my Father, Father;\nand so wee wept: and there was the first Gentleman-like\nteares that euer we shed\nShep. We may liue (Sonne) to shed many more\nClow. I: or else 'twere hard luck, being in so preposterous\nestate as we are\nAut. I humbly beseech you (Sir) to pardon me all the\nfaults I haue committed to your Worship, and to giue\nme your good report to the Prince my Master\nShep. 'Prethee Sonne doe: for we must be gentle, now\nwe are Gentlemen\nClow. Thou wilt amend thy life?\nAut. I, and it like your good Worship\nClow. Giue me thy hand: I will sweare to the Prince,\nthou art as honest a true Fellow as any is in Bohemia\nShep. You may say it, but not sweare it\nClow. Not sweare it, now I am a Gentleman? Let\nBoores and Francklins say it, Ile sweare it\nShep. How if it be false (Sonne?)\nClow. If it be ne're so false, a true Gentleman may\nsweare it, in the behalfe of his Friend: And Ile sweare to\nthe Prince, thou art a tall Fellow of thy hands, and that\nthou wilt not be drunke: but I know thou art no tall Fellow\nof thy hands, and that thou wilt be drunke: but Ile\nsweare it, and I would thou would'st be a tall Fellow of\nthy hands\nAut. I will proue so (Sir) to my power\nClow. I, by any meanes proue a tall Fellow: if I do not\nwonder, how thou dar'st venture to be drunke, not being\na tall Fellow, trust me not. Harke, the Kings and Princes\n(our Kindred) are going to see the Queenes Picture.\nCome, follow vs: wee'le be thy good Masters.\nExeunt.\nScaena Tertia.\nEnter Leontes, Polixenes, Florizell, Perdita, Camillo, Paulina:\nHermione\n(like a Statue:) Lords, &c.\nLeo. O graue and good Paulina, the great comfort\nThat I haue had of thee?\nPaul. What (Soueraigne Sir)\nI did not well, I meant well: all my Seruices\nYou haue pay'd home. But that you haue vouchsaf'd\n(With your Crown'd Brother, and these your contracted\nHeires of your Kingdomes) my poore House to visit;\nIt is a surplus of your Grace, which neuer\nMy life may last to answere\nLeo. O Paulina,\nWe honor you with trouble: but we came\nTo see the Statue of our Queene. Your Gallerie\nHaue we pass'd through, not without much content\nIn many singularities; but we saw not\nThat which my Daughter came to looke vpon,\nThe Statue of her Mother\nPaul. As she liu'd peerelesse,\nSo her dead likenesse I doe well beleeue\nExcells what euer yet you look'd vpon,\nOr hand of Man hath done: therefore I keepe it\nLouely, apart. But here it is: prepare\nTo see the Life as liuely mock'd, as euer\nStill Sleepe mock'd Death: behold, and say 'tis well.\nI like your silence, it the more shewes-off\nYour wonder: but yet speake, first you (my Liege)\nComes it not something neere?\nLeo. Her naturall Posture.\nChide me (deare Stone) that I may say indeed\nThou art Hermione; or rather, thou art she,\nIn thy not chiding: for she was as tender\nAs Infancie, and Grace. But yet (Paulina)\nHermione was not so much wrinckled, nothing\nSo aged as this seemes\nPol. Oh, not by much\nPaul. So much the more our Caruers excellence,\nWhich lets goe-by some sixteene yeeres, and makes her\nAs she liu'd now\nLeo. As now she might haue done,\nSo much to my good comfort, as it is\nNow piercing to my Soule. Oh, thus she stood,\nEuen with such Life of Maiestie (warme Life,\nAs now it coldly stands) when first I woo'd her.\nI am asham'd: Do's not the Stone rebuke me,\nFor being more Stone then it? Oh Royall Peece:\nThere's Magick in thy Maiestie, which ha's\nMy Euils coniur'd to remembrance; and\nFrom thy admiring Daughter tooke the Spirits,\nStanding like Stone with thee\nPerd. And giue me leaue,\nAnd doe not say 'tis Superstition, that\nI kneele, and then implore her Blessing. Lady,\nDeere Queene, that ended when I but began,\nGiue me that hand of yours, to kisse\nPaul. O, patience:\nThe Statue is but newly fix'd; the Colour's\nNot dry\nCam. My Lord, your Sorrow was too sore lay'd-on,\nWhich sixteene Winters cannot blow away,\nSo many Summers dry: scarce any Ioy\nDid euer so long liue; no Sorrow,\nBut kill'd it selfe much sooner\nPol. Deere my Brother,\nLet him, that was the cause of this, haue powre\nTo take-off so much griefe from you, as he\nWill peece vp in himselfe\nPaul. Indeed my Lord,\nIf I had thought the sight of my poore Image\nWould thus haue wrought you (for the Stone is mine)\nIl'd not haue shew'd it\nLeo. Doe not draw the Curtaine\nPaul. No longer shall you gaze on't, least your Fancie\nMay thinke anon, it moues\nLeo. Let be, let be:\nWould I were dead, but that me thinkes alreadie.\n(What was he that did make it?) See (my Lord)\nWould you not deeme it breath'd? and that those veines\nDid verily beare blood?\nPol. 'Masterly done:\nThe very Life seemes warme vpon her Lippe\nLeo. The fixure of her Eye ha's motion in't,\nAs we are mock'd with Art\nPaul. Ile draw the Curtaine:\nMy Lord's almost so farre transported, that\nHee'le thinke anon it liues\nLeo. Oh sweet Paulina,\nMake me to thinke so twentie yeeres together:\nNo setled Sences of the World can match\nThe pleasure of that madnesse. Let't alone\nPaul. I am sorry (Sir) I haue thus farre stir'd you: but\nI could afflict you farther\nLeo. Doe Paulina:\nFor this Affliction ha's a taste as sweet\nAs any Cordiall comfort. Still me thinkes\nThere is an ayre comes from her. What fine Chizzell\nCould euer yet cut breath? Let no man mock me,\nFor I will kisse her\nPaul. Good my Lord, forbeare:\nThe ruddinesse vpon her Lippe, is wet:\nYou'le marre it, if you kisse it; stayne your owne\nWith Oyly Painting: shall I draw the Curtaine\nLeo. No: not these twentie yeeres\nPerd. So long could I\nStand-by, a looker-on\nPaul. Either forbeare,\nQuit presently the Chappell, or resolue you\nFor more amazement: if you can behold it,\nIle make the Statue moue indeed; descend,\nAnd take you by the hand: but then you'le thinke\n(Which I protest against) I am assisted\nBy wicked Powers\nLeo. What you can make her doe,\nI am content to looke on: what to speake,\nI am content to heare: for 'tis as easie\nTo make her speake, as moue\nPaul. It is requir'd\nYou doe awake your Faith: then, all stand still:\nOn: those that thinke it is vnlawfull Businesse\nI am about, let them depart\nLeo. Proceed:\nNo foot shall stirre\nPaul. Musick; awake her: Strike:\n'Tis time: descend: be Stone no more: approach:\nStrike all that looke vpon with meruaile: Come:\nIle fill your Graue vp: stirre: nay, come away:\nBequeath to Death your numnesse: (for from him,\nDeare Life redeemes you) you perceiue she stirres:\nStart not: her Actions shall be holy, as\nYou heare my Spell is lawfull: doe not shun her,\nVntill you see her dye againe; for then\nYou kill her double: Nay, present your Hand:\nWhen she was young, you woo'd her: now, in age,\nIs she become the Suitor?\nLeo. Oh, she's warme:\nIf this be Magick, let it be an Art\nLawfull as Eating\nPol. She embraces him\nCam. She hangs about his necke,\nIf she pertaine to life, let her speake too\nPol. I, and make it manifest where she ha's liu'd,\nOr how stolne from the dead?\nPaul. That she is liuing,\nWere it but told you, should be hooted at\nLike an old Tale: but it appeares she liues,\nThough yet she speake not. Marke a little while:\nPlease you to interpose (faire Madam) kneele,\nAnd pray your Mothers blessing: turne good Lady,\nOur Perdita is found\nHer. You Gods looke downe,\nAnd from your sacred Viols poure your graces\nVpon my daughters head: Tell me (mine owne)\nWhere hast thou bin preseru'd? Where liu'd? How found\nThy Fathers Court? For thou shalt heare that I\nKnowing by Paulina, that the Oracle\nGaue hope thou wast in being, haue preseru'd\nMy selfe, to see the yssue\nPaul. There's time enough for that,\nLeast they desire (vpon this push) to trouble\nYour ioyes, with like Relation. Go together\nYou precious winners all: your exultation\nPartake to euery one: I (an old Turtle)\nWill wing me to some wither'd bough, and there\nMy Mate (that's neuer to be found againe)\nLament, till I am lost\nLeo. O peace Paulina:\nThou shouldst a husband take by my consent,\nAs I by thine a Wife. This is a Match,\nAnd made betweene's by Vowes. Thou hast found mine,\nBut how, is to be question'd: for I saw her\n(As I thought) dead: and haue (in vaine) said many\nA prayer vpon her graue. Ile not seeke farre\n(For him, I partly know his minde) to finde thee\nAn honourable husband. Come Camillo,\nAnd take her by the hand: whose worth, and honesty\nIs richly noted: and heere iustified\nBy Vs, a paire of Kings. Let's from this place.\nWhat? looke vpon my Brother: both your pardons,\nThat ere I put betweene your holy lookes\nMy ill suspition: This your Son-in-law,\nAnd Sonne vnto the King, whom heauens directing\nIs troth-plight to your daughter. Good Paulina,\nLeade vs from hence, where we may leysurely\nEach one demand, and answere to his part\nPerform'd in this wide gap of Time, since first\nWe were disseuer'd: Hastily lead away.\nExeunt.\nThe Names of the Actors.\nLeontes, King of Sicillia.\nMamillus, yong Prince of Sicillia.\nCamillo.\nAntigonus.\nCleomines.\nDion.\nFoure\nLords of Sicillia.\nHermione, Queene to Leontes.\nPerdita, Daughter to Leontes and Hermione.\nPaulina, wife to Antigonus.\nEmilia, a Lady.\nPolixenes, King of Bohemia.\nFlorizell, Prince of Bohemia.\nOld Shepheard, reputed Father of Perdita.\nClowne, his Sonne.\nAutolicus, a Rogue.\nArchidamus, a Lord of Bohemia.\nOther Lords, and Gentlemen, and Seruants.\nShepheards, and Shephearddesses.\nFINIS. The Winters Tale.","title":"The Winters Tale","type":"page"}