Per.

Sir, the year growing ancient,

Not yet on summer's death, nor on the birth

Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o' the season
Are our carnations, and streak'd gillyflowers,
Which some call nature's bastards: of that kind

Our rustic garden's barren, and I care not

There is an art which, in their piedness, shares

With great creating nature.

Yet nature is made better by no mean,

But nature makes that mean: so, o'er that art,
Which, you say, adds to nature, is an art

That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry
A gentler scion to the wildest stock,

And make conceive a bark of baser kind

By bud of nobler race: this is an art

Which does mend nature,

The art itself is nature.

Per.

change it rather; but

So it is.

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

The dibble in earth to set one slip of them:

No more than, were I painted, I would wish

This youth should say, 't were well, and only therefore
Desire to breed by me. - Here's flowers for you;

Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram;

The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun,

And with him rises weeping: these are flowers

Of middle summer, and, I think, they are given
To men of middle age. You are very welcome.
Cam. I should leave grazing, were I of your flock,
And only live by gazing.

-

You'd be so lean, that blasts of January
Would blow you through and through.

Now, my fair'st friend,

I would, I had some flowers o' the spring, that might
Become your time of day; and yours, and yours,
That wear upon your virgin branches yet

Your maidenheads growing:

O Proserpina!

For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou let'st fall
From Dis's waggon! daffodils,

That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty; violets dim,
But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes;
Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses,
That die unmarried ere they can behold
Bright Phoebus in his strength, a malady
Most incident to maids; bold oxlips, and
The crown-imperial; lilies of all kinds,
The flower-de-luce being one. O! these I lack,
To make you garlands of, and, my sweet friend,
To strew him o'er and o'er.

Flo.

What! like a corse?

Per. No, like a bank, for love to lie and play on, Not like a corse; or if, not to be buried,

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

In Whitsun-pastorals: sure, this robe of mine

Does change my disposition.

Flo.

Still betters what is done.

What you do

When you speak, sweet,

I'd have you do it ever: when you sing,
I'd have you buy and sell so; so give alms;
Pray so; and, for the ordering your affairs,
When you do dance, I wish you
that you might ever do

To sing them too.

A wave o' the sea,

And own no other function: each your doing,

So singular in each particular,

Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds,
That all your acts are queens.

Your praises are too large: but that your youth,
And the true blood, which peeps fairly through it,
Do plainly give you out an unstain'd shepherd,
With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles,

You woo'd me the false way.

Flo.

I think, you have

As little skill to fear, as I have purpose

To put you to 't. But, come; our dance, I pray.
Your hand, my Perdita: so turtles pair,

That never mean to part.

Per.

I'll swear for 'em.

Pol. This is the prettiest low-born lass, that ever Ran on the green-sward: nothing she does, or seems, But smacks of something greater than herself;

Too noble for this place.

Cam.

He tells her something,

That makes her blood look on 't.
The queen of curds and cream.

Clo.

Good sooth, she is

Come on, strike up.

Now, in good time

Dor. Mopsa must be your mistress: marry, garlick,

To mend her kissing with.

Mop.

Clo. Not a word, a word: we stand upon our manners, Come, strike up.

[Music.

[Here a dance of Shepherds and Shepherdesses. Pol. Pray, good shepherd, what fair swain is this, Which dances with your daughter?

Shep. They call him Doricles, and boasts himself To have a worthy feeding; but I have it

Upon his own report, and I believe it:

He looks like sooth. He says, he loves my daughter:
I think so too; for never gaz'd the moon

Upon the water, as he 'll stand, and read,

As 't were, my daughter's eyes; and, to be plain,

I think, there is not half a kiss to choose,

Who loves another best.

Pol.

She dances featly.

Shep. So she does any thing, though I report it, That should be silent. If young Doricles

Do light upon her, she shall bring him that

Which he not dreams of.

Enter a Servant.

Serv. O master! if you did but hear the pedler at the door, you would never dance again after a tabor and pipe; no, the bagpipe could not move you. He sings several tunes faster than you 'll tell money; he utters them as he had eaten ballads, and all men's ears grew to his tunes.

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

Serv. He hath songs, for man, or woman, of all sizes: no milliner can so fit his customers with gloves. He has the prettiest love-songs for maids; so without bawdry, which is strange; with such delicate burdens of "dildos" and "fadings," "jump her and thump her;" and where some stretch'd-mouth'd rascal would, as it were, mean mischief, and break a foul gap into the matter, he makes the maid to answer, "Whoop, do me no harm, good man;" puts him off, slights him with "Whoop, do me no harm, good man."

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

Serv. He hath ribands of all the colours i' the rainbow; points, more than all the lawyers in Bohemia can learnedly handle, though they come to him by the gross; inkles, caddisses, cambrics, lawns: why, he sings them over, as they were gods or goddesses. You would think a smock were a she-angel, he so chants to the sleeve-hand, and the work about the square on 't. Clo. Pr'ythee, bring him in, and let him approach singing. Per. Forewarn him, that he use no scurrilous words in's tunes.

Clo.

You have of these pedlers, that have more in them than you'd think, sister.

Per. Ay, good brother, or go about to think.

Enter AUTOLYCUS, singing.

Lawn, as white as driven snow;
Cyprus, black as e'er was crow;
Gloves, as sweet as damask roses;
Masks for faces, and for noses;
Bugle-bracelet, necklace amber,
Perfume for a lady's chamber:
Golden quoifs, and stomachers,
For my lads to give their dears;
Pins and peking-sticks of steel,
What maids lack from head to heel:

Come, buy of me, come; come buy, come buy;
Buy, lads, or else your lasses cry:

Come, buy.

Clo. If I were not in love with Mopsa, thou should'st take no money of me; but being enthrall'd as I am, it will also be the bondage of certain ribands and gloves.

Mop. I was promised them against the feast, but they come not too late now.

Dor. He hath promised you more than that, or there be liars. Mop. He hath paid you all he promised 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 should bear their faces? Is there not milking-time, when you are going to bed, or kiln-hole, to whistle off these secrets, but you must be tittle-tattling before all our guests? 'T is well they are whispering. Clamour your tongues, and not a word more.

Mop. I have done.

and a pair of sweet gloves.

Come, you promised me a tawdry lace,

Clo. Have I not told thee, how I was cozened by the way, and

lost all my money?