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SCENE, the profpect of a Shepherd's Cott.
Enter Florizel and Perdita.
HESE your unufual weeds to each part
Peering in April's front. This your sheep-fhearing
And you the Queen on't.
Per. Sir, my gracious Lord,
To chide at your extreams it not becomes me:
To fee you fo attired; fworn, I think,
Flo. I blefs the time,
When my good falcon made her flight a-cross
Per. Now Jove afford you caufe!
To me the difference forges dread; (your greatnefs
Should pass this way, as you did: oh, the fates!
Nothing but jollity: the gods themselves,
As I feem now. Their transformations
Nor in a way so chafte: fince my defires
Per. O, but, dear Sir,
Your refolution cannot hold, when 'tis
Oppos'd, as it must be, by th' power o'th' King.
Which then will fpeak, that you must change this purpose,
Flo. Thou deareft Perdita,
With thefe forc'd thoughts, I pr'ythee, darken not
Mine own, nor any thing to any, if
I be not thine. To this I am most constant,
Of celebration of that nuptial, which
We two have fworn fhall come.
Per. O lady Fortune,
Stand you aufpicious!
Enter Shepherd, Clown, Mopfa, Dorcas, Servants; and Polixenes and Camillo difguis'd.
Flo. See, your guests approach;
Addrefs yourself to entertain them fprightly,
Shep. Fy, daughter; when my old wife liv'd, upon This day he was both pantler, butler, cook,
Both dame and fervant; welcom'd all, ferv'd all;
A way to make us better friends, more known.
Per. Sirs, welcome.
[To Pol. and Cam.
my father's will, I fhould take on me
The hoftefsfhip o'th' day; you're welcome, Sirs.
Give me thofe flowers there, Dorcas.-Reverend Sirs,
Seeming and favour all the winter long :
(A fair one are you,) well you fit our ages
Per. Sir, the year growing ancient,
Not yet on fummer's death, nor on the birth
Of trembling winter, the faireft flowers o'th' feafon
To get flips of them.
Pol. Wherefore, gentle maiden,
Do you neglect them?
Per. For I have heard it faid,
There is an art, which in their pideness shares
Pol. Say, there be;
Yet Nature is made better by no mean,
But Nature makes that mean; fo over that art,
Which, you fay, adds to Nature, is an art
That Nature makes; you fee, fweet maid, we marry
A gentler fcyon to the wildeft ftock;
And make conceive a bark of bafer kind
By bud of nobler race.
This is an art,
Which does mend Nature, change it rather; but
The art itself is Nature.
Per. So it is.
Pol. Then make your garden rich in gilly-flowers,
And do not call them baftards,
Per. I'll not put
The dibble in earth, to fet one flip of them:
Per. Out, alas!
You'd be fo lean, that blafts of January
Would blow you through and through. Now, my faireft
I would, I had fome flowers o'th' fpring, that might
For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou let'ft fall
That come before the fwallow dares, and take
Flo. What? like a coarfe?
Per. No, like a bank, for love to lie and play on ;
Not like a coarse; or if,-not to be buried
But quick, and in mine arms. Come, take your flowers;
In Whitfun paftorals: fure, this robe of mine
Flo. What you do,
Still betters what is done. When you fpeak, (fweet)
I'd have you buy and fell fo; fo, give alms;
And own no other function. Each your doing,
Crowns what you're doing in the prefent deeds,
Per. O Doricles,
Your praises are too large; but that
And the true blood, which peeps forth fairly through it, Do plainly give you out an unftain'd fhepherd;
With wifdom I might fear, my Doricles,
You woo'd me the falfe way.
Flo. I think, you have
As little skill to fear, as 1 have purpose
To put you to't. But, come; our dance, I pray;
That never mean to part.
Per. I'll fwear for 'em.
Pol. This is the prettieft low-born lafs, that ever
Cam. He tells her fomething (26),
He tells her fomething,
That makes her blood look on't.] Thus all the old editions corruptedly. I dare fay, I have reftor'd the true reading; and the meaning must be this. The Prince tells her fomething, that calls the blood up into her cheeks, and makes ber blush. She, but a little before, ufes a like expreffion to defcribe the Prince's fincerity, which appear'd in the honeft blood rifing on his face.
Your praises are too large; but that your youth
And the true blood, which peeps forth fairly through it,
I corrected the above paffage, when I publish'd my SHAKESPEARE reftor'd: and Mr. Pofe in his laft impreffion has thought fit to embrace the correction.