Is it not too far gone?—Tis time to part them.He's simple, and tells much. [Aside.]-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 silken treasury, and have pour'd it
To her acceptance; you have let him go,
And nothing marted with him: If your lass
Interpretation should abuse; and call this,
Your lack of love, or bounty; you were straited
For a reply, at least, if you make a care

Of happy holding her.

Flo.

Old sir, I know

She prizes not such trifles as these are:

The gifts, she looks from me, are pack'd and lock'd
Up in my heart; which I have given already,
But not deliver'd.-O, hear me breathe my life
Before this ancient sir, who, it should seem,
Hath sometime lov'd: I take thy hand; this hand,
As soft as dove's down, and as white as it;
Or Ethiopian's tooth, or the fann'd snow,
That's bolted by the northern blasts twice o'er.
Pol. What follows this?-

How prettily the young swain seems to wash
The hand, was fair before!-I have put you out:-
But, to your protestation; let me hear

Than he, and men; the earth, the heavens, and all: That, were I crown'd the most imperial monarch, Thereof most worthy; were I the fairest youth That ever made eye swerve; had force, and know

ledge,

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.

So well, nothing so well; no, nor mean better:
By the 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'the virtue of your daughter: one being dead,
I shall have more than you can dream of yet;
Enough then for your wonder: But, come on,
Contract us 'fore these witnesses.

Flo.

He neither does, nor shall.

Pol. Methinks, a father

Is, at the nuptial of his son, a guest

That best becomes the table. Pray you, once more;

Is not your father grown incapable

Of reasonable affairs? is he not stupid

With age, and altering rheums? Can he speak? hear?

Know man from man? dispute his own estate?
Lies he not bed-rid? and again does nothing,
But what he did being childish?

Flo.

No, good sir; 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 choose himself a wife; but as good reason,
The father, (all whose joy is nothing else
But fair posterity,) should hold some counsel
In such a business.

But, for some other reasons, my grave sir,
Which 'tis not fit you know, I not acquaint
My father of this business.

Shep. Let him, my son; he shall not need to

grieve

At knowing of thy choice.

G

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 affect'st a sheep-hook!-Thou old traitor,
I am sorry, that, by hanging thee, I can but
Shorten thy life one week.-And thou, fresh piece
Of excellent witchcraft; who, of force, must know
The royal fool thou cop'st with;-

Shep.

O, my heart! Pol. I'll have thy beauty scratch'd with briars,

and made

More homely than thy state.-For thee, fond boy,—
If I may ever know, thou dost but sigh,

That thou no more shalt see this knack, (as never
I mean thou shalt,) we'll bar thee from succession;
Not hold thee of our blood, no not our kin,
Far than Deucalion off: Mark thou my words;
Follow us to the court.-Thou churl, for this time,
Though full of our displeasure, yet we free thee
From the dead blow of it.-And you, enchant-

ment,

Worthy enough a herdsman; yea, him too,
That makes himself, but for our honour therein,
Unworthy thee, if ever, henceforth, thou
These rural latches to his entrance open,
Or hoop his body more with thy embraces,
I will devise a death as cruel for thee,

As thou art tender to't.

Per.

Even here undone!

[Exit.

I was not much afeard: for once, or twice,
I was about to speak; and tell him plainly,
The selfsame sun, that shines upon his court,
Hides not his visage from our cottage, but
Looks on alike.-Wilt please you, sir, be gone?
[To Florizel.
I told you, what would come of this: 'Beseech you,
Of your own state take care: this dream of mine,—
Being now awake, I'll queen it no inch further,
But milk my ewes, and weep.

Cam.

Speak, ere thou diest.

Shep.

Why, how now, father?

I cannot speak, nor think,

Nor dare to know that which I know.-O, sir,

[To Florizel.

You have undone a man of fourscore three,
That thought to fill his grave in quiet; yea,
To die upon the bed my father died,

To lie close by his honest bones: but now
Some hangman must put on my shroud, and lay me
Where no priest shovels-in dust.- O cursed wretch!
[To Perdita.

That knew'st this was the prince, and would'st ad

venture

To mingle faith with him.-Undone! undone!
If I might die within this hour, I have liv'd
To die when I desire.

Flo.

[Exit.

Why look you so upon me?

I am but sorry, not afeard; delay'd,

But nothing alter'd: What I was, I am:

More straining on, for plucking back; not following My leash unwillingly.