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Dor. We had the tune on't a month ago.

Aut. I can bear my part; you must know, 'tis my occupation: have at it with you.


A. Get you hence, for I must go;
Where, it fits not you to know.

D. Whither? M. O, whither? D. Whither?
M. It becomes thy oath full well,
Thou to me thy secrets tell:

D. Me too, let me go thither.

M. Or thou go'st to the grange, or mill:
D. If to either, thou dost ill.

A. Neither. D. What, neither? A. Neither.
D. Thou hast sworn my love to be;

M. Thou hast sworn it more to me:
Then, whither go'st? say, whither?

Clown. We'll have this song out anon by ourselves: My father and the gentlemen are in sad talk, and we'll not trouble them: Come, bring away thy pack after me. Wenches, I'll buy for you both:-Pedler, let's have the first choice.-Follow me, girls.

Aut. And you shall pay well for 'em.

Will you buy any tape,

Or lace for your cape,
My dainty duck, my dear-a?


Any silk, any thread,
Any toys for your head,
Of the new'st, and fin'st, fin'st wear-a?

Come to the pedler;
Money's a medler,

That doth utter all men's ware-a.

[Exeunt Clown, Autolycus, Dorcas, and


Enter a Servant.

Ser. Master, there is three carters, three shepherds, three neat-herds, 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 gallimaufry of gambols, because they are not in't; but they themselves are o'the mind, (if it be not too rough for some, 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 danced before the king; and not the worst of the three, but jumps twelve foot and a half by the squire.

Shep. Leave your prating; since these good men are pleased, let them come in; but quickly now. Ser. Why, they stay at door, sir.


Re-enter Servant, with twelve rusticks habited like
Satyrs. They dance, and then excunt.
Pol. O, father, you'll know more of that here-

Is it not too far gone?-Tis time to part them.He's simple, and tells much. [Aside.]-How now, fair shepherd?

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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.

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?-

Do, and be witness to't.
Pol. And this my neighbour too?

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

What you profess.

And he, and more

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 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.


Cam. This shows a sound affection.

Say you the like to him?


I cannot speak

So well, nothing so well; no, nor mean better:
By the pattern of mine own thoughts I cut out
The purity of his.


Fairly offer'd.

But, my daughter,


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.

And, daughter, yours.
Have you a father?

Pol. Knows he of this?

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.


Come, your hand;-

Soft, swain, a-while, 'beseech you;

I have: But what of him?


Pol. Methinks, a father

Is, at the nuptial of his son, a guest

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

He neither does, nor shall.

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?


No, good sir; He has his health, and ampler strength, indeed, Than most have of his age.

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.

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.


Flo. He shall not.



No, he must not.

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

Pr'ythee, let him.


At knowing of thy choice.

Let him know't.


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