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for your

Clo. We'll have this song out anon by ourselves : my father and the gentlemen are in fad talk, and we'll not trouble them : come bring away thy pack after me. Wenches, l'll buy for you both: pedler, let's have the first choice; follow me, girls. Aut. And you pay

well for 'em.

S O N G.
Will you buy any tape, or lace for your cape,

My dainty duck, my dear-a?
And folk, and thread, any toys

Of the new'ft, and fin'st, fin'ft ware-a ?
Come to the pedler; money's a medler,
That doth utter all mens ware-a.
[Exit Clown, Autolicus, Dorcas, and Mopsa.

Enter a Servant. · Ser. (27) Mafter, there are three goat-herds, three fhepherds, three neat-herds, and three swine-herds, that have made themselves all men of hair, they call themselves saltiers: and they have a dance, which the wenches say is a gallymaufry of gambols, because they are not in't: but they themselves are o'th' mind, (if it be not too rough for fome, that know little but bowling,) it will please plentifully.

Shep. Away! we'll none on't; here has been too much homely foolery already. I know, Sir, we weary you.

Pol. You' weary those, that refresh us : 'pray, let's see these four-threes of herdsmen.

Ser. One three of them by their own report, Sir, hath danc'd before the King; and not the worst of the three but jumps twelve foot and a half by th' square.

(27) Master, there are tbree carters, three faepberds, three neat-berds, and three swine-berds.] Thus all the printed copies hitherto. Now, in two speeches after this, these are called four three's of berdsmen. But could the carters properly be call'd berdsmen? at least, they have not the final syllable, berd, in their names; which, I believe, Shakespeare intended, all the four threes should have. I have therefore guess'd that he wrote ;-Mafter, there are three goat-herds, &c And so, I think, we take in the four species of cattle usually tended by berdsmen.


Shep. Leave your prating ; since thefe 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 fimple, 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 te with knacks : I would have ransack'd
The pedler's filken 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 are straited
For a reply, at least, if you make care
Of happy holding her.

Flo. Old Sir, I know,
She prizes not such trifes as these are;
The gifts, he 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 feem,
Hath sometime lov'd. I take thy hand, this hand,
As soft as dove's down, and as white as it,
Os Etbiopian'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 fwain seems to wash ,
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 most worthy, were I the faireft youth-
That ever made eye swerve, had force and knowledge


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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 shews a sound affection.

Shep. But my daughter,
Say you the like to him ?

Per. I cannot speak
So well, nothing to 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 Thall have more than you can dream of yet,
Enough then for your wonder: but come on,
Contract us 'fore thefe witnesses.

Shep. Come, your hand;
And, daughter, yours.

Pol. Sort, 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
Is, at the nuptial of his son, a guest
That beft 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? hear?
Know man from man? dispute his own eftate ?
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, á

Something unfilial : Reason, my fon
Should chufe himself a wife; but as good reason,
The father (all whose joy is nothing else
But fair pofterity) should 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 son, he frall 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

That thus affe&t'it 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 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 figh 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, 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,


his court,

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 fun, that shines

upon Hides not his visage from our cottage, but Looks on alike. Wilt please you, Sir, be gone? [ToFlor. 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 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'st adventure To mingle faith with him. Undone, undone! If I might die within this hour, I have liv'd To die when I desire.

Flo. Why look you so upon me?
I am but forry, not afraid; delay'd,
But nothing alter'd : what I was, I am ;
More Atraining on, for plucking back; not following
My leash unwillingly.

Cam. Gracious my Lord,
You know your father's temper: 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 fight, as yet I fear;


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