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Shep. Leave your prating ; since these good men are pleas'd, let them come in; but quickly now.
Here a dance of twelve Satyrs.
Pol. O, father, you'll know more of that hereafter.
Is it not too far gone? 'tis time to part them ;
He's simple, and tells much.--How now, fair shepherd:
Your heart is full of something, that does take
Your mind from feasting. Sooth, when I was young,
And handed love, as you do, I was wont
To load my she with knacks: I would have ransack'd
The pedler's filken treasury, and have pour'd it
To her acceptance; you have let him
And nothing marted with him. If your lass
Interpretation should abuse, and call this
Your lack of love or bounty; you are traited
For a reply, at least, if you make care
Of happy holding her.
Flo. Old Sir, I know,
She prizes not such trifles as these are;
The gifts, Me looks from me, are packt and lockt
Up in my heart, which I have given already,
But not deliver’d. O, hear me breathe' my love
Before this ancient Sir, who, it should seem,
Hath sometime lov’d. I take thy hand, this hand,
As soft as dove's down, and as white as it,
Or Ethiopian's tooth, or the fann'd snow
That's bolted by the northern blaft twice o'er.
Pol. What follows this?
How prettily the young swain seems to walk
The hand, was fair before! I've put you out;
But, to your proteftation: let me hear
What you profess.
Flo. Do, and be witness to't.
Pol. And this my neighbour too?
Flo. And he, and more
Than he, and men ; the earth, and heav'ns, and all;
That were I crown'd the most imperial monarch
Thereof moft worthy, vere I the faireft youth
That ever made eye swerve, had force and knowledge
More than was ever man's, I would not prize them
Without her love; for her employ them all ;
Commend them, and condemn them, to her service,
Or to their own perdition.
Pol. Fairly offer'd.
Cam. This thews a found affection.
Shep. But my daughter,
Say you the like to him?
Per. I cannot speak
So well, nothing so well, no, nor mean better.
By th' pattern of mine own thoughts I cut out
The purity of his.
Shep. Take hands, a bargain;
And, friends unknown, you shall bear witness to't;
I give my daughter to him, and will make
Her portion equal his.
Flo. O, that must be
I'th' virtue of your daughter; one being dead,
I shall have more than you can dream of yet,
Enough then for your wonder: but come on,
Contract us 'fore these witnesses.
Shep. Come, your hand;
And, daughter, yours.
Pol. Solt, swain, a-while; 'beseech you,
Have you a father :
Flo. I have; but what of him?
Pol. Knows he of this ?
Flo. He neither does, nor shall.
Pol. Methinks, a father
İs, at the nuptial of his son, a guest
That best becomes the table: 'pray you once more,
Is not your father grown incapable
Of reasonable affairs? is he not stupid
With age, and alt’ring rheums ? can he speak? heard
Know man from mar? dispute his own estate ?
Lies he not bed-rid ? and, again, does nothing,
But what he did being childish ?
Flo. No, good Şir;
He has his health, and ampler strength, indeed,
Than most have of his age.
Pol. By my white beard,
You offer him, if this be so, a wrong
Something unfilial : Reason, my son
Should chuse himself a wife; but as good reason,
The father (all whose joy is nothing else
But fair pofterity) hould hold some counsel
In such a business.
Flo. I yield all this ;
But for some other reasons, my grave Sir,
Which 'tis not fit you know, I not acquaint
My father of this business.
Pol. Let him know't.
Flo. He shall not.
Pol. Pr'ythee, let him.
Flo. No; he must not.
Shep. Let him, my fon, he shall not need to grieve At knowing of thy choice.
Flo. Come, come, he must not: Mark our contract.
Pol. Mark your divorce, young Sir, [Discovering himself, Whom son I dare not call : thou art too base To be acknowledg’d. Thou a scepter's heir, That thus affe&t'ít a sheep-hook! Thou old traitor, I'm sorry, that, by hanging thee, I can but Shorten thy life one week. And thou fresh piece Of excellent witchcraft, who of force must know The royal fool thou coap'st with Shep. o
heart! Pol. I'll have thy beauty scratch'd with briars, and made More homely than thy itate. For thee, fond boy, If I may ever know thou doft but figh That thou no more thalt see this knack, as never I mean thou shalt, we'll bar thee from succession; Not hold thee of our blood, no, not our kin, Far than Deucalion off: mark thou my words; Follow us to the court. Thou churl, for this time, Tho' full of our displeasure, yet we free thee From the dead blow of it: and you, enchantment, Worthy enough a herdsman ; yea him too, That makes himself, but for our honour therein,
Unworthy thee; if ever, henceforth, thou
These rural latches to his entrance open,
Or hoop his body more with thy embraces,
I will devise a death as cruel for thee,
As thou art tender to it,
Per. Even here undone :
I was not much afraid ; for once or twice
I was about to speak, and tell him plainly,
The self-fame sun, that shines upon his court,
Hides not his visage from our coitage,.but
Looks on alike. Wilt please you, Sir, be gone? [ToFlor.
I told you, what would come of this. 'Befeech you,
Of your own ftate take care : this dream of mine,
Being now awake, I'll queen it no inch farther,
But milk my ewes, and weep.
Cam. Why, how now, father? Speak, ere thou dieft.
Shep. I cannot speak, nor think, Nor dare to know that which I know. O Sir, (To Flor. You have undone a man of fourscore three, That thought to fill his grave in quiet; yea, To die upon the bed my father dy'd, To lie close by his honeft bones; but now Some hangman must put on my shroud, and lay me Where no priest shovels in duit. O cursed wretch!
[To Perdita. Thatknew'ft, this was the Prince; and would it adventure To mingle faith with him. Undone, undone! If I might die within this hour, I have liv'd To die when I desire.
[Exit. Flo. Why look you fo
I am but forry, not afraid; delay'd,
But nothing alter’d: what I was; I am;
More ftraining on, for plucking back; not following
My leash unwillingly.
Cam. Gracious my Lord,
You know your father's tèmper: at this time
He will allow no speech, (which I do guess,
You do not purpose to him ;) and as hardly
Will he endure your sight, as yet I fear;
Then, 'till the fury of his Highness settle,
Come not before him.
Flo. I not purpose it.
I think, Camillo
Cam. Even he, my Lord.
Per. How often have I told you, 'twould be thus ?
How often said, my dignity would last
But 'till 'cwere known?
Flo. It cannot fail, but by
The violation of my faith, and then
Let Nature crush the sides o'th' earth together,
And mar the seeds within!-Lift up thy looks!
my fucceflion wipe me, father, 1 Am heir to my affection.
Cam. Be advis'd.
Flo. I am; and by my fancy; if my reason
Will thereto be obedient, I have reason ;
If not, my senses, better pleas’d with madnefs,
Do bid it welcome.
Cam. This is desperate, Sir.
Flo. So call it; but it does fulfil my vow;
I needs must think it honesty. Camillo,
Not for Bohemia, nor the pomp
may Be thereat glean’d; for all the sun fees, or The close earth wombs, or the profound feas hide In unknown fathoms, will I break my oath To this
fair belov'd: therefore, I pray you,
As you have ever been my father's friend,
When he hall miss me, (as, in faith, I mean not
To see him any more) cast your good counsels
Upon his paffion; let myself and fortune
Tug for the time to come. This you may know,
And so deliver, I am put to sea
With her, whoin here I cannot hold on shore;
And, most opportune to our need, I have
A vessel rides fast by, but not prepar'd
For this design. What course I mean to hold
Shall nothing benefit your knowledge, nor
Concern me the reporting.
Cam. O my Lord,