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Vilely bound up? What would he say? Or how
O but, dear sir,
purpose, Or I my
life. Flo. Thou dearest Perdita, With these forc'd thoughts, I pr’ythee, darken not The mirth o'the feast: Or I'll be thine, my fair, Or not my father's: for I cannot be Mine own, nor any thing to any,
if I be not thine: to this I am most constant, Though destiny say, no. Be merry, gentle; Strangle such thoughts as these, with any thing That you behold the while. Your guests are coming: Lift up your countenance; as it were the day
Of celebration of that nuptial, which
O lady fortune,
Enter Shepherd, with Polirenes, and Camillo, dis
guised; Clown, Mopsa, Dorcas, and others. Flo.
See, your guests approach: Address yourself to entertain them sprightly, And let's be red with mirth. Shep. Fye, daughter! when my old wife liv’d,
Welcome, sir! [To Pol.
Give me those flowers there, Dorcas. Reverend
and rue; these keep
Sir, the year growing ancient,--
season Are our carnations, and streak'd gillyflowers, Which some call, nature's bastards: of that kind Our rustick garden's barren; and I care not To get slips of them. Pol.
Wherefore, gentle maiden, Do you neglect them? Per.
For I have heard it said, There is an art, which, in their piedness, shares. With great creating nature. Pol.
Say, there be; 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,--change it rather: but The art itself is nature.
So it is. Pol. Then make your garden rich in gillyflowers, And do not call them bastards.
I'll not put The dibble in earth to set one slip of them : No more than, were I painted, I would wish This youth should say, 'twere well; and only there.
fore Desire to breed by me.--Here's flowers for you; Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed with 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. Per.
Out, alas! You'd be so lean, that blasts of January Would blow you through and through.-Now, my
fairest friend, I would, I had some flowers o'the spring, that might Become your time of day; and yours,
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 Phæbus in his strength, a malady
Most incident to maids; bold oxlips, and
What? like a corse?
What you do,
O Doricles, Your praises are too large; but that your youth, And the true blood, which fairly peeps 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