That which you are, miftrefs o' th' feaft. Come on,
And bid us welcome to your fheep-fhearing,
As your good flock fhall profper.

Per. Sirs, you're welcome.

[To Pol. and Cam.

It is my father's will, I fhould take on me

The hoftefsfhip o' th' day; you're welcome, Sirs.
Give me thofe flowers there, Dorcas. Reverend Sirs,
For you there's rosemary and rue, these keep
Seeming and favour all the winter long:
Grace and remembrance be unto you both,
And welcome to our fhearing!.

Pol. Shepherdess,

A fair one are you, well you fit our ages
With flowers of winter.

Per. Sir, the year growing ancient,

Nor yet on fummer's death, nor on the birth
Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o' th' feafon
Are our carnations, and streak'd gilly-flowers,
Which fome call nature's baftards; of that kind
Our ruftick garden's barren, and I care not

To get flips of them.

Pol. Wherefore, gentle maiden,

Do you neglect them?

Per. For I have heard it faid,

There is an art, which in their pideness shares
With great creating nature.

Pol. Say there be,

Yet nature is made better by no mean,

But nature makes that mean; fo over that art,
Which you fay adds to nature, is an art

That nature makes; you fee, fweet maid, we marry

A gentler fcyon to the wildest stock,

And make conceive a bark of bafer kind

By bud of nobler race. This is an art

Which does mend nature, change it rather; but

The art it felf is nature.

Per. So it is

Pol. Then make your garden rich in gilly-flowers, And do not call them baftards.

Per. I'll not put.

VOL. IV.

F

The

The dibble in earth, to fet one flip of them:

No more than were I painted, I would wish
This youth fhould say 'twere well; and only therefore
Defire to breed by me.
Here's flowers for you;
Hot lavender, mints, favoury, marjoram,
The mary-gold, that goes to bed with th' fun,
And with him rifes, weeping: thefe are flowers
Of middle fummer, and I think, they are given
To men of middle age. Y'are very welcome.

Cam. I fhould leave grazing, were I of your flock,
And only live by gazing.

Per. Out, alas!

You'd be fo lean, that blafts of January

Would blow you through and through. Now, fairest friend,
I would I had fome flowers o' th' fpring, that might
Become your time of day; and yours, and yours,
That wear upon your virgin-branches yet
Your maiden-heads growing: O Proferpina,
For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou let'ft fall
From Dis's waggon! early daffadils,

That come before the fwallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty; violets dim,
But fweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes,
Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses,
That die unmarried, ere they can behold
Bright Phoebus in his ftrength, a malady
Moft incident to maids; gold oxflips, and
The crown-imperial: lillies of all kinds,
The flower-de-lis being one. O, these I lack
To make you garlands of, and my fweet friend
To ftrow him o'er and o'er.

Flo. What? like a Coarfe?

Per. No, like a bank, for love to lye and play on;

Not like a Coarfe; or if, not to be buried

But quick, and in mine arms. Come, take your flowers, Methinks I play as I have feen them do

In Whitfund' paftorals: fure this robe of mine

Does change my difpofition.

Flo. What you do,

Still betters what is done, When you speak, sweet,

I'd have you do it ever; when you fing,
I'd have you buy and fell fo; fo give alms;
Pray fo; and for the ord'ring your affairs,

To fing them too. When you do danee, I wish you
A wave o'th'fea, that you might ever do
Nothing but that; move ftill, ftill so,

And own no other function. Each your doing,
So fingular in each particular,

Crowns what you're doing in the prefent deeds,
That all your acts are Queens.

Per. O Doricles,

Your praises are too large; but that your youth
And the true blood which peeps forth fairly through it,
Do plainly give you out an unftain'd fhepherd,
With wildom I might fear, my Doricles,

You woo'd me the falfe way.

Flo. I think you have

As little fkill in fear, as I have purpose
To put you to't. But come, our dance I pray;
Your hand, my Perdita; fo turtles pair
That never mean to part.

Per. I'll fwear for 'em.

Pol. This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever
Ran on the green-ford; nothing the does, or feems,
But fmacks of fomething greater than her self,
Too noble for this place.

Cam. He tells her fomething

That makes her blood look out: good footh the is
The Queen of curds and cream.

Clo. Come on, ftrike up.

Dor. Mopfa muft be your mistress; marry, garlick To mend her kiffing with.

Mop. Now in good time.

Clo. Not a word, a word, we stand upon our manners, come ftrike up.

Here a dance of Shepherds and Shepherdeffes.

Pol. I pray, good fhepherd, what fair fwain is this Who dances with your daughter?

Shep. They call him Doricles, and he boafts himself To have a worthy breeding; but I have it

F 2

Upon

Upon his own report, and I believe it:

He looks like footh; he fays he loves my daughter,
I think fo too; for never gaz'd the moon
Upon the water, as he'll ftand and read

As twere my daughter's eyes: and, to be plain,
I think there is not half a kiss to chuse
Which loves the other best.

Pol. She dances featly.

Shep. So fhe does any thing, tho' I report it
That should be filent; if young Doricles
Do light upon her, fhe fhall bring him that
Which he not dreams of.

SCENE VI. Enter a Servant.

Ser. O mafter, if you did but hear the pedlar at the door, you would never dance again after a tabor and pipe: no, the bag-pipe could not move you; he fings feveral tunes fafter than you'll tell mony; he utters them as he had eaten ballads, and all mens ears grow to his tunes.

Clo. He could never come better; he fhall come in; I love a ballad but even too well, if it be doleful matter merrily fet down; or a very pleasant thing indeed, and fung lamentably.

Ser., He hath fongs for man or woman of all fizes; no milliner can fo fit his cuftomers with gloves: he has the prettieft love-fongs for maids, fo without bawdry, (which is ftrange) with fuch delicate burthens of dil-do's, and fading's: jump her and thump her: and where fome ftretchmouth'd rafcal would, as it were, mean mischief, and break a foul gap into the matter, he makes the maid to anfwer, Whoop! do me no barm, good man; puts him off, flights him, with Whoop! do me no barm, good man. Pol. This is a brave fellow.

Clo. Believe me, thou talkest of an admirable-conceited fellow; has he any unbraided wares?

Ser. He hath ribbons of all the colours i'th' rainbow; points, more than all the lawyers in Bithynia can learnedly handle, tho' they come to him by the grofs: inkles, caddiffes, cambricks, lawns; why, he fings 'em over as they were Gods or Goddeffes; you would think a (mock were a fhe

angel,

angel, he fo chants to the feeve-band, and the work about the fquare on't.

Clo. Pr'ythee bring him in, and let him approach finging.

Per. Forewarn him that he use no fcurrilous words in's tunes.

Clo. You have of these pedlars that have more in them than you'd think, fister.

Per. Ay, good brother, or go about to think.
Enter Autolicus finging.

Lawn as white as driven fnow,
Cyprus black as e'er was crow;
Gloves as fweet as damask rofes,
Mafks for faces, and for noses;
Bugle-bracelets, neck-lace amber,
Perfume for a Lady's chamber:
Golden quoifs, and ftomachers,
For my lads to give their dears:
Pins, and poaking-flicks of feel,
What maids lack from head to heel:

Come buy of me, come: come buy, come buy,

Buy, lads, or elfe your laffes cry: come buy.

Clo. If I were not in love with Mopfa, thou should't take no mony of me: but being enthrall'd as I am, it will alfo be the bondage of certain ribbons and gloves.

Mop. I was promis'd them against the feaft, but they come not too late now.

2

Dor. He hath promis'd you more than that, or there be liars.

Mop. He hath paid you all he promis'd you: 'may be he has paid you more, which will shame you to give him again.

Clo. Is there no manners left among maids? will they wear their plackets where they fhould bear their faces ? is there not milking-time, when you are going to bed, or kill-hole, to whiftle off these fecrets, but you must be tittle-tattling before all our guests? 'tis well they are whifpering: charm your tongues, and not a word more.

Mop. I have done come, you preinis'd me a tawdry lace, and a pair of fweet gloves.

Cla.