Enter Servant, with twelve Rustics, habited like Satyrs. They dance, and then exeunt. 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. [Aside.]- How now, fair shepherd? Your heart is full of something that does take To load my she with knacks. I would have ransack'd The pedler's silken treasury, and have pour'd it Your lack of love or bounty, you were straited 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 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 th' young swain seems to wash Do, and be witness to' t. Flo. And he, and more Pol. And this my neighbour too? Flo. 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 knowl edge 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. Cam. This shows a sound affection. Say you the like to him? Per. Fairly offer'd. But, my daughter, I cannot speak So well, nothing so well; no, nor mean better: 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, Shep. And, daughter, yours. Pol. Come, your hand; Soft, 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 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? 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. 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 But fair posterity) should hold some counsel Flo. I yield all this; But, for some other reasons, my grave sir, 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 shall not need to Whom son I dare not call; thou art too base 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 never 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'r 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, enchantment, Worthy enough a herdsman; yea, him too, That makes himself, but for our honour therein, These rural latches to his entrance open, Or hoop his body more with thy embraces, As thou art tender to 't. Per. [Exit. Even here undone! I was not much afeard; for, once or twice, I was about to speak, and tell him plainly The self-same sun that shines upon his Court Hides not his visage from our cottage, but Looks on alike. Will't please you, sir, begone? [TO FLORIZEL. I told you what would come o' this. 'Beseech you, 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 lie close by his honest bones: but now [TO PERDITA. That knew'st this was the Prince, and would'st ad venture To mingle faith with him. - Undone! undone ! 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. Cam. Gracious my lord, You know your father's temper: at this time Flo. I think, Camillo. I not purpose it. |