Winter's Tale




William Shakespeare





SCENE I. Antechamber in LEONTES' palace. 3

SCENE II. A room of state in the same. 5


SCENE I. A room in LEONTES' palace. 25

SCENE II. A prison. 35

SCENE III. A room in LEONTES' palace. 39


SCENE I. A sea-port in Sicilia. 49

SCENE II. A court of Justice. 51

SCENE III. Bohemia. A desert country near the sea. 60

ACT IV.. 65


SCENE II. Bohemia. The palace of POLIXENES. 66

SCENE III. A road near the Shepherd's cottage. 68

SCENE IV. The Shepherd's cottage. 74

ACT V.. 112

SCENE I. A room in LEONTES' palace. 112

SCENE II. Before LEONTES' palace. 123

SCENE III. A chapel in PAULINA'S house. 130



SCENE I. Antechamber in LEONTES' palace.






    If you shall chance, Camillo, to visit Bohemia, on

    the like occasion whereon my services are now on

    foot, you shall see, as I have said, great

    difference betwixt our Bohemia and your Sicilia.




    I think, this coming summer, the King of Sicilia

    means to pay Bohemia the visitation which he justly owes him.




    Wherein our entertainment shall shame us we will be

    justified in our loves; for indeed--




    Beseech you,--




    Verily, I speak it in the freedom of my knowledge:

    we cannot with such magnificence--in so rare--I know

    not what to say. We will give you sleepy drinks,

    that your senses, unintelligent of our insufficience,

    may, though they cannot praise us, as little accuse





    You pay a great deal too dear for what's given freely.




    Believe me, I speak as my understanding instructs me

    and as mine honesty puts it to utterance.




    Sicilia cannot show himself over-kind to Bohemia.

    They were trained together in their childhoods; and

    there rooted betwixt them then such an affection,

    which cannot choose but branch now. Since their

    more mature dignities and royal necessities made

    separation of their society, their encounters,

    though not personal, have been royally attorneyed

    with interchange of gifts, letters, loving

    embassies; that they have seemed to be together,

    though absent, shook hands, as over a vast, and

    embraced, as it were, from the ends of opposed

    winds. The heavens continue their loves!




    I think there is not in the world either malice or

    matter to alter it. You have an unspeakable

    comfort of your young prince Mamillius: it is a

    gentleman of the greatest promise that ever came

    into my note.




    I very well agree with you in the hopes of him: it

    is a gallant child; one that indeed physics the

    subject, makes old hearts fresh: they that went on

    crutches ere he was born desire yet their life to

    see him a man.




    Would they else be content to die?




    Yes; if there were no other excuse why they should

    desire to live.




    If the king had no son, they would desire to live

    on crutches till he had one.



SCENE II. A room of state in the same.






    Nine changes of the watery star hath been

    The shepherd's note since we have left our throne

    Without a burthen: time as long again

    Would be find up, my brother, with our thanks;

    And yet we should, for perpetuity,

    Go hence in debt: and therefore, like a cipher,

    Yet standing in rich place, I multiply

    With one 'We thank you' many thousands moe

    That go before it.




    Stay your thanks a while;

    And pay them when you part.




    Sir, that's to-morrow.

    I am question'd by my fears, of what may chance

    Or breed upon our absence; that may blow

    No sneaping winds at home, to make us say

    'This is put forth too truly:' besides, I have stay'd

    To tire your royalty.




    We are tougher, brother,

    Than you can put us to't.




    No longer stay.




    One seven-night longer.




    Very sooth, to-morrow.




    We'll part the time between's then; and in that

    I'll no gainsaying.




    Press me not, beseech you, so.

    There is no tongue that moves, none, none i' the world,

    So soon as yours could win me: so it should now,

    Were there necessity in your request, although

    'Twere needful I denied it. My affairs

    Do even drag me homeward: which to hinder

    Were in your love a whip to me; my stay

    To you a charge and trouble: to save both,

    Farewell, our brother.




    Tongue-tied, our queen?

    speak you.




    I had thought, sir, to have held my peace until

    You have drawn oaths from him not to stay. You, sir,

    Charge him too coldly. Tell him, you are sure

    All in Bohemia's well; this satisfaction

    The by-gone day proclaim'd: say this to him,

    He's beat from his best ward.




    Well said, Hermione.




    To tell, he longs to see his son, were strong:

    But let him say so then, and let him go;

    But let him swear so, and he shall not stay,

    We'll thwack him hence with distaffs.

    Yet of your royal presence I'll adventure

    The borrow of a week. When at Bohemia

    You take my lord, I'll give him my commission

    To let him there a month behind the gest

    Prefix'd for's parting: yet, good deed, Leontes,

    I love thee not a jar o' the clock behind

    What lady-she her lord. You'll stay?




    No, madam.




    Nay, but you will?




    I may not, verily.





    You put me off with limber vows; but I,

    Though you would seek to unsphere the

    stars with oaths,

    Should yet say 'Sir, no going.' Verily,

    You shall not go: a lady's 'Verily' 's

    As potent as a lord's. Will you go yet?

    Force me to keep you as a prisoner,

    Not like a guest; so you shall pay your fees

    When you depart, and save your thanks. How say you?

    My prisoner? or my guest? by your dread 'Verily,'

    One of them you shall be.




    Your guest, then, madam:

    To be your prisoner should import offending;

    Which is for me less easy to commit

    Than you to punish.




    Not your gaoler, then,

    But your kind hostess. Come, I'll question you

    Of my lord's tricks and yours when you were boys:

    You were pretty lordings then?




    We were, fair queen,

    Two lads that thought there was no more behind

    But such a day to-morrow as to-day,

    And to be boy eternal.




    Was not my lord

    The verier wag o' the two?




    We were as twinn'd lambs that did frisk i' the sun,

    And bleat the one at the other: what we changed

    Was innocence for innocence; we knew not

    The doctrine of ill-doing, nor dream'd

    That any did. Had we pursued that life,

    And our weak spirits ne'er been higher rear'd

    With stronger blood, we should have answer'd heaven

    Boldly 'not guilty;' the imposition clear'd

    Hereditary ours.




    By this we gather

    You have tripp'd since.




    O my most sacred lady!

    Temptations have since then been born to's; for

    In those unfledged days was my wife a girl;

    Your precious self had then not cross'd the eyes

    Of my young play-fellow.




    Grace to boot!

    Of this make no conclusion, lest you say

    Your queen and I are devils: yet go on;

    The offences we have made you do we'll answer,

    If you first sinn'd with us and that with us

    You did continue fault and that you slipp'd not

    With any but with us.




    Is he won yet?




    He'll stay my lord.




    At my request he would not.

    Hermione, my dearest, thou never spokest

    To better purpose.








    Never, but once.




    What! have I twice said well? when was't before?

    I prithee tell me; cram's with praise, and make's

    As fat as tame things: one good deed dying tongueless

    Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that.

    Our praises are our wages: you may ride's

    With one soft kiss a thousand furlongs ere

    With spur we beat an acre. But to the goal:

    My last good deed was to entreat his stay:

    What was my first? it has an elder sister,

    Or I mistake you: O, would her name were Grace!

    But once before I spoke to the purpose: when?

    Nay, let me have't; I long.




    Why, that was when

    Three crabbed months had sour'd themselves to death,

    Ere I could make thee open thy white hand

    And clap thyself my love: then didst thou utter

    'I am yours for ever.'




    'Tis grace indeed.

    Why, lo you now, I have spoke to the purpose twice:

    The one for ever earn'd a royal husband;

    The other for some while a friend.




    [Aside] Too hot, too hot!

    To mingle friendship far is mingling bloods.

    I have tremor cordis on me: my heart dances;

    But not for joy; not joy. This entertainment

    May a free face put on, derive a liberty

    From heartiness, from bounty, fertile bosom,

    And well become the agent; 't may, I grant;

    But to be paddling palms and pinching fingers,

    As now they are, and making practised smiles,

    As in a looking-glass, and then to sigh, as 'twere

    The mort o' the deer; O, that is entertainment

    My bosom likes not, nor my brows! Mamillius,

    Art thou my boy?




    Ay, my good lord.




    I' fecks!

    Why, that's my bawcock. What, hast

    smutch'd thy nose?

    They say it is a copy out of mine. Come, captain,

    We must be neat; not neat, but cleanly, captain:

    And yet the steer, the heifer and the calf

    Are all call'd neat.--Still virginalling

    Upon his palm!--How now, you wanton calf!

    Art thou my calf?




    Yes, if you will, my lord.




    Thou want'st a rough pash and the shoots that I have,

    To be full like me: yet they say we are

    Almost as like as eggs; women say so,

    That will say anything but were they false

    As o'er-dyed blacks, as wind, as waters, false

    As dice are to be wish'd by one that fixes

    No bourn 'twixt his and mine, yet were it true

    To say this boy were like me. Come, sir page,

    Look on me with your welkin eye: sweet villain!

    Most dear'st! my collop! Can thy dam?--may't be?--

    Affection! thy intention stabs the centre:

    Thou dost make possible things not so held,

    Communicatest with dreams;--how can this be?--

    With what's unreal thou coactive art,

    And fellow'st nothing: then 'tis very credent

    Thou mayst co-join with something; and thou dost,

    And that beyond commission, and I find it,

    And that to the infection of my brains

    And hardening of my brows.




    What means Sicilia?




    He something seems unsettled.




    How, my lord!

    What cheer? how is't with you, best brother?




    You look as if you held a brow of much distraction

    Are you moved, my lord?




    No, in good earnest.

    How sometimes nature will betray its folly,

    Its tenderness, and make itself a pastime

    To harder bosoms! Looking on the lines

    Of my boy's face, methoughts I did recoil

    Twenty-three years, and saw myself unbreech'd,

    In my green velvet coat, my dagger muzzled,

    Lest it should bite its master, and so prove,

    As ornaments oft do, too dangerous:

    How like, methought, I then was to this kernel,

    This squash, this gentleman. Mine honest friend,

    Will you take eggs for money?




    No, my lord, I'll fight.




    You will! why, happy man be's dole! My brother,

    Are you so fond of your young prince as we

    Do seem to be of ours?




    If at home, sir,

    He's all my exercise, my mirth, my matter,

    Now my sworn friend and then mine enemy,

    My parasite, my soldier, statesman, all:

    He makes a July's day short as December,

    And with his varying childness cures in me

    Thoughts that would thick my blood.




    So stands this squire

    Officed with me: we two will walk, my lord,

    And leave you to your graver steps. Hermione,

    How thou lovest us, show in our brother's welcome;

    Let what is dear in Sicily be cheap:

    Next to thyself and my young rover, he's

    Apparent to my heart.




    If you would seek us,

    We are yours i' the garden: shall's attend you there?




    To your own bents dispose you: you'll be found,

    Be you beneath the sky.



    I am angling now,

    Though you perceive me not how I give line.

    Go to, go to!

    How she holds up the neb, the bill to him!

    And arms her with the boldness of a wife

    To her allowing husband!


    Exeunt POLIXENES, HERMIONE, and Attendants

    Gone already!

    Inch-thick, knee-deep, o'er head and

    ears a fork'd one!

    Go, play, boy, play: thy mother plays, and I

    Play too, but so disgraced a part, whose issue

    Will hiss me to my grave: contempt and clamour

    Will be my knell. Go, play, boy, play.

    There have been,

    Or I am much deceived, cuckolds ere now;

    And many a man there is, even at this present,

    Now while I speak this, holds his wife by the arm,

    That little thinks she has been sluiced in's absence

    And his pond fish'd by his next neighbour, by

    Sir Smile, his neighbour: nay, there's comfort in't

    Whiles other men have gates and those gates open'd,

    As mine, against their will. Should all despair

    That have revolted wives, the tenth of mankind

    Would hang themselves. Physic for't there is none;

    It is a bawdy planet, that will strike

    Where 'tis predominant; and 'tis powerful, think it,

    From east, west, north and south: be it concluded,

    No barricado for a belly; know't;

    It will let in and out the enemy

    With bag and baggage: many thousand on's

    Have the disease, and feel't not. How now, boy!




    I am like you, they say.




    Why that's some comfort. What, Camillo there?




    Ay, my good lord.




    Go play, Mamillius; thou'rt an honest man.



    Camillo, this great sir will yet stay longer.




    You had much ado to make his anchor hold:

    When you cast out, it still came home.




    Didst note it?




    He would not stay at your petitions: made

    His business more material.




    Didst perceive it?



    They're here with me already, whispering, rounding

    'Sicilia is a so-forth:' 'tis far gone,

    When I shall gust it last. How came't, Camillo,

    That he did stay?




    At the good queen's entreaty.




    At the queen's be't: 'good' should be pertinent

    But, so it is, it is not. Was this taken

    By any understanding pate but thine?

    For thy conceit is soaking, will draw in

    More than the common blocks: not noted, is't,

    But of the finer natures? by some severals

    Of head-piece extraordinary? lower messes

    Perchance are to this business purblind? say.




    Business, my lord! I think most understand

    Bohemia stays here longer.








    Stays here longer.




    Ay, but why?




    To satisfy your highness and the entreaties

    Of our most gracious mistress.





    The entreaties of your mistress! satisfy!

    Let that suffice. I have trusted thee, Camillo,

    With all the nearest things to my heart, as well

    My chamber-councils, wherein, priest-like, thou

    Hast cleansed my bosom, I from thee departed

    Thy penitent reform'd: but we have been

    Deceived in thy integrity, deceived

    In that which seems so.




    Be it forbid, my lord!




    To bide upon't, thou art not honest, or,

    If thou inclinest that way, thou art a coward,

    Which hoxes honesty behind, restraining

    From course required; or else thou must be counted

    A servant grafted in my serious trust

    And therein negligent; or else a fool

    That seest a game play'd home, the rich stake drawn,

    And takest it all for jest.




    My gracious lord,

    I may be negligent, foolish and fearful;

    In every one of these no man is free,

    But that his negligence, his folly, fear,

    Among the infinite doings of the world,

    Sometime puts forth. In your affairs, my lord,

    If ever I were wilful-negligent,

    It was my folly; if industriously

    I play'd the fool, it was my negligence,

    Not weighing well the end; if ever fearful

    To do a thing, where I the issue doubted,

    Where of the execution did cry out

    Against the non-performance, 'twas a fear

    Which oft infects the wisest: these, my lord,

    Are such allow'd infirmities that honesty

    Is never free of. But, beseech your grace,

    Be plainer with me; let me know my trespass

    By its own visage: if I then deny it,

    'Tis none of mine.




    Ha' not you seen, Camillo,--

    But that's past doubt, you have, or your eye-glass

    Is thicker than a cuckold's horn,--or heard,--

    For to a vision so apparent rumour

    Cannot be mute,--or thought,--for cogitation

    Resides not in that man that does not think,--

    My wife is slippery? If thou wilt confess,

    Or else be impudently negative,

    To have nor eyes nor ears nor thought, then say

    My wife's a hobby-horse, deserves a name

    As rank as any flax-wench that puts to

    Before her troth-plight: say't and justify't.




    I would not be a stander-by to hear

    My sovereign mistress clouded so, without

    My present vengeance taken: 'shrew my heart,

    You never spoke what did become you less

    Than this; which to reiterate were sin

    As deep as that, though true.




    Is whispering nothing?

    Is leaning cheek to cheek? is meeting noses?

    Kissing with inside lip? stopping the career

    Of laughing with a sigh?--a note infallible

    Of breaking honesty--horsing foot on foot?

    Skulking in corners? wishing clocks more swift?

    Hours, minutes? noon, midnight? and all eyes

    Blind with the pin and web but theirs, theirs only,

    That would unseen be wicked? is this nothing?

    Why, then the world and all that's in't is nothing;

    The covering sky is nothing; Bohemia nothing;

    My wife is nothing; nor nothing have these nothings,

    If this be nothing.




    Good my lord, be cured

    Of this diseased opinion, and betimes;

    For 'tis most dangerous.




    Say it be, 'tis true.




    No, no, my lord.




    It is; you lie, you lie:

    I say thou liest, Camillo, and I hate thee,

    Pronounce thee a gross lout, a mindless slave,

    Or else a hovering temporizer, that

    Canst with thine eyes at once see good and evil,

    Inclining to them both: were my wife's liver

    Infected as her life, she would not live

    The running of one glass.




    Who does infect her?




    Why, he that wears her like a medal, hanging

    About his neck, Bohemia: who, if I

    Had servants true about me, that bare eyes

    To see alike mine honour as their profits,

    Their own particular thrifts, they would do that

    Which should undo more doing: ay, and thou,

    His cupbearer,--whom I from meaner form

    Have benched and reared to worship, who mayst see

    Plainly as heaven sees earth and earth sees heaven,

    How I am galled,--mightst bespice a cup,

    To give mine enemy a lasting wink;

    Which draught to me were cordial.




    Sir, my lord,

    I could do this, and that with no rash potion,

    But with a lingering dram that should not work

    Maliciously like poison: but I cannot

    Believe this crack to be in my dread mistress,

    So sovereignly being honourable.

    I have loved thee,--




    Make that thy question, and go rot!

    Dost think I am so muddy, so unsettled,

    To appoint myself in this vexation, sully

    The purity and whiteness of my sheets,

    Which to preserve is sleep, which being spotted

    Is goads, thorns, nettles, tails of wasps,

    Give scandal to the blood o' the prince my son,

    Who I do think is mine and love as mine,

    Without ripe moving to't? Would I do this?

    Could man so blench?




    I must believe you, sir:

    I do; and will fetch off Bohemia for't;

    Provided that, when he's removed, your highness

    Will take again your queen as yours at first,

    Even for your son's sake; and thereby for sealing

    The injury of tongues in courts and kingdoms

    Known and allied to yours.




    Thou dost advise me

    Even so as I mine own course have set down:

    I'll give no blemish to her honour, none.




    My lord,

    Go then; and with a countenance as clear

    As friendship wears at feasts, keep with Bohemia

    And with your queen. I am his cupbearer:

    If from me he have wholesome beverage,

    Account me not your servant.




    This is all:

    Do't and thou hast the one half of my heart;

    Do't not, thou split'st thine own.




    I'll do't, my lord.




    I will seem friendly, as thou hast advised me.






    O miserable lady! But, for me,

    What case stand I in? I must be the poisoner

    Of good Polixenes; and my ground to do't

    Is the obedience to a master, one

    Who in rebellion with himself will have

    All that are his so too. To do this deed,

    Promotion follows. If I could find example

    Of thousands that had struck anointed kings

    And flourish'd after, I'ld not do't; but since

    Nor brass nor stone nor parchment bears not one,

    Let villany itself forswear't. I must

    Forsake the court: to do't, or no, is certain

    To me a break-neck. Happy star, reign now!

    Here comes Bohemia.


    Re-enter POLIXENES




    This is strange: methinks

    My favour here begins to warp. Not speak?

    Good day, Camillo.




    Hail, most royal sir!




    What is the news i' the court?




    None rare, my lord.




    The king hath on him such a countenance

    As he had lost some province and a region

    Loved as he loves himself: even now I met him

    With customary compliment; when he,

    Wafting his eyes to the contrary and falling

    A lip of much contempt, speeds from me and

    So leaves me to consider what is breeding

    That changeth thus his manners.




    I dare not know, my lord.




    How! dare not! do not. Do you know, and dare not?

    Be intelligent to me: 'tis thereabouts;

    For, to yourself, what you do know, you must.

    And cannot say, you dare not. Good Camillo,

    Your changed complexions are to me a mirror

    Which shows me mine changed too; for I must be

    A party in this alteration, finding

    Myself thus alter'd with 't.




    There is a sickness

    Which puts some of us in distemper, but

    I cannot name the disease; and it is caught

    Of you that yet are well.




    How! caught of me!

    Make me not sighted like the basilisk:

    I have look'd on thousands, who have sped the better

    By my regard, but kill'd none so. Camillo,--

    As you are certainly a gentleman, thereto

    Clerk-like experienced, which no less adorns

    Our gentry than our parents' noble names,

    In whose success we are gentle,--I beseech you,

    If you know aught which does behove my knowledge

    Thereof to be inform'd, imprison't not

    In ignorant concealment.




    I may not answer.




    A sickness caught of me, and yet I well!

    I must be answer'd. Dost thou hear, Camillo,

    I conjure thee, by all the parts of man

    Which honour does acknowledge, whereof the least

    Is not this suit of mine, that thou declare

    What incidency thou dost guess of harm

    Is creeping toward me; how far off, how near;

    Which way to be prevented, if to be;

    If not, how best to bear it.




    Sir, I will tell you;

    Since I am charged in honour and by him

    That I think honourable: therefore mark my counsel,

    Which must be even as swiftly follow'd as

    I mean to utter it, or both yourself and me

    Cry lost, and so good night!




    On, good Camillo.




    I am appointed him to murder you.




    By whom, Camillo?




    By the king.




    For what?




    He thinks, nay, with all confidence he swears,

    As he had seen't or been an instrument

    To vice you to't, that you have touch'd his queen





    O, then my best blood turn

    To an infected jelly and my name

    Be yoked with his that did betray the Best!

    Turn then my freshest reputation to

    A savour that may strike the dullest nostril

    Where I arrive, and my approach be shunn'd,

    Nay, hated too, worse than the great'st infection

    That e'er was heard or read!




    Swear his thought over

    By each particular star in heaven and

    By all their influences, you may as well

    Forbid the sea for to obey the moon

    As or by oath remove or counsel shake

    The fabric of his folly, whose foundation

    Is piled upon his faith and will continue

    The standing of his body.




    How should this grow?




    I know not: but I am sure 'tis safer to

    Avoid what's grown than question how 'tis born.

    If therefore you dare trust my honesty,

    That lies enclosed in this trunk which you

    Shall bear along impawn'd, away to-night!

    Your followers I will whisper to the business,

    And will by twos and threes at several posterns

    Clear them o' the city. For myself, I'll put

    My fortunes to your service, which are here

    By this discovery lost. Be not uncertain;

    For, by the honour of my parents, I

    Have utter'd truth: which if you seek to prove,

    I dare not stand by; nor shall you be safer

    Than one condemn'd by the king's own mouth, thereon

    His execution sworn.




    I do believe thee:

    I saw his heart in 's face. Give me thy hand:

    Be pilot to me and thy places shall

    Still neighbour mine. My ships are ready and

    My people did expect my hence departure

    Two days ago. This jealousy

    Is for a precious creature: as she's rare,

    Must it be great, and as his person's mighty,

    Must it be violent, and as he does conceive

    He is dishonour'd by a man which ever

    Profess'd to him, why, his revenges must

    In that be made more bitter. Fear o'ershades me:

    Good expedition be my friend, and comfort

    The gracious queen, part of his theme, but nothing

    Of his ill-ta'en suspicion! Come, Camillo;

    I will respect thee as a father if

    Thou bear'st my life off hence: let us avoid.




    It is in mine authority to command

    The keys of all the posterns: please your highness

    To take the urgent hour. Come, sir, away.





SCENE I. A room in LEONTES' palace.


    Enter HERMIONE, MAMILLIUS, and Ladies




    Take the boy to you: he so troubles me,

    'Tis past enduring.


First Lady


    Come, my gracious lord,

    Shall I be your playfellow?




    No, I'll none of you.


First Lady


    Why, my sweet lord?




    You'll kiss me hard and speak to me as if

    I were a baby still. I love you better.


Second Lady


    And why so, my lord?




    Not for because

    Your brows are blacker; yet black brows, they say,

    Become some women best, so that there be not

    Too much hair there, but in a semicircle

    Or a half-moon made with a pen.


Second Lady


    Who taught you this?




    I learnt it out of women's faces. Pray now

    What colour are your eyebrows?


First Lady


    Blue, my lord.




    Nay, that's a mock: I have seen a lady's nose

    That has been blue, but not her eyebrows.


First Lady


    Hark ye;

    The queen your mother rounds apace: we shall

    Present our services to a fine new prince

    One of these days; and then you'ld wanton with us,

    If we would have you.


Second Lady


    She is spread of late

    Into a goodly bulk: good time encounter her!




    What wisdom stirs amongst you? Come, sir, now

    I am for you again: pray you, sit by us,

    And tell 's a tale.




    Merry or sad shall't be?




    As merry as you will.




    A sad tale's best for winter: I have one

    Of sprites and goblins.




    Let's have that, good sir.

    Come on, sit down: come on, and do your best

    To fright me with your sprites; you're powerful at it.




    There was a man--




    Nay, come, sit down; then on.




    Dwelt by a churchyard: I will tell it softly;

    Yond crickets shall not hear it.




    Come on, then,

    And give't me in mine ear.


    Enter LEONTES, with ANTIGONUS, Lords and others




    Was he met there? his train? Camillo with him?


First Lord


    Behind the tuft of pines I met them; never

    Saw I men scour so on their way: I eyed them

    Even to their ships.




    How blest am I

    In my just censure, in my true opinion!

    Alack, for lesser knowledge! how accursed

    In being so blest! There may be in the cup

    A spider steep'd, and one may drink, depart,

    And yet partake no venom, for his knowledge

    Is not infected: but if one present

    The abhorr'd ingredient to his eye, make known

    How he hath drunk, he cracks his gorge, his sides,

    With violent hefts. I have drunk,

    and seen the spider.

    Camillo was his help in this, his pander:

    There is a plot against my life, my crown;

    All's true that is mistrusted: that false villain

    Whom I employ'd was pre-employ'd by him:

    He has discover'd my design, and I

    Remain a pinch'd thing; yea, a very trick

    For them to play at will. How came the posterns

    So easily open?


First Lord


    By his great authority;

    Which often hath no less prevail'd than so

    On your command.




    I know't too well.

    Give me the boy: I am glad you did not nurse him:

    Though he does bear some signs of me, yet you

    Have too much blood in him.




    What is this? sport?




    Bear the boy hence; he shall not come about her;

    Away with him! and let her sport herself

    With that she's big with; for 'tis Polixenes

    Has made thee swell thus.




    But I'ld say he had not,

    And I'll be sworn you would believe my saying,

    Howe'er you lean to the nayward.




    You, my lords,

    Look on her, mark her well; be but about

    To say 'she is a goodly lady,' and

    The justice of your bearts will thereto add

    'Tis pity she's not honest, honourable:'

    Praise her but for this her without-door form,

    Which on my faith deserves high speech, and straight

    The shrug, the hum or ha, these petty brands

    That calumny doth use--O, I am out--

    That mercy does, for calumny will sear

    Virtue itself: these shrugs, these hums and ha's,

    When you have said 'she's goodly,' come between

    Ere you can say 'she's honest:' but be 't known,

    From him that has most cause to grieve it should be,

    She's an adulteress.




    Should a villain say so,

    The most replenish'd villain in the world,

    He were as much more villain: you, my lord,

    Do but mistake.




    You have mistook, my lady,

    Polixenes for Leontes: O thou thing!

    Which I'll not call a creature of thy place,

    Lest barbarism, making me the precedent,

    Should a like language use to all degrees

    And mannerly distinguishment leave out

    Betwixt the prince and beggar: I have said

    She's an adulteress; I have said with whom:

    More, she's a traitor and Camillo is

    A federary with her, and one that knows

    What she should shame to know herself

    But with her most vile principal, that she's

    A bed-swerver, even as bad as those

    That vulgars give bold'st titles, ay, and privy

    To this their late escape.




    No, by my life.

    Privy to none of this. How will this grieve you,

    When you shall come to clearer knowledge, that

    You thus have publish'd me! Gentle my lord,

    You scarce can right me throughly then to say

    You did mistake.




    No; if I mistake

    In those foundations which I build upon,

    The centre is not big enough to bear

    A school-boy's top. Away with her! to prison!

    He who shall speak for her is afar off guilty

    But that he speaks.




    There's some ill planet reigns:

    I must be patient till the heavens look

    With an aspect more favourable. Good my lords,

    I am not prone to weeping, as our sex

    Commonly are; the want of which vain dew

    Perchance shall dry your pities: but I have

    That honourable grief lodged here which burns

    Worse than tears drown: beseech you all, my lords,

    With thoughts so qualified as your charities

    Shall best instruct you, measure me; and so

    The king's will be perform'd!




    Shall I be heard?




    Who is't that goes with me? Beseech your highness,

    My women may be with me; for you see

    My plight requires it. Do not weep, good fools;

    There is no cause: when you shall know your mistress

    Has deserved prison, then abound in tears

    As I come out: this action I now go on

    Is for my better grace. Adieu, my lord:

    I never wish'd to see you sorry; now

    I trust I shall. My women, come; you have leave.




    Go, do our bidding; hence!


    Exit HERMIONE, guarded; with Ladies


First Lord


    Beseech your highness, call the queen again.




    Be certain what you do, sir, lest your justice

    Prove violence; in the which three great ones suffer,

    Yourself, your queen, your son.


First Lord


    For her, my lord,

    I dare my life lay down and will do't, sir,

    Please you to accept it, that the queen is spotless

    I' the eyes of heaven and to you; I mean,

    In this which you accuse her.




    If it prove

    She's otherwise, I'll keep my stables where

    I lodge my wife; I'll go in couples with her;

    Than when I feel and see her no farther trust her;

    For every inch of woman in the world,

    Ay, every dram of woman's flesh is false, If she be.




    Hold your peaces.


First Lord


    Good my lord,--




    It is for you we speak, not for ourselves:

    You are abused and by some putter-on

    That will be damn'd for't; would I knew the villain,

    I would land-damn him. Be she honour-flaw'd,

    I have three daughters; the eldest is eleven

    The second and the third, nine, and some five;

    If this prove true, they'll pay for't:

    by mine honour,

    I'll geld 'em all; fourteen they shall not see,

    To bring false generations: they are co-heirs;

    And I had rather glib myself than they

    Should not produce fair issue.




    Cease; no more.

    You smell this business with a sense as cold

    As is a dead man's nose: but I do see't and feel't

    As you feel doing thus; and see withal

    The instruments that feel.




    If it be so,

    We need no grave to bury honesty:

    There's not a grain of it the face to sweeten

    Of the whole dungy earth.




    What! lack I credit?


First Lord


    I had rather you did lack than I, my lord,

    Upon this ground; and more it would content me

    To have her honour true than your suspicion,

    Be blamed for't how you might.




    Why, what need we

    Commune with you of this, but rather follow

    Our forceful instigation? Our prerogative

    Calls not your counsels, but our natural goodness

    Imparts this; which if you, or stupefied

    Or seeming so in skill, cannot or will not

    Relish a truth like us, inform yourselves

    We need no more of your advice: the matter,

    The loss, the gain, the ordering on't, is all

    Properly ours.




    And I wish, my liege,

    You had only in your silent judgment tried it,

    Without more overture.




    How could that be?

    Either thou art most ignorant by age,

    Or thou wert born a fool. Camillo's flight,

    Added to their familiarity,

    Which was as gross as ever touch'd conjecture,

    That lack'd sight only, nought for approbation

    But only seeing, all other circumstances

    Made up to the deed, doth push on this proceeding:

    Yet, for a greater confirmation,

    For in an act of this importance 'twere

    Most piteous to be wild, I have dispatch'd in post

    To sacred Delphos, to Apollo's temple,

    Cleomenes and Dion, whom you know

    Of stuff'd sufficiency: now from the oracle

    They will bring all; whose spiritual counsel had,

    Shall stop or spur me. Have I done well?


First Lord


    Well done, my lord.




    Though I am satisfied and need no more

    Than what I know, yet shall the oracle

    Give rest to the minds of others, such as he

    Whose ignorant credulity will not

    Come up to the truth. So have we thought it good

    From our free person she should be confined,

    Lest that the treachery of the two fled hence

    Be left her to perform. Come, follow us;

    We are to speak in public; for this business

    Will raise us all.





    To laughter, as I take it,

    If the good truth were known.




SCENE II. A prison.


    Enter PAULINA, a Gentleman, and Attendants




    The keeper of the prison, call to him;

    let him have knowledge who I am.


    Exit Gentleman

    Good lady,

    No court in Europe is too good for thee;

    What dost thou then in prison?


    Re-enter Gentleman, with the Gaoler

    Now, good sir,

    You know me, do you not?




    For a worthy lady

    And one whom much I honour.




    Pray you then,

    Conduct me to the queen.




    I may not, madam:

    To the contrary I have express commandment.




    Here's ado,

    To lock up honesty and honour from

    The access of gentle visitors!

    Is't lawful, pray you,

    To see her women? any of them? Emilia?




    So please you, madam,

    To put apart these your attendants, I

    Shall bring Emilia forth.




    I pray now, call her.

    Withdraw yourselves.


    Exeunt Gentleman and Attendants




    And, madam,

    I must be present at your conference.




    Well, be't so, prithee.


    Exit Gaoler

    Here's such ado to make no stain a stain

    As passes colouring.


    Re-enter Gaoler, with EMILIA

    Dear gentlewoman,

    How fares our gracious lady?




    As well as one so great and so forlorn

    May hold together: on her frights and griefs,

    Which never tender lady hath born greater,

    She is something before her time deliver'd.




    A boy?




    A daughter, and a goodly babe,

    Lusty and like to live: the queen receives

    Much comfort in't; says 'My poor prisoner,

    I am innocent as you.'




    I dare be sworn

    These dangerous unsafe lunes i' the king,

    beshrew them!

    He must be told on't, and he shall: the office

    Becomes a woman best; I'll take't upon me:

    If I prove honey-mouth'd let my tongue blister

    And never to my red-look'd anger be

    The trumpet any more. Pray you, Emilia,

    Commend my best obedience to the queen:

    If she dares trust me with her little babe,

    I'll show't the king and undertake to be

    Her advocate to the loud'st. We do not know

    How he may soften at the sight o' the child:

    The silence often of pure innocence

    Persuades when speaking fails.




    Most worthy madam,

    Your honour and your goodness is so evident

    That your free undertaking cannot miss

    A thriving issue: there is no lady living

    So meet for this great errand. Please your ladyship

    To visit the next room, I'll presently

    Acquaint the queen of your most noble offer;

    Who but to-day hammer'd of this design,

    But durst not tempt a minister of honour,

    Lest she should be denied.




    Tell her, Emilia.

    I'll use that tongue I have: if wit flow from't

    As boldness from my bosom, let 't not be doubted

    I shall do good.




    Now be you blest for it!

    I'll to the queen: please you,

    come something nearer.




    Madam, if't please the queen to send the babe,

    I know not what I shall incur to pass it,

    Having no warrant.




    You need not fear it, sir:

    This child was prisoner to the womb and is

    By law and process of great nature thence

    Freed and enfranchised, not a party to

    The anger of the king nor guilty of,

    If any be, the trespass of the queen.




    I do believe it.




    Do not you fear: upon mine honour,

    I will stand betwixt you and danger.




SCENE III. A room in LEONTES' palace.


    Enter LEONTES, ANTIGONUS, Lords, and Servants




    Nor night nor day no rest: it is but weakness

    To bear the matter thus; mere weakness. If

    The cause were not in being,--part o' the cause,

    She the adulteress; for the harlot king

    Is quite beyond mine arm, out of the blank

    And level of my brain, plot-proof; but she

    I can hook to me: say that she were gone,

    Given to the fire, a moiety of my rest

    Might come to me again. Who's there?


First Servant


    My lord?




    How does the boy?


First Servant


    He took good rest to-night;

    'Tis hoped his sickness is discharged.




    To see his nobleness!

    Conceiving the dishonour of his mother,

    He straight declined, droop'd, took it deeply,

    Fasten'd and fix'd the shame on't in himself,

    Threw off his spirit, his appetite, his sleep,

    And downright languish'd. Leave me solely: go,

    See how he fares.


    Exit Servant

    Fie, fie! no thought of him:

    The thought of my revenges that way

    Recoil upon me: in himself too mighty,

    And in his parties, his alliance; let him be

    Until a time may serve: for present vengeance,

    Take it on her. Camillo and Polixenes

    Laugh at me, make their pastime at my sorrow:

    They should not laugh if I could reach them, nor

    Shall she within my power.


    Enter PAULINA, with a child


First Lord


    You must not enter.




    Nay, rather, good my lords, be second to me:

    Fear you his tyrannous passion more, alas,

    Than the queen's life? a gracious innocent soul,

    More free than he is jealous.




    That's enough.


Second Servant


    Madam, he hath not slept tonight; commanded

    None should come at him.




    Not so hot, good sir:

    I come to bring him sleep. 'Tis such as you,

    That creep like shadows by him and do sigh

    At each his needless heavings, such as you

    Nourish the cause of his awaking: I

    Do come with words as medicinal as true,

    Honest as either, to purge him of that humour

    That presses him from sleep.




    What noise there, ho?




    No noise, my lord; but needful conference

    About some gossips for your highness.





    Away with that audacious lady! Antigonus,

    I charged thee that she should not come about me:

    I knew she would.




    I told her so, my lord,

    On your displeasure's peril and on mine,

    She should not visit you.




    What, canst not rule her?




    From all dishonesty he can: in this,

    Unless he take the course that you have done,

    Commit me for committing honour, trust it,

    He shall not rule me.




    La you now, you hear:

    When she will take the rein I let her run;

    But she'll not stumble.




    Good my liege, I come;

    And, I beseech you, hear me, who profess

    Myself your loyal servant, your physician,

    Your most obedient counsellor, yet that dare

    Less appear so in comforting your evils,

    Than such as most seem yours: I say, I come

    From your good queen.




    Good queen!




    Good queen, my lord,

    Good queen; I say good queen;

    And would by combat make her good, so were I

    A man, the worst about you.




    Force her hence.




    Let him that makes but trifles of his eyes

    First hand me: on mine own accord I'll off;

    But first I'll do my errand. The good queen,

    For she is good, hath brought you forth a daughter;

    Here 'tis; commends it to your blessing.


    Laying down the child





    A mankind witch! Hence with her, out o' door:

    A most intelligencing bawd!




    Not so:

    I am as ignorant in that as you

    In so entitling me, and no less honest

    Than you are mad; which is enough, I'll warrant,

    As this world goes, to pass for honest.





    Will you not push her out? Give her the bastard.

    Thou dotard! thou art woman-tired, unroosted

    By thy dame Partlet here. Take up the bastard;

    Take't up, I say; give't to thy crone.




    For ever

    Unvenerable be thy hands, if thou

    Takest up the princess by that forced baseness

    Which he has put upon't!




    He dreads his wife.




    So I would you did; then 'twere past all doubt

    You'ld call your children yours.




    A nest of traitors!




    I am none, by this good light.




    Nor I, nor any

    But one that's here, and that's himself, for he

    The sacred honour of himself, his queen's,

    His hopeful son's, his babe's, betrays to slander,

    Whose sting is sharper than the sword's;

    and will not--

    For, as the case now stands, it is a curse

    He cannot be compell'd to't--once remove

    The root of his opinion, which is rotten

    As ever oak or stone was sound.




    A callat

    Of boundless tongue, who late hath beat her husband

    And now baits me! This brat is none of mine;

    It is the issue of Polixenes:

    Hence with it, and together with the dam

    Commit them to the fire!




    It is yours;

    And, might we lay the old proverb to your charge,

    So like you, 'tis the worse. Behold, my lords,

    Although the print be little, the whole matter

    And copy of the father, eye, nose, lip,

    The trick of's frown, his forehead, nay, the valley,

    The pretty dimples of his chin and cheek,

    His smiles,

    The very mould and frame of hand, nail, finger:

    And thou, good goddess Nature, which hast made it

    So like to him that got it, if thou hast

    The ordering of the mind too, 'mongst all colours

    No yellow in't, lest she suspect, as he does,

    Her children not her husband's!




    A gross hag

    And, lozel, thou art worthy to be hang'd,

    That wilt not stay her tongue.




    Hang all the husbands

    That cannot do that feat, you'll leave yourself

    Hardly one subject.




    Once more, take her hence.




    A most unworthy and unnatural lord

    Can do no more.




    I'll ha' thee burnt.




    I care not:

    It is an heretic that makes the fire,

    Not she which burns in't. I'll not call you tyrant;

    But this most cruel usage of your queen,

    Not able to produce more accusation

    Than your own weak-hinged fancy, something savours

    Of tyranny and will ignoble make you,

    Yea, scandalous to the world.




    On your allegiance,

    Out of the chamber with her! Were I a tyrant,

    Where were her life? she durst not call me so,

    If she did know me one. Away with her!




    I pray you, do not push me; I'll be gone.

    Look to your babe, my lord; 'tis yours:

    Jove send her

    A better guiding spirit! What needs these hands?

    You, that are thus so tender o'er his follies,

    Will never do him good, not one of you.

    So, so: farewell; we are gone.






    Thou, traitor, hast set on thy wife to this.

    My child? away with't! Even thou, that hast

    A heart so tender o'er it, take it hence

    And see it instantly consumed with fire;

    Even thou and none but thou. Take it up straight:

    Within this hour bring me word 'tis done,

    And by good testimony, or I'll seize thy life,

    With what thou else call'st thine. If thou refuse

    And wilt encounter with my wrath, say so;

    The bastard brains with these my proper hands

    Shall I dash out. Go, take it to the fire;

    For thou set'st on thy wife.




    I did not, sir:

    These lords, my noble fellows, if they please,

    Can clear me in't.




    We can: my royal liege,

    He is not guilty of her coming hither.




    You're liars all.


First Lord


    Beseech your highness, give us better credit:

    We have always truly served you, and beseech you

    So to esteem of us, and on our knees we beg,

    As recompense of our dear services

    Past and to come, that you do change this purpose,

    Which being so horrible, so bloody, must

    Lead on to some foul issue: we all kneel.




    I am a feather for each wind that blows:

    Shall I live on to see this bastard kneel

    And call me father? better burn it now

    Than curse it then. But be it; let it live.

    It shall not neither. You, sir, come you hither;

    You that have been so tenderly officious

    With Lady Margery, your midwife there,

    To save this bastard's life,--for 'tis a bastard,

    So sure as this beard's grey,

    --what will you adventure

    To save this brat's life?




    Any thing, my lord,

    That my ability may undergo

    And nobleness impose: at least thus much:

    I'll pawn the little blood which I have left

    To save the innocent: any thing possible.




    It shall be possible. Swear by this sword

    Thou wilt perform my bidding.




    I will, my lord.




    Mark and perform it, see'st thou! for the fail

    Of any point in't shall not only be

    Death to thyself but to thy lewd-tongued wife,

    Whom for this time we pardon. We enjoin thee,

    As thou art liege-man to us, that thou carry

    This female bastard hence and that thou bear it

    To some remote and desert place quite out

    Of our dominions, and that there thou leave it,

    Without more mercy, to its own protection

    And favour of the climate. As by strange fortune

    It came to us, I do in justice charge thee,

    On thy soul's peril and thy body's torture,

    That thou commend it strangely to some place

    Where chance may nurse or end it. Take it up.




    I swear to do this, though a present death

    Had been more merciful. Come on, poor babe:

    Some powerful spirit instruct the kites and ravens

    To be thy nurses! Wolves and bears, they say

    Casting their savageness aside have done

    Like offices of pity. Sir, be prosperous

    In more than this deed does require! And blessing

    Against this cruelty fight on thy side,

    Poor thing, condemn'd to loss!


    Exit with the child




    No, I'll not rear

    Another's issue.


    Enter a Servant




    Please your highness, posts

    From those you sent to the oracle are come

    An hour since: Cleomenes and Dion,

    Being well arrived from Delphos, are both landed,

    Hasting to the court.


First Lord


    So please you, sir, their speed

    Hath been beyond account.




    Twenty-three days

    They have been absent: 'tis good speed; foretells

    The great Apollo suddenly will have

    The truth of this appear. Prepare you, lords;

    Summon a session, that we may arraign

    Our most disloyal lady, for, as she hath

    Been publicly accused, so shall she have

    A just and open trial. While she lives

    My heart will be a burthen to me. Leave me,

    And think upon my bidding.





SCENE I. A sea-port in Sicilia.


    Enter CLEOMENES and DION




    The climate's delicate, the air most sweet,

    Fertile the isle, the temple much surpassing

    The common praise it bears.




    I shall report,

    For most it caught me, the celestial habits,

    Methinks I so should term them, and the reverence

    Of the grave wearers. O, the sacrifice!

    How ceremonious, solemn and unearthly

    It was i' the offering!




    But of all, the burst

    And the ear-deafening voice o' the oracle,

    Kin to Jove's thunder, so surprised my sense.

    That I was nothing.




    If the event o' the journey

    Prove as successful to the queen,--O be't so!--

    As it hath been to us rare, pleasant, speedy,

    The time is worth the use on't.




    Great Apollo

    Turn all to the best! These proclamations,

    So forcing faults upon Hermione,

    I little like.




    The violent carriage of it

    Will clear or end the business: when the oracle,

    Thus by Apollo's great divine seal'd up,

    Shall the contents discover, something rare

    Even then will rush to knowledge. Go: fresh horses!

    And gracious be the issue!




SCENE II. A court of Justice.


    Enter LEONTES, Lords, and Officers




    This sessions, to our great grief we pronounce,

    Even pushes 'gainst our heart: the party tried

    The daughter of a king, our wife, and one

    Of us too much beloved. Let us be clear'd

    Of being tyrannous, since we so openly

    Proceed in justice, which shall have due course,

    Even to the guilt or the purgation.

    Produce the prisoner.




    It is his highness' pleasure that the queen

    Appear in person here in court. Silence!


    Enter HERMIONE guarded; PAULINA and Ladies attending




    Read the indictment.




    [Reads] Hermione, queen to the worthy

    Leontes, king of Sicilia, thou art here accused and

    arraigned of high treason, in committing adultery

    with Polixenes, king of Bohemia, and conspiring

    with Camillo to take away the life of our sovereign

    lord the king, thy royal husband: the pretence

    whereof being by circumstances partly laid open,

    thou, Hermione, contrary to the faith and allegiance

    of a true subject, didst counsel and aid them, for

    their better safety, to fly away by night.




    Since what I am to say must be but that

    Which contradicts my accusation and

    The testimony on my part no other

    But what comes from myself, it shall scarce boot me

    To say 'not guilty:' mine integrity

    Being counted falsehood, shall, as I express it,

    Be so received. But thus: if powers divine

    Behold our human actions, as they do,

    I doubt not then but innocence shall make

    False accusation blush and tyranny

    Tremble at patience. You, my lord, best know,

    Who least will seem to do so, my past life

    Hath been as continent, as chaste, as true,

    As I am now unhappy; which is more

    Than history can pattern, though devised

    And play'd to take spectators. For behold me

    A fellow of the royal bed, which owe

    A moiety of the throne a great king's daughter,

    The mother to a hopeful prince, here standing

    To prate and talk for life and honour 'fore

    Who please to come and hear. For life, I prize it

    As I weigh grief, which I would spare: for honour,

    'Tis a derivative from me to mine,

    And only that I stand for. I appeal

    To your own conscience, sir, before Polixenes

    Came to your court, how I was in your grace,

    How merited to be so; since he came,

    With what encounter so uncurrent I

    Have strain'd to appear thus: if one jot beyond

    The bound of honour, or in act or will

    That way inclining, harden'd be the hearts

    Of all that hear me, and my near'st of kin

    Cry fie upon my grave!




    I ne'er heard yet

    That any of these bolder vices wanted

    Less impudence to gainsay what they did

    Than to perform it first.




    That's true enough;

    Through 'tis a saying, sir, not due to me.




    You will not own it.




    More than mistress of

    Which comes to me in name of fault, I must not

    At all acknowledge. For Polixenes,

    With whom I am accused, I do confess

    I loved him as in honour he required,

    With such a kind of love as might become

    A lady like me, with a love even such,

    So and no other, as yourself commanded:

    Which not to have done I think had been in me

    Both disobedience and ingratitude

    To you and toward your friend, whose love had spoke,

    Even since it could speak, from an infant, freely

    That it was yours. Now, for conspiracy,

    I know not how it tastes; though it be dish'd

    For me to try how: all I know of it

    Is that Camillo was an honest man;

    And why he left your court, the gods themselves,

    Wotting no more than I, are ignorant.




    You knew of his departure, as you know

    What you have underta'en to do in's absence.





    You speak a language that I understand not:

    My life stands in the level of your dreams,

    Which I'll lay down.




    Your actions are my dreams;

    You had a bastard by Polixenes,

    And I but dream'd it. As you were past all shame,--

    Those of your fact are so--so past all truth:

    Which to deny concerns more than avails; for as

    Thy brat hath been cast out, like to itself,

    No father owning it,--which is, indeed,

    More criminal in thee than it,--so thou

    Shalt feel our justice, in whose easiest passage

    Look for no less than death.




    Sir, spare your threats:

    The bug which you would fright me with I seek.

    To me can life be no commodity:

    The crown and comfort of my life, your favour,

    I do give lost; for I do feel it gone,

    But know not how it went. My second joy

    And first-fruits of my body, from his presence

    I am barr'd, like one infectious. My third comfort

    Starr'd most unluckily, is from my breast,

    The innocent milk in its most innocent mouth,

    Haled out to murder: myself on every post

    Proclaimed a strumpet: with immodest hatred

    The child-bed privilege denied, which 'longs

    To women of all fashion; lastly, hurried

    Here to this place, i' the open air, before

    I have got strength of limit. Now, my liege,

    Tell me what blessings I have here alive,

    That I should fear to die? Therefore proceed.

    But yet hear this: mistake me not; no life,

    I prize it not a straw, but for mine honour,

    Which I would free, if I shall be condemn'd

    Upon surmises, all proofs sleeping else

    But what your jealousies awake, I tell you

    'Tis rigor and not law. Your honours all,

    I do refer me to the oracle:

    Apollo be my judge!


First Lord


    This your request

    Is altogether just: therefore bring forth,

    And in Apollos name, his oracle.


    Exeunt certain Officers




    The Emperor of Russia was my father:

    O that he were alive, and here beholding

    His daughter's trial! that he did but see

    The flatness of my misery, yet with eyes

    Of pity, not revenge!


    Re-enter Officers, with CLEOMENES and DION




    You here shall swear upon this sword of justice,

    That you, Cleomenes and Dion, have

    Been both at Delphos, and from thence have brought

    The seal'd-up oracle, by the hand deliver'd

    Of great Apollo's priest; and that, since then,

    You have not dared to break the holy seal

    Nor read the secrets in't.




    All this we swear.




    Break up the seals and read.




    [Reads] Hermione is chaste;

    Polixenes blameless; Camillo a true subject; Leontes

    a jealous tyrant; his innocent babe truly begotten;

    and the king shall live without an heir, if that

    which is lost be not found.




    Now blessed be the great Apollo!








    Hast thou read truth?




    Ay, my lord; even so

    As it is here set down.




    There is no truth at all i' the oracle:

    The sessions shall proceed: this is mere falsehood.


    Enter Servant




    My lord the king, the king!




    What is the business?




    O sir, I shall be hated to report it!

    The prince your son, with mere conceit and fear

    Of the queen's speed, is gone.




    How! gone!




    Is dead.




    Apollo's angry; and the heavens themselves

    Do strike at my injustice.


    HERMIONE swoons

    How now there!




    This news is mortal to the queen: look down

    And see what death is doing.




    Take her hence:

    Her heart is but o'ercharged; she will recover:

    I have too much believed mine own suspicion:

    Beseech you, tenderly apply to her

    Some remedies for life.


    Exeunt PAULINA and Ladies, with HERMIONE

    Apollo, pardon

    My great profaneness 'gainst thine oracle!

    I'll reconcile me to Polixenes,

    New woo my queen, recall the good Camillo,

    Whom I proclaim a man of truth, of mercy;

    For, being transported by my jealousies

    To bloody thoughts and to revenge, I chose

    Camillo for the minister to poison

    My friend Polixenes: which had been done,

    But that the good mind of Camillo tardied

    My swift command, though I with death and with

    Reward did threaten and encourage him,

    Not doing 't and being done: he, most humane

    And fill'd with honour, to my kingly guest

    Unclasp'd my practise, quit his fortunes here,

    Which you knew great, and to the hazard

    Of all encertainties himself commended,

    No richer than his honour: how he glisters

    Thorough my rust! and how his pity

    Does my deeds make the blacker!


    Re-enter PAULINA




    Woe the while!

    O, cut my lace, lest my heart, cracking it,

    Break too.


First Lord


    What fit is this, good lady?




    What studied torments, tyrant, hast for me?

    What wheels? racks? fires? what flaying? boiling?

    In leads or oils? what old or newer torture

    Must I receive, whose every word deserves

    To taste of thy most worst? Thy tyranny

    Together working with thy jealousies,

    Fancies too weak for boys, too green and idle

    For girls of nine, O, think what they have done

    And then run mad indeed, stark mad! for all

    Thy by-gone fooleries were but spices of it.

    That thou betray'dst Polixenes,'twas nothing;

    That did but show thee, of a fool, inconstant

    And damnable ingrateful: nor was't much,

    Thou wouldst have poison'd good Camillo's honour,

    To have him kill a king: poor trespasses,

    More monstrous standing by: whereof I reckon

    The casting forth to crows thy baby-daughter

    To be or none or little; though a devil

    Would have shed water out of fire ere done't:

    Nor is't directly laid to thee, the death

    Of the young prince, whose honourable thoughts,

    Thoughts high for one so tender, cleft the heart

    That could conceive a gross and foolish sire

    Blemish'd his gracious dam: this is not, no,

    Laid to thy answer: but the last,--O lords,

    When I have said, cry 'woe!' the queen, the queen,

    The sweet'st, dear'st creature's dead,

    and vengeance for't

    Not dropp'd down yet.


First Lord


    The higher powers forbid!




    I say she's dead; I'll swear't. If word nor oath

    Prevail not, go and see: if you can bring

    Tincture or lustre in her lip, her eye,

    Heat outwardly or breath within, I'll serve you

    As I would do the gods. But, O thou tyrant!

    Do not repent these things, for they are heavier

    Than all thy woes can stir; therefore betake thee

    To nothing but despair. A thousand knees

    Ten thousand years together, naked, fasting,

    Upon a barren mountain and still winter

    In storm perpetual, could not move the gods

    To look that way thou wert.




    Go on, go on

    Thou canst not speak too much; I have deserved

    All tongues to talk their bitterest.


First Lord


    Say no more:

    Howe'er the business goes, you have made fault

    I' the boldness of your speech.




    I am sorry for't:

    All faults I make, when I shall come to know them,

    I do repent. Alas! I have show'd too much

    The rashness of a woman: he is touch'd

    To the noble heart. What's gone and what's past help

    Should be past grief: do not receive affliction

    At my petition; I beseech you, rather

    Let me be punish'd, that have minded you

    Of what you should forget. Now, good my liege

    Sir, royal sir, forgive a foolish woman:

    The love I bore your queen--lo, fool again!--

    I'll speak of her no more, nor of your children;

    I'll not remember you of my own lord,

    Who is lost too: take your patience to you,

    And I'll say nothing.




    Thou didst speak but well

    When most the truth; which I receive much better

    Than to be pitied of thee. Prithee, bring me

    To the dead bodies of my queen and son:

    One grave shall be for both: upon them shall

    The causes of their death appear, unto

    Our shame perpetual. Once a day I'll visit

    The chapel where they lie, and tears shed there

    Shall be my recreation: so long as nature

    Will bear up with this exercise, so long

    I daily vow to use it. Come and lead me

    Unto these sorrows.




SCENE III. Bohemia. A desert country near the sea.


    Enter ANTIGONUS with a Child, and a Mariner




    Thou art perfect then, our ship hath touch'd upon

    The deserts of Bohemia?




    Ay, my lord: and fear

    We have landed in ill time: the skies look grimly

    And threaten present blusters. In my conscience,

    The heavens with that we have in hand are angry

    And frown upon 's.




    Their sacred wills be done! Go, get aboard;

    Look to thy bark: I'll not be long before

    I call upon thee.




    Make your best haste, and go not

    Too far i' the land: 'tis like to be loud weather;

    Besides, this place is famous for the creatures

    Of prey that keep upon't.




    Go thou away:

    I'll follow instantly.




    I am glad at heart

    To be so rid o' the business.






    Come, poor babe:

    I have heard, but not believed,

    the spirits o' the dead

    May walk again: if such thing be, thy mother

    Appear'd to me last night, for ne'er was dream

    So like a waking. To me comes a creature,

    Sometimes her head on one side, some another;

    I never saw a vessel of like sorrow,

    So fill'd and so becoming: in pure white robes,

    Like very sanctity, she did approach

    My cabin where I lay; thrice bow'd before me,

    And gasping to begin some speech, her eyes

    Became two spouts: the fury spent, anon

    Did this break-from her: 'Good Antigonus,

    Since fate, against thy better disposition,

    Hath made thy person for the thrower-out

    Of my poor babe, according to thine oath,

    Places remote enough are in Bohemia,

    There weep and leave it crying; and, for the babe

    Is counted lost for ever, Perdita,

    I prithee, call't. For this ungentle business

    Put on thee by my lord, thou ne'er shalt see

    Thy wife Paulina more.' And so, with shrieks

    She melted into air. Affrighted much,

    I did in time collect myself and thought

    This was so and no slumber. Dreams are toys:

    Yet for this once, yea, superstitiously,

    I will be squared by this. I do believe

    Hermione hath suffer'd death, and that

    Apollo would, this being indeed the issue

    Of King Polixenes, it should here be laid,

    Either for life or death, upon the earth

    Of its right father. Blossom, speed thee well!

    There lie, and there thy character: there these;

    Which may, if fortune please, both breed thee, pretty,

    And still rest thine. The storm begins; poor wretch,

    That for thy mother's fault art thus exposed

    To loss and what may follow! Weep I cannot,

    But my heart bleeds; and most accursed am I

    To be by oath enjoin'd to this. Farewell!

    The day frowns more and more: thou'rt like to have

    A lullaby too rough: I never saw

    The heavens so dim by day. A savage clamour!

    Well may I get aboard! This is the chase:

    I am gone for ever.


    Exit, pursued by a bear


    Enter a Shepherd




    I would there were no age between sixteen and

    three-and-twenty, or that youth would sleep out the

    rest; for there is nothing in the between but

    getting wenches with child, wronging the ancientry,

    stealing, fighting--Hark you now! Would any but

    these boiled brains of nineteen and two-and-twenty

    hunt this weather? They have scared away two of my

    best sheep, which I fear the wolf will sooner find

    than the master: if any where I have them, 'tis by

    the seaside, browsing of ivy. Good luck, an't be thy

    will what have we here! Mercy on 's, a barne a very

    pretty barne! A boy or a child, I wonder? A

    pretty one; a very pretty one: sure, some 'scape:

    though I am not bookish, yet I can read

    waiting-gentlewoman in the 'scape. This has been

    some stair-work, some trunk-work, some

    behind-door-work: they were warmer that got this

    than the poor thing is here. I'll take it up for

    pity: yet I'll tarry till my son come; he hallooed

    but even now. Whoa, ho, hoa!


    Enter Clown




    Hilloa, loa!




    What, art so near? If thou'lt see a thing to talk

    on when thou art dead and rotten, come hither. What

    ailest thou, man?




    I have seen two such sights, by sea and by land!

    but I am not to say it is a sea, for it is now the

    sky: betwixt the firmament and it you cannot thrust

    a bodkin's point.




    Why, boy, how is it?




    I would you did but see how it chafes, how it rages,

    how it takes up the shore! but that's not the

    point. O, the most piteous cry of the poor souls!

    sometimes to see 'em, and not to see 'em; now the

    ship boring the moon with her main-mast, and anon

    swallowed with yest and froth, as you'ld thrust a

    cork into a hogshead. And then for the

    land-service, to see how the bear tore out his

    shoulder-bone; how he cried to me for help and said

    his name was Antigonus, a nobleman. But to make an

    end of the ship, to see how the sea flap-dragoned

    it: but, first, how the poor souls roared, and the

    sea mocked them; and how the poor gentleman roared

    and the bear mocked him, both roaring louder than

    the sea or weather.




    Name of mercy, when was this, boy?




    Now, now: I have not winked since I saw these

    sights: the men are not yet cold under water, nor

    the bear half dined on the gentleman: he's at it





    Would I had been by, to have helped the old man!




    I would you had been by the ship side, to have

    helped her: there your charity would have lacked footing.




    Heavy matters! heavy matters! but look thee here,

    boy. Now bless thyself: thou mettest with things

    dying, I with things newborn. Here's a sight for

    thee; look thee, a bearing-cloth for a squire's

    child! look thee here; take up, take up, boy;

    open't. So, let's see: it was told me I should be

    rich by the fairies. This is some changeling:

    open't. What's within, boy?




    You're a made old man: if the sins of your youth

    are forgiven you, you're well to live. Gold! all gold!




    This is fairy gold, boy, and 'twill prove so: up

    with't, keep it close: home, home, the next way.

    We are lucky, boy; and to be so still requires

    nothing but secrecy. Let my sheep go: come, good

    boy, the next way home.




    Go you the next way with your findings. I'll go see

    if the bear be gone from the gentleman and how much

    he hath eaten: they are never curst but when they

    are hungry: if there be any of him left, I'll bury





    That's a good deed. If thou mayest discern by that

    which is left of him what he is, fetch me to the

    sight of him.




    Marry, will I; and you shall help to put him i' the ground.




    'Tis a lucky day, boy, and we'll do good deeds on't.







    Enter Time, the Chorus




    I, that please some, try all, both joy and terror

    Of good and bad, that makes and unfolds error,

    Now take upon me, in the name of Time,

    To use my wings. Impute it not a crime

    To me or my swift passage, that I slide

    O'er sixteen years and leave the growth untried

    Of that wide gap, since it is in my power

    To o'erthrow law and in one self-born hour

    To plant and o'erwhelm custom. Let me pass

    The same I am, ere ancient'st order was

    Or what is now received: I witness to

    The times that brought them in; so shall I do

    To the freshest things now reigning and make stale

    The glistering of this present, as my tale

    Now seems to it. Your patience this allowing,

    I turn my glass and give my scene such growing

    As you had slept between: Leontes leaving,

    The effects of his fond jealousies so grieving

    That he shuts up himself, imagine me,

    Gentle spectators, that I now may be

    In fair Bohemia, and remember well,

    I mentioned a son o' the king's, which Florizel

    I now name to you; and with speed so pace

    To speak of Perdita, now grown in grace

    Equal with wondering: what of her ensues

    I list not prophecy; but let Time's news

    Be known when 'tis brought forth.

    A shepherd's daughter,

    And what to her adheres, which follows after,

    Is the argument of Time. Of this allow,

    If ever you have spent time worse ere now;

    If never, yet that Time himself doth say

    He wishes earnestly you never may.




SCENE II. Bohemia. The palace of POLIXENES.






    I pray thee, good Camillo, be no more importunate:

    'tis a sickness denying thee any thing; a death to

    grant this.




    It is fifteen years since I saw my country: though

    I have for the most part been aired abroad, I

    desire to lay my bones there. Besides, the penitent

    king, my master, hath sent for me; to whose feeling

    sorrows I might be some allay, or I o'erween to

    think so, which is another spur to my departure.




    As thou lovest me, Camillo, wipe not out the rest of

    thy services by leaving me now: the need I have of

    thee thine own goodness hath made; better not to

    have had thee than thus to want thee: thou, having

    made me businesses which none without thee can

    sufficiently manage, must either stay to execute

    them thyself or take away with thee the very

    services thou hast done; which if I have not enough

    considered, as too much I cannot, to be more

    thankful to thee shall be my study, and my profit

    therein the heaping friendships. Of that fatal

    country, Sicilia, prithee speak no more; whose very

    naming punishes me with the remembrance of that

    penitent, as thou callest him, and reconciled king,

    my brother; whose loss of his most precious queen

    and children are even now to be afresh lamented.

    Say to me, when sawest thou the Prince Florizel, my

    son? Kings are no less unhappy, their issue not

    being gracious, than they are in losing them when

    they have approved their virtues.




    Sir, it is three days since I saw the prince. What

    his happier affairs may be, are to me unknown: but I

    have missingly noted, he is of late much retired

    from court and is less frequent to his princely

    exercises than formerly he hath appeared.




    I have considered so much, Camillo, and with some

    care; so far that I have eyes under my service which

    look upon his removedness; from whom I have this

    intelligence, that he is seldom from the house of a

    most homely shepherd; a man, they say, that from

    very nothing, and beyond the imagination of his

    neighbours, is grown into an unspeakable estate.




    I have heard, sir, of such a man, who hath a

    daughter of most rare note: the report of her is

    extended more than can be thought to begin from such a cottage.




    That's likewise part of my intelligence; but, I

    fear, the angle that plucks our son thither. Thou

    shalt accompany us to the place; where we will, not

    appearing what we are, have some question with the

    shepherd; from whose simplicity I think it not

    uneasy to get the cause of my son's resort thither.

    Prithee, be my present partner in this business, and

    lay aside the thoughts of Sicilia.




    I willingly obey your command.




    My best Camillo! We must disguise ourselves.




SCENE III. A road near the Shepherd's cottage.


    Enter AUTOLYCUS, singing




    When daffodils begin to peer,

    With heigh! the doxy over the dale,

    Why, then comes in the sweet o' the year;

    For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale.

    The white sheet bleaching on the hedge,

    With heigh! the sweet birds, O, how they sing!

    Doth set my pugging tooth on edge;

    For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.

    The lark, that tirra-lyra chants,

    With heigh! with heigh! the thrush and the jay,

    Are summer songs for me and my aunts,

    While we lie tumbling in the hay.

    I have served Prince Florizel and in my time

    wore three-pile; but now I am out of service:

    But shall I go mourn for that, my dear?

    The pale moon shines by night:

    And when I wander here and there,

    I then do most go right.

    If tinkers may have leave to live,

    And bear the sow-skin budget,

    Then my account I well may, give,

    And in the stocks avouch it.

    My traffic is sheets; when the kite builds, look to

    lesser linen. My father named me Autolycus; who

    being, as I am, littered under Mercury, was likewise

    a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles. With die and

    drab I purchased this caparison, and my revenue is

    the silly cheat. Gallows and knock are too powerful

    on the highway: beating and hanging are terrors to

    me: for the life to come, I sleep out the thought

    of it. A prize! a prize!


    Enter Clown




    Let me see: every 'leven wether tods; every tod

    yields pound and odd shilling; fifteen hundred

    shorn. what comes the wool to?





    If the springe hold, the cock's mine.




    I cannot do't without counters. Let me see; what am

    I to buy for our sheep-shearing feast? Three pound

    of sugar, five pound of currants, rice,--what will

    this sister of mine do with rice? But my father

    hath made her mistress of the feast, and she lays it

    on. She hath made me four and twenty nose-gays for

    the shearers, three-man-song-men all, and very good

    ones; but they are most of them means and bases; but

    one puritan amongst them, and he sings psalms to

    horn-pipes. I must have saffron to colour the warden

    pies; mace; dates?--none, that's out of my note;

    nutmegs, seven; a race or two of ginger, but that I

    may beg; four pound of prunes, and as many of

    raisins o' the sun.




    O that ever I was born!


    Grovelling on the ground




    I' the name of me--




    O, help me, help me! pluck but off these rags; and

    then, death, death!




    Alack, poor soul! thou hast need of more rags to lay

    on thee, rather than have these off.




    O sir, the loathsomeness of them offends me more

    than the stripes I have received, which are mighty

    ones and millions.




    Alas, poor man! a million of beating may come to a

    great matter.




    I am robbed, sir, and beaten; my money and apparel

    ta'en from me, and these detestable things put upon





    What, by a horseman, or a footman?




    A footman, sweet sir, a footman.




    Indeed, he should be a footman by the garments he

    has left with thee: if this be a horseman's coat,

    it hath seen very hot service. Lend me thy hand,

    I'll help thee: come, lend me thy hand.




    O, good sir, tenderly, O!




    Alas, poor soul!




    O, good sir, softly, good sir! I fear, sir, my

    shoulder-blade is out.




    How now! canst stand?




    [Picking his pocket]

    Softly, dear sir; good sir, softly. You ha' done me

    a charitable office.




    Dost lack any money? I have a little money for thee.




    No, good sweet sir; no, I beseech you, sir: I have

    a kinsman not past three quarters of a mile hence,

    unto whom I was going; I shall there have money, or

    any thing I want: offer me no money, I pray you;

    that kills my heart.




    What manner of fellow was he that robbed you?




    A fellow, sir, that I have known to go about with

    troll-my-dames; I knew him once a servant of the

    prince: I cannot tell, good sir, for which of his

    virtues it was, but he was certainly whipped out of the court.




    His vices, you would say; there's no virtue whipped

    out of the court: they cherish it to make it stay

    there; and yet it will no more but abide.




    Vices, I would say, sir. I know this man well: he

    hath been since an ape-bearer; then a

    process-server, a bailiff; then he compassed a

    motion of the Prodigal Son, and married a tinker's

    wife within a mile where my land and living lies;

    and, having flown over many knavish professions, he

    settled only in rogue: some call him Autolycus.




    Out upon him! prig, for my life, prig: he haunts

    wakes, fairs and bear-baitings.




    Very true, sir; he, sir, he; that's the rogue that

    put me into this apparel.




    Not a more cowardly rogue in all Bohemia: if you had

    but looked big and spit at him, he'ld have run.




    I must confess to you, sir, I am no fighter: I am

    false of heart that way; and that he knew, I warrant





    How do you now?




    Sweet sir, much better than I was; I can stand and

    walk: I will even take my leave of you, and pace

    softly towards my kinsman's.




    Shall I bring thee on the way?




    No, good-faced sir; no, sweet sir.




    Then fare thee well: I must go buy spices for our





    Prosper you, sweet sir!


    Exit Clown

    Your purse is not hot enough to purchase your spice.

    I'll be with you at your sheep-shearing too: if I

    make not this cheat bring out another and the

    shearers prove sheep, let me be unrolled and my name

    put in the book of virtue!



    Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way,

    And merrily hent the stile-a:

    A merry heart goes all the day,

    Your sad tires in a mile-a.



SCENE IV. The Shepherd's cottage.






    These your unusual weeds to each part of you

    Do give a life: no shepherdess, but Flora

    Peering in April's front. This your sheep-shearing

    Is as a meeting of the petty gods,

    And you the queen on't.




    Sir, my gracious lord,

    To chide at your extremes it not becomes me:

    O, pardon, that I name them! Your high self,

    The gracious mark o' the land, you have obscured

    With a swain's wearing, and me, poor lowly maid,

    Most goddess-like prank'd up: but that our feasts

    In every mess have folly and the feeders

    Digest it with a custom, I should blush

    To see you so attired, sworn, I think,

    To show myself a glass.




    I bless the time

    When my good falcon made her flight across

    Thy father's ground.




    Now Jove afford you cause!

    To me the difference forges dread; your greatness

    Hath not been used to fear. Even now I tremble

    To think your father, by some accident,

    Should pass this way as you did: O, the Fates!

    How would he look, to see his work so noble

    Vilely bound up? What would he say? Or how

    Should I, in these my borrow'd flaunts, behold

    The sternness of his presence?





    Nothing but jollity. The gods themselves,

    Humbling their deities to love, have taken

    The shapes of beasts upon them: Jupiter

    Became a bull, and bellow'd; the green Neptune

    A ram, and bleated; and the fire-robed god,

    Golden Apollo, a poor humble swain,

    As I seem now. Their transformations

    Were never for a piece of beauty rarer,

    Nor in a way so chaste, since my desires

    Run not before mine honour, nor my lusts

    Burn hotter than my faith.




    O, but, sir,

    Your resolution cannot hold, when 'tis

    Opposed, as it must be, by the power of the king:

    One of these two must be necessities,

    Which then will speak, that you must

    change this purpose,

    Or I my life.




    Thou dearest Perdita,

    With these forced thoughts, I prithee, 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

    We two have sworn shall come.




    O lady Fortune,

    Stand you auspicious!




    See, your guests approach:

    Address yourself to entertain them sprightly,

    And let's be red with mirth.


    Enter Shepherd, Clown, MOPSA, DORCAS, and others, with POLIXENES and CAMILLO disguised




    Fie, daughter! when my old wife lived, upon

    This day she was both pantler, butler, cook,

    Both dame and servant; welcomed all, served all;

    Would sing her song and dance her turn; now here,

    At upper end o' the table, now i' the middle;

    On his shoulder, and his; her face o' fire

    With labour and the thing she took to quench it,

    She would to each one sip. You are retired,

    As if you were a feasted one and not

    The hostess of the meeting: pray you, bid

    These unknown friends to's welcome; for it is

    A way to make us better friends, more known.

    Come, quench your blushes and present yourself

    That which you are, mistress o' the feast: come on,

    And bid us welcome to your sheep-shearing,

    As your good flock shall prosper.




    [To POLIXENES] Sir, welcome:

    It is my father's will I should take on me

    The hostess-ship o' the day.



    You're welcome, sir.

    Give me those flowers there, Dorcas. Reverend sirs,

    For you there's rosemary and rue; these keep

    Seeming and savour all the winter long:

    Grace and remembrance be to you both,

    And welcome to our shearing!





    A fair one are you--well you fit our ages

    With flowers of winter.




    Sir, the year growing ancient,

    Not yet on summer's death, nor on the birth

    Of trembling winter, the fairest

    flowers o' the season

    Are our carnations and streak'd gillyvors,

    Which some call nature's bastards: of that kind

    Our rustic garden's barren; and I care not

    To get slips of them.




    Wherefore, gentle maiden,

    Do you neglect them?




    For I have heard it said

    There is an art which in their piedness shares

    With great creating nature.




    Say there be;

    Yet nature is made better by no mean

    But nature makes that mean: so, over 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.




    Then make your garden rich in gillyvors,

    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 therefore

    Desire to breed by me. Here's flowers for you;

    Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram;

    The marigold, that goes to bed wi' 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're very welcome.




    I should leave grazing, were I of your flock,

    And only live by gazing.




    Out, alas!

    You'd be so lean, that blasts of January

    Would blow you through and through.

    Now, my fair'st friend,

    I would I had some flowers o' the spring that might

    Become your time of day; and yours, and 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

    Bight Phoebus in his strength--a malady

    Most incident to maids; bold oxlips and

    The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds,

    The flower-de-luce being one! O, these I lack,

    To make you garlands of, and my sweet friend,

    To strew him o'er and o'er!




    What, like a corse?




    No, like a bank for love to lie and play on;

    Not like a corse; or if, not to be buried,

    But quick and in mine arms. Come, take your flowers:

    Methinks I play as I have seen them do

    In Whitsun pastorals: sure this robe of mine

    Does change my disposition.




    What you do

    Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet.

    I'ld have you do it ever: when you sing,

    I'ld have you buy and sell so, so give alms,

    Pray so; and, for the ordering your affairs,

    To sing them too: when you do dance, I wish you

    A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do

    Nothing but that; move still, still so,

    And own no other function: each your doing,

    So singular in each particular,

    Crowns what you are doing in the present deed,

    That all your acts are queens.




    O Doricles,

    Your praises are too large: but that your youth,

    And the true blood which peepeth fairly through't,

    Do plainly give you out an unstain'd shepherd,

    With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles,

    You woo'd me the false way.




    I think you have

    As little skill to fear as I have purpose

    To put you to't. But come; our dance, I pray:

    Your hand, my Perdita: so turtles pair,

    That never mean to part.




    I'll swear for 'em.




    This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever

    Ran on the green-sward: nothing she does or seems

    But smacks of something greater than herself,

    Too noble for this place.




    He tells her something

    That makes her blood look out: good sooth, she is

    The queen of curds and cream.




    Come on, strike up!




    Mopsa must be your mistress: marry, garlic,

    To mend her kissing with!




    Now, in good time!




    Not a word, a word; we stand upon our manners.

    Come, strike up!


    Music. Here a dance of Shepherds and Shepherdesses




    Pray, good shepherd, what fair swain is this

    Which dances with your daughter?




    They call him Doricles; and boasts himself

    To have a worthy feeding: but I have it

    Upon his own report and I believe it;

    He looks like sooth. He says he loves my daughter:

    I think so too; for never gazed the moon

    Upon the water as he'll stand and read

    As 'twere my daughter's eyes: and, to be plain.

    I think there is not half a kiss to choose

    Who loves another best.




    She dances featly.




    So she does any thing; though I report it,

    That should be silent: if young Doricles

    Do light upon her, she shall bring him that

    Which he not dreams of.


    Enter Servant




    O master, if you did but hear the pedlar at the

    door, you would never dance again after a tabour and

    pipe; no, the bagpipe could not move you: he sings

    several tunes faster than you'll tell money; he

    utters them as he had eaten ballads and all men's

    ears grew to his tunes.




    He could never come better; he shall come in. I

    love a ballad but even too well, if it be doleful

    matter merrily set down, or a very pleasant thing

    indeed and sung lamentably.




    He hath songs for man or woman, of all sizes; no

    milliner can so fit his customers with gloves: he

    has the prettiest love-songs for maids; so without

    bawdry, which is strange; with such delicate

    burthens of dildos and fadings, 'jump her and thump

    her;' and where some stretch-mouthed rascal would,

    as it were, mean mischief and break a foul gap into

    the matter, he makes the maid to answer 'Whoop, do me

    no harm, good man;' puts him off, slights him, with

    'Whoop, do me no harm, good man.'




    This is a brave fellow.




    Believe me, thou talkest of an admirable conceited

    fellow. Has he any unbraided wares?




    He hath ribbons of an the colours i' the rainbow;

    points more than all the lawyers in Bohemia can

    learnedly handle, though they come to him by the

    gross: inkles, caddisses, cambrics, lawns: why, he

    sings 'em over as they were gods or goddesses; you

    would think a smock were a she-angel, he so chants

    to the sleeve-hand and the work about the square on't.




    Prithee bring him in; and let him approach singing.




    Forewarn him that he use no scurrilous words in 's tunes.


    Exit Servant




    You have of these pedlars, that have more in them

    than you'ld think, sister.




    Ay, good brother, or go about to think.


    Enter AUTOLYCUS, singing




    Lawn as white as driven snow;

    Cyprus black as e'er was crow;

    Gloves as sweet as damask roses;

    Masks for faces and for noses;

    Bugle bracelet, necklace amber,

    Perfume for a lady's chamber;

    Golden quoifs and stomachers,

    For my lads to give their dears:

    Pins and poking-sticks of steel,

    What maids lack from head to heel:

    Come buy of me, come; come buy, come buy;

    Buy lads, or else your lasses cry: Come buy.




    If I were not in love with Mopsa, thou shouldst take

    no money of me; but being enthralled as I am, it

    will also be the bondage of certain ribbons and gloves.




    I was promised them against the feast; but they come

    not too late now.




    He hath promised you more than that, or there be liars.




    He hath paid you all he promised you; may be, he has

    paid you more, which will shame you to give him again.




    Is there no manners left among maids? will they

    wear their plackets where they should bear their

    faces? Is there not milking-time, when you are

    going to bed, or kiln-hole, to whistle off these

    secrets, but you must be tittle-tattling before all

    our guests? 'tis well they are whispering: clamour

    your tongues, and not a word more.




    I have done. Come, you promised me a tawdry-lace

    and a pair of sweet gloves.




    Have I not told thee how I was cozened by the way

    and lost all my money?




    And indeed, sir, there are cozeners abroad;

    therefore it behoves men to be wary.




    Fear not thou, man, thou shalt lose nothing here.




    I hope so, sir; for I have about me many parcels of charge.




    What hast here? ballads?




    Pray now, buy some: I love a ballad in print o'

    life, for then we are sure they are true.




    Here's one to a very doleful tune, how a usurer's

    wife was brought to bed of twenty money-bags at a

    burthen and how she longed to eat adders' heads and

    toads carbonadoed.




    Is it true, think you?




    Very true, and but a month old.




    Bless me from marrying a usurer!




    Here's the midwife's name to't, one Mistress

    Tale-porter, and five or six honest wives that were

    present. Why should I carry lies abroad?




    Pray you now, buy it.




    Come on, lay it by: and let's first see moe

    ballads; we'll buy the other things anon.




    Here's another ballad of a fish, that appeared upon

    the coast on Wednesday the four-score of April,

    forty thousand fathom above water, and sung this

    ballad against the hard hearts of maids: it was

    thought she was a woman and was turned into a cold

    fish for she would not exchange flesh with one that

    loved her: the ballad is very pitiful and as true.




    Is it true too, think you?




    Five justices' hands at it, and witnesses more than

    my pack will hold.




    Lay it by too: another.




    This is a merry ballad, but a very pretty one.




    Let's have some merry ones.




    Why, this is a passing merry one and goes to

    the tune of 'Two maids wooing a man:' there's

    scarce a maid westward but she sings it; 'tis in

    request, I can tell you.




    We can both sing it: if thou'lt bear a part, thou

    shalt hear; 'tis in three parts.




    We had the tune on't a month ago.




    I can bear my part; you must know 'tis my

    occupation; have at it with you.






    Get you hence, for I must go

    Where it fits not you to know.








    O, whither?








    It becomes thy oath full well,

    Thou to me thy secrets tell.




    Me too, let me go thither.




    Or thou goest to the orange or mill.




    If to either, thou dost ill.








    What, neither?








    Thou hast sworn my love to be.




    Thou hast sworn it more to me:

    Then whither goest? say, whither?




    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. Pedlar, let's

    have the first choice. Follow me, girls.


    Exit with DORCAS and MOPSA




    And you shall pay well for 'em.


    Follows singing

    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 finest, finest wear-a?

    Come to the pedlar;

    Money's a medler.

    That doth utter all men's ware-a.




    Re-enter Servant




    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.




    Away! we'll none on 't: here has been too much

    homely foolery already. I know, sir, we weary you.




    You weary those that refresh us: pray, let's see

    these four threes of herdsmen.




    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 squier.




    Leave your prating: since these good men are

    pleased, let them come in; but quickly now.




    Why, they stay at door, sir.




    Here a dance of twelve Satyrs




    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.



    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 she with knacks: I would have ransack'd

    The pedlar'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 loved! 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.




    What follows this?

    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.




    Do, and be witness to 't.




    And this my neighbour too?




    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.




    Fairly offer'd.




    This shows a sound affection.




    But, my daughter,

    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.




    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.




    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;

    And, daughter, yours.




    Soft, swain, awhile, beseech you;

    Have you a father?




    I have: but what of him?




    Knows he of this?




    He neither does nor shall.




    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 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.




    Let him know't.




    He shall not.




    Prithee, let him.




    No, he must not.




    Let him, my son: he shall not need to grieve

    At knowing of thy choice.




    Come, come, he must not.

    Mark our contract.




    Mark your divorce, young sir,


    Discovering himself

    Whom son I dare not call; thou art too base

    To be acknowledged: thou a sceptre's heir,

    That thus affect'st a sheep-hook! Thou old traitor,

    I am 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 copest with,--




    O, my heart!




    I'll have thy beauty scratch'd with briers, 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 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,

    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,

    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't.






    Even here undone!

    I was not much afeard; for once or twice

    I was about to speak and tell him plainly,

    The selfsame sun that shines upon his court

    Hides not his visage from our cottage but

    Looks on alike. Will't please you, sir, be gone?

    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.




    Why, how now, father!

    Speak ere thou diest.




    I cannot speak, nor think

    Nor dare to know that which I know. O sir!

    You have undone a man of fourscore three,

    That thought to fill his grave in quiet, yea,

    To die upon the bed my father died,

    To lie close by his honest bones: but now

    Some hangman must put on my shroud and lay me

    Where no priest shovels in dust. O cursed wretch,

    That knew'st this was the prince,

    and wouldst adventure

    To mingle faith with him! Undone! undone!

    If I might die within this hour, I have lived

    To die when I desire.






    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.




    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 sight as yet, I fear:

    Then, till the fury of his highness settle,

    Come not before him.




    I not purpose it.

    I think, Camillo?




    Even he, my lord.




    How often have I told you 'twould be thus!

    How often said, my dignity would last

    But till 'twere known!




    It cannot fail but by

    The violation of my faith; and then

    Let nature crush the sides o' the earth together

    And mar the seeds within! Lift up thy looks:

    From my succession wipe me, father; I

    Am heir to my affection.




    Be advised.




    I am, and by my fancy: if my reason

    Will thereto be obedient, I have reason;

    If not, my senses, better pleased with madness,

    Do bid it welcome.




    This is desperate, sir.




    So call it: but it does fulfil my vow;

    I needs must think it honesty. Camillo,

    Not for Bohemia, nor the pomp that may

    Be thereat glean'd, for all the sun sees or

    The close earth wombs or the profound sea hides

    In unknown fathoms, will I break my oath

    To this my fair beloved: therefore, I pray you,

    As you have ever been my father's honour'd friend,

    When he shall miss me,--as, in faith, I mean not

    To see him any more,--cast your good counsels

    Upon his passion; let myself and fortune

    Tug for the time to come. This you may know

    And so deliver, I am put to sea

    With her whom here I cannot hold on shore;

    And most opportune to our need I have

    A vessel rides fast by, but not prepared

    For this design. What course I mean to hold

    Shall nothing benefit your knowledge, nor

    Concern me the reporting.




    O my lord!

    I would your spirit were easier for advice,

    Or stronger for your need.




    Hark, Perdita


    Drawing her aside

    I'll hear you by and by.




    He's irremoveable,

    Resolved for flight. Now were I happy, if

    His going I could frame to serve my turn,

    Save him from danger, do him love and honour,

    Purchase the sight again of dear Sicilia

    And that unhappy king, my master, whom

    I so much thirst to see.




    Now, good Camillo;

    I am so fraught with curious business that

    I leave out ceremony.




    Sir, I think

    You have heard of my poor services, i' the love

    That I have borne your father?




    Very nobly

    Have you deserved: it is my father's music

    To speak your deeds, not little of his care

    To have them recompensed as thought on.




    Well, my lord,

    If you may please to think I love the king

    And through him what is nearest to him, which is

    Your gracious self, embrace but my direction:

    If your more ponderous and settled project

    May suffer alteration, on mine honour,

    I'll point you where you shall have such receiving

    As shall become your highness; where you may

    Enjoy your mistress, from the whom, I see,

    There's no disjunction to be made, but by--

    As heavens forefend!--your ruin; marry her,

    And, with my best endeavours in your absence,

    Your discontenting father strive to qualify

    And bring him up to liking.




    How, Camillo,

    May this, almost a miracle, be done?

    That I may call thee something more than man

    And after that trust to thee.




    Have you thought on

    A place whereto you'll go?




    Not any yet:

    But as the unthought-on accident is guilty

    To what we wildly do, so we profess

    Ourselves to be the slaves of chance and flies

    Of every wind that blows.




    Then list to me:

    This follows, if you will not change your purpose

    But undergo this flight, make for Sicilia,

    And there present yourself and your fair princess,

    For so I see she must be, 'fore Leontes:

    She shall be habited as it becomes

    The partner of your bed. Methinks I see

    Leontes opening his free arms and weeping

    His welcomes forth; asks thee the son forgiveness,

    As 'twere i' the father's person; kisses the hands

    Of your fresh princess; o'er and o'er divides him

    'Twixt his unkindness and his kindness; the one

    He chides to hell and bids the other grow

    Faster than thought or time.




    Worthy Camillo,

    What colour for my visitation shall I

    Hold up before him?




    Sent by the king your father

    To greet him and to give him comforts. Sir,

    The manner of your bearing towards him, with

    What you as from your father shall deliver,

    Things known betwixt us three, I'll write you down:

    The which shall point you forth at every sitting

    What you must say; that he shall not perceive

    But that you have your father's bosom there

    And speak his very heart.




    I am bound to you:

    There is some sap in this.




    A cause more promising

    Than a wild dedication of yourselves

    To unpath'd waters, undream'd shores, most certain

    To miseries enough; no hope to help you,

    But as you shake off one to take another;

    Nothing so certain as your anchors, who

    Do their best office, if they can but stay you

    Where you'll be loath to be: besides you know

    Prosperity's the very bond of love,

    Whose fresh complexion and whose heart together

    Affliction alters.




    One of these is true:

    I think affliction may subdue the cheek,

    But not take in the mind.




    Yea, say you so?

    There shall not at your father's house these

    seven years

    Be born another such.




    My good Camillo,

    She is as forward of her breeding as

    She is i' the rear our birth.




    I cannot say 'tis pity

    She lacks instructions, for she seems a mistress

    To most that teach.




    Your pardon, sir; for this

    I'll blush you thanks.




    My prettiest Perdita!

    But O, the thorns we stand upon! Camillo,

    Preserver of my father, now of me,

    The medicine of our house, how shall we do?

    We are not furnish'd like Bohemia's son,

    Nor shall appear in Sicilia.




    My lord,

    Fear none of this: I think you know my fortunes

    Do all lie there: it shall be so my care

    To have you royally appointed as if

    The scene you play were mine. For instance, sir,

    That you may know you shall not want, one word.


    They talk aside


    Re-enter AUTOLYCUS




    Ha, ha! what a fool Honesty is! and Trust, his

    sworn brother, a very simple gentleman! I have sold

    all my trumpery; not a counterfeit stone, not a

    ribbon, glass, pomander, brooch, table-book, ballad,

    knife, tape, glove, shoe-tie, bracelet, horn-ring,

    to keep my pack from fasting: they throng who

    should buy first, as if my trinkets had been

    hallowed and brought a benediction to the buyer:

    by which means I saw whose purse was best in

    picture; and what I saw, to my good use I

    remembered. My clown, who wants but something to

    be a reasonable man, grew so in love with the

    wenches' song, that he would not stir his pettitoes

    till he had both tune and words; which so drew the

    rest of the herd to me that all their other senses

    stuck in ears: you might have pinched a placket, it

    was senseless; 'twas nothing to geld a codpiece of a

    purse; I could have filed keys off that hung in

    chains: no hearing, no feeling, but my sir's song,

    and admiring the nothing of it. So that in this

    time of lethargy I picked and cut most of their

    festival purses; and had not the old man come in

    with a whoo-bub against his daughter and the king's

    son and scared my choughs from the chaff, I had not

    left a purse alive in the whole army.


    CAMILLO, FLORIZEL, and PERDITA come forward




    Nay, but my letters, by this means being there

    So soon as you arrive, shall clear that doubt.




    And those that you'll procure from King Leontes--




    Shall satisfy your father.




    Happy be you!

    All that you speak shows fair.




    Who have we here?


    Seeing AUTOLYCUS

    We'll make an instrument of this, omit

    Nothing may give us aid.




    If they have overheard me now, why, hanging.




    How now, good fellow! why shakest thou so? Fear

    not, man; here's no harm intended to thee.




    I am a poor fellow, sir.




    Why, be so still; here's nobody will steal that from

    thee: yet for the outside of thy poverty we must

    make an exchange; therefore discase thee instantly,

    --thou must think there's a necessity in't,--and

    change garments with this gentleman: though the

    pennyworth on his side be the worst, yet hold thee,

    there's some boot.




    I am a poor fellow, sir.



    I know ye well enough.




    Nay, prithee, dispatch: the gentleman is half

    flayed already.




    Are you in earnest, sir?



    I smell the trick on't.




    Dispatch, I prithee.




    Indeed, I have had earnest: but I cannot with

    conscience take it.




    Unbuckle, unbuckle.


    FLORIZEL and AUTOLYCUS exchange garments

    Fortunate mistress,--let my prophecy

    Come home to ye!--you must retire yourself

    Into some covert: take your sweetheart's hat

    And pluck it o'er your brows, muffle your face,

    Dismantle you, and, as you can, disliken

    The truth of your own seeming; that you may--

    For I do fear eyes over--to shipboard

    Get undescried.




    I see the play so lies

    That I must bear a part.




    No remedy.

    Have you done there?




    Should I now meet my father,

    He would not call me son.




    Nay, you shall have no hat.


    Giving it to PERDITA

    Come, lady, come. Farewell, my friend.




    Adieu, sir.




    O Perdita, what have we twain forgot!

    Pray you, a word.




    [Aside] What I do next, shall be to tell the king

    Of this escape and whither they are bound;

    Wherein my hope is I shall so prevail

    To force him after: in whose company

    I shall review Sicilia, for whose sight

    I have a woman's longing.




    Fortune speed us!

    Thus we set on, Camillo, to the sea-side.




    The swifter speed the better.






    I understand the business, I hear it: to have an

    open ear, a quick eye, and a nimble hand, is

    necessary for a cut-purse; a good nose is requisite

    also, to smell out work for the other senses. I see

    this is the time that the unjust man doth thrive.

    What an exchange had this been without boot! What

    a boot is here with this exchange! Sure the gods do

    this year connive at us, and we may do any thing

    extempore. The prince himself is about a piece of

    iniquity, stealing away from his father with his

    clog at his heels: if I thought it were a piece of

    honesty to acquaint the king withal, I would not

    do't: I hold it the more knavery to conceal it;

    and therein am I constant to my profession.


    Re-enter Clown and Shepherd

    Aside, aside; here is more matter for a hot brain:

    every lane's end, every shop, church, session,

    hanging, yields a careful man work.




    See, see; what a man you are now!

    There is no other way but to tell the king

    she's a changeling and none of your flesh and blood.




    Nay, but hear me.




    Nay, but hear me.




    Go to, then.




    She being none of your flesh and blood, your flesh

    and blood has not offended the king; and so your

    flesh and blood is not to be punished by him. Show

    those things you found about her, those secret

    things, all but what she has with her: this being

    done, let the law go whistle: I warrant you.




    I will tell the king all, every word, yea, and his

    son's pranks too; who, I may say, is no honest man,

    neither to his father nor to me, to go about to make

    me the king's brother-in-law.




    Indeed, brother-in-law was the farthest off you

    could have been to him and then your blood had been

    the dearer by I know how much an ounce.




    [Aside] Very wisely, puppies!




    Well, let us to the king: there is that in this

    fardel will make him scratch his beard.




    [Aside] I know not what impediment this complaint

    may be to the flight of my master.




    Pray heartily he be at palace.




    [Aside] Though I am not naturally honest, I am so

    sometimes by chance: let me pocket up my pedlar's excrement.


    Takes off his false beard

    How now, rustics! whither are you bound?




    To the palace, an it like your worship.




    Your affairs there, what, with whom, the condition

    of that fardel, the place of your dwelling, your

    names, your ages, of what having, breeding, and any

    thing that is fitting to be known, discover.




    We are but plain fellows, sir.




    A lie; you are rough and hairy. Let me have no

    lying: it becomes none but tradesmen, and they

    often give us soldiers the lie: but we pay them for

    it with stamped coin, not stabbing steel; therefore

    they do not give us the lie.




    Your worship had like to have given us one, if you

    had not taken yourself with the manner.




    Are you a courtier, an't like you, sir?




    Whether it like me or no, I am a courtier. Seest

    thou not the air of the court in these enfoldings?

    hath not my gait in it the measure of the court?

    receives not thy nose court-odor from me? reflect I

    not on thy baseness court-contempt? Thinkest thou,

    for that I insinuate, or toaze from thee thy

    business, I am therefore no courtier? I am courtier

    cap-a-pe; and one that will either push on or pluck

    back thy business there: whereupon I command thee to

    open thy affair.




    My business, sir, is to the king.




    What advocate hast thou to him?




    I know not, an't like you.




    Advocate's the court-word for a pheasant: say you

    have none.




    None, sir; I have no pheasant, cock nor hen.




    How blessed are we that are not simple men!

    Yet nature might have made me as these are,

    Therefore I will not disdain.




    This cannot be but a great courtier.




    His garments are rich, but he wears

    them not handsomely.




    He seems to be the more noble in being fantastical:

    a great man, I'll warrant; I know by the picking

    on's teeth.




    The fardel there? what's i' the fardel?

    Wherefore that box?




    Sir, there lies such secrets in this fardel and box,

    which none must know but the king; and which he

    shall know within this hour, if I may come to the

    speech of him.




    Age, thou hast lost thy labour.




    Why, sir?




    The king is not at the palace; he is gone aboard a

    new ship to purge melancholy and air himself: for,

    if thou beest capable of things serious, thou must

    know the king is full of grief.




    So 'tis said, sir; about his son, that should have

    married a shepherd's daughter.




    If that shepherd be not in hand-fast, let him fly:

    the curses he shall have, the tortures he shall

    feel, will break the back of man, the heart of monster.




    Think you so, sir?




    Not he alone shall suffer what wit can make heavy

    and vengeance bitter; but those that are germane to

    him, though removed fifty times, shall all come

    under the hangman: which though it be great pity,

    yet it is necessary. An old sheep-whistling rogue a

    ram-tender, to offer to have his daughter come into

    grace! Some say he shall be stoned; but that death

    is too soft for him, say I draw our throne into a

    sheep-cote! all deaths are too few, the sharpest too easy.




    Has the old man e'er a son, sir, do you hear. an't

    like you, sir?




    He has a son, who shall be flayed alive; then

    'nointed over with honey, set on the head of a

    wasp's nest; then stand till he be three quarters

    and a dram dead; then recovered again with

    aqua-vitae or some other hot infusion; then, raw as

    he is, and in the hottest day prognostication

    proclaims, shall be be set against a brick-wall, the

    sun looking with a southward eye upon him, where he

    is to behold him with flies blown to death. But what

    talk we of these traitorly rascals, whose miseries

    are to be smiled at, their offences being so

    capital? Tell me, for you seem to be honest plain

    men, what you have to the king: being something

    gently considered, I'll bring you where he is

    aboard, tender your persons to his presence,

    whisper him in your behalfs; and if it be in man

    besides the king to effect your suits, here is man

    shall do it.




    He seems to be of great authority: close with him,

    give him gold; and though authority be a stubborn

    bear, yet he is oft led by the nose with gold: show

    the inside of your purse to the outside of his hand,

    and no more ado. Remember 'stoned,' and 'flayed alive.'




    An't please you, sir, to undertake the business for

    us, here is that gold I have: I'll make it as much

    more and leave this young man in pawn till I bring it you.




    After I have done what I promised?




    Ay, sir.




    Well, give me the moiety. Are you a party in this business?




    In some sort, sir: but though my case be a pitiful

    one, I hope I shall not be flayed out of it.




    O, that's the case of the shepherd's son: hang him,

    he'll be made an example.




    Comfort, good comfort! We must to the king and show

    our strange sights: he must know 'tis none of your

    daughter nor my sister; we are gone else. Sir, I

    will give you as much as this old man does when the

    business is performed, and remain, as he says, your

    pawn till it be brought you.




    I will trust you. Walk before toward the sea-side;

    go on the right hand: I will but look upon the

    hedge and follow you.




    We are blest in this man, as I may say, even blest.




    Let's before as he bids us: he was provided to do us good.


    Exeunt Shepherd and Clown




    If I had a mind to be honest, I see Fortune would

    not suffer me: she drops booties in my mouth. I am

    courted now with a double occasion, gold and a means

    to do the prince my master good; which who knows how

    that may turn back to my advancement? I will bring

    these two moles, these blind ones, aboard him: if he

    think it fit to shore them again and that the

    complaint they have to the king concerns him

    nothing, let him call me rogue for being so far

    officious; for I am proof against that title and

    what shame else belongs to't. To him will I present

    them: there may be matter in it.





SCENE I. A room in LEONTES' palace.






    Sir, you have done enough, and have perform'd

    A saint-like sorrow: no fault could you make,

    Which you have not redeem'd; indeed, paid down

    More penitence than done trespass: at the last,

    Do as the heavens have done, forget your evil;

    With them forgive yourself.




    Whilst I remember

    Her and her virtues, I cannot forget

    My blemishes in them, and so still think of

    The wrong I did myself; which was so much,

    That heirless it hath made my kingdom and

    Destroy'd the sweet'st companion that e'er man

    Bred his hopes out of.




    True, too true, my lord:

    If, one by one, you wedded all the world,

    Or from the all that are took something good,

    To make a perfect woman, she you kill'd

    Would be unparallel'd.




    I think so. Kill'd!

    She I kill'd! I did so: but thou strikest me

    Sorely, to say I did; it is as bitter

    Upon thy tongue as in my thought: now, good now,

    Say so but seldom.




    Not at all, good lady:

    You might have spoken a thousand things that would

    Have done the time more benefit and graced

    Your kindness better.




    You are one of those

    Would have him wed again.




    If you would not so,

    You pity not the state, nor the remembrance

    Of his most sovereign name; consider little

    What dangers, by his highness' fail of issue,

    May drop upon his kingdom and devour

    Incertain lookers on. What were more holy

    Than to rejoice the former queen is well?

    What holier than, for royalty's repair,

    For present comfort and for future good,

    To bless the bed of majesty again

    With a sweet fellow to't?




    There is none worthy,

    Respecting her that's gone. Besides, the gods

    Will have fulfill'd their secret purposes;

    For has not the divine Apollo said,

    Is't not the tenor of his oracle,

    That King Leontes shall not have an heir

    Till his lost child be found? which that it shall,

    Is all as monstrous to our human reason

    As my Antigonus to break his grave

    And come again to me; who, on my life,

    Did perish with the infant. 'Tis your counsel

    My lord should to the heavens be contrary,

    Oppose against their wills.



    Care not for issue;

    The crown will find an heir: great Alexander

    Left his to the worthiest; so his successor

    Was like to be the best.




    Good Paulina,

    Who hast the memory of Hermione,

    I know, in honour, O, that ever I

    Had squared me to thy counsel! then, even now,

    I might have look'd upon my queen's full eyes,

    Have taken treasure from her lips--




    And left them

    More rich for what they yielded.




    Thou speak'st truth.

    No more such wives; therefore, no wife: one worse,

    And better used, would make her sainted spirit

    Again possess her corpse, and on this stage,

    Where we're offenders now, appear soul-vex'd,

    And begin, 'Why to me?'




    Had she such power,

    She had just cause.




    She had; and would incense me

    To murder her I married.




    I should so.

    Were I the ghost that walk'd, I'ld bid you mark

    Her eye, and tell me for what dull part in't

    You chose her; then I'ld shriek, that even your ears

    Should rift to hear me; and the words that follow'd

    Should be 'Remember mine.'




    Stars, stars,

    And all eyes else dead coals! Fear thou no wife;

    I'll have no wife, Paulina.




    Will you swear

    Never to marry but by my free leave?




    Never, Paulina; so be blest my spirit!




    Then, good my lords, bear witness to his oath.




    You tempt him over-much.




    Unless another,

    As like Hermione as is her picture,

    Affront his eye.




    Good madam,--




    I have done.

    Yet, if my lord will marry,--if you will, sir,

    No remedy, but you will,--give me the office

    To choose you a queen: she shall not be so young

    As was your former; but she shall be such

    As, walk'd your first queen's ghost,

    it should take joy

    To see her in your arms.




    My true Paulina,

    We shall not marry till thou bid'st us.





    Shall be when your first queen's again in breath;

    Never till then.


    Enter a Gentleman




    One that gives out himself Prince Florizel,

    Son of Polixenes, with his princess, she

    The fairest I have yet beheld, desires access

    To your high presence.




    What with him? he comes not

    Like to his father's greatness: his approach,

    So out of circumstance and sudden, tells us

    'Tis not a visitation framed, but forced

    By need and accident. What train?




    But few,

    And those but mean.




    His princess, say you, with him?




    Ay, the most peerless piece of earth, I think,

    That e'er the sun shone bright on.




    O Hermione,

    As every present time doth boast itself

    Above a better gone, so must thy grave

    Give way to what's seen now! Sir, you yourself

    Have said and writ so, but your writing now

    Is colder than that theme, 'She had not been,

    Nor was not to be equall'd;'--thus your verse

    Flow'd with her beauty once: 'tis shrewdly ebb'd,

    To say you have seen a better.




    Pardon, madam:

    The one I have almost forgot,--your pardon,--

    The other, when she has obtain'd your eye,

    Will have your tongue too. This is a creature,

    Would she begin a sect, might quench the zeal

    Of all professors else, make proselytes

    Of who she but bid follow.




    How! not women?




    Women will love her, that she is a woman

    More worth than any man; men, that she is

    The rarest of all women.




    Go, Cleomenes;

    Yourself, assisted with your honour'd friends,

    Bring them to our embracement. Still, 'tis strange


    Exeunt CLEOMENES and others

    He thus should steal upon us.




    Had our prince,

    Jewel of children, seen this hour, he had pair'd

    Well with this lord: there was not full a month

    Between their births.




    Prithee, no more; cease; thou know'st

    He dies to me again when talk'd of: sure,

    When I shall see this gentleman, thy speeches

    Will bring me to consider that which may

    Unfurnish me of reason. They are come.


    Re-enter CLEOMENES and others, with FLORIZEL and PERDITA

    Your mother was most true to wedlock, prince;

    For she did print your royal father off,

    Conceiving you: were I but twenty-one,

    Your father's image is so hit in you,

    His very air, that I should call you brother,

    As I did him, and speak of something wildly

    By us perform'd before. Most dearly welcome!

    And your fair princess,--goddess!--O, alas!

    I lost a couple, that 'twixt heaven and earth

    Might thus have stood begetting wonder as

    You, gracious couple, do: and then I lost--

    All mine own folly--the society,

    Amity too, of your brave father, whom,

    Though bearing misery, I desire my life

    Once more to look on him.




    By his command

    Have I here touch'd Sicilia and from him

    Give you all greetings that a king, at friend,

    Can send his brother: and, but infirmity

    Which waits upon worn times hath something seized

    His wish'd ability, he had himself

    The lands and waters 'twixt your throne and his

    Measured to look upon you; whom he loves--

    He bade me say so--more than all the sceptres

    And those that bear them living.




    O my brother,

    Good gentleman! the wrongs I have done thee stir

    Afresh within me, and these thy offices,

    So rarely kind, are as interpreters

    Of my behind-hand slackness. Welcome hither,

    As is the spring to the earth. And hath he too

    Exposed this paragon to the fearful usage,

    At least ungentle, of the dreadful Neptune,

    To greet a man not worth her pains, much less

    The adventure of her person?




    Good my lord,

    She came from Libya.




    Where the warlike Smalus,

    That noble honour'd lord, is fear'd and loved?




    Most royal sir, from thence; from him, whose daughter

    His tears proclaim'd his, parting with her: thence,

    A prosperous south-wind friendly, we have cross'd,

    To execute the charge my father gave me

    For visiting your highness: my best train

    I have from your Sicilian shores dismiss'd;

    Who for Bohemia bend, to signify

    Not only my success in Libya, sir,

    But my arrival and my wife's in safety

    Here where we are.




    The blessed gods

    Purge all infection from our air whilst you

    Do climate here! You have a holy father,

    A graceful gentleman; against whose person,

    So sacred as it is, I have done sin:

    For which the heavens, taking angry note,

    Have left me issueless; and your father's blest,

    As he from heaven merits it, with you

    Worthy his goodness. What might I have been,

    Might I a son and daughter now have look'd on,

    Such goodly things as you!


    Enter a Lord




    Most noble sir,

    That which I shall report will bear no credit,

    Were not the proof so nigh. Please you, great sir,

    Bohemia greets you from himself by me;

    Desires you to attach his son, who has--

    His dignity and duty both cast off--

    Fled from his father, from his hopes, and with

    A shepherd's daughter.




    Where's Bohemia? speak.




    Here in your city; I now came from him:

    I speak amazedly; and it becomes

    My marvel and my message. To your court

    Whiles he was hastening, in the chase, it seems,

    Of this fair couple, meets he on the way

    The father of this seeming lady and

    Her brother, having both their country quitted

    With this young prince.




    Camillo has betray'd me;

    Whose honour and whose honesty till now

    Endured all weathers.




    Lay't so to his charge:

    He's with the king your father.




    Who? Camillo?




    Camillo, sir; I spake with him; who now

    Has these poor men in question. Never saw I

    Wretches so quake: they kneel, they kiss the earth;

    Forswear themselves as often as they speak:

    Bohemia stops his ears, and threatens them

    With divers deaths in death.




    O my poor father!

    The heaven sets spies upon us, will not have

    Our contract celebrated.




    You are married?




    We are not, sir, nor are we like to be;

    The stars, I see, will kiss the valleys first:

    The odds for high and low's alike.




    My lord,

    Is this the daughter of a king?




    She is,

    When once she is my wife.




    That 'once' I see by your good father's speed

    Will come on very slowly. I am sorry,

    Most sorry, you have broken from his liking

    Where you were tied in duty, and as sorry

    Your choice is not so rich in worth as beauty,

    That you might well enjoy her.




    Dear, look up:

    Though Fortune, visible an enemy,

    Should chase us with my father, power no jot

    Hath she to change our loves. Beseech you, sir,

    Remember since you owed no more to time

    Than I do now: with thought of such affections,

    Step forth mine advocate; at your request

    My father will grant precious things as trifles.




    Would he do so, I'ld beg your precious mistress,

    Which he counts but a trifle.




    Sir, my liege,

    Your eye hath too much youth in't: not a month

    'Fore your queen died, she was more worth such gazes

    Than what you look on now.




    I thought of her,

    Even in these looks I made.



    But your petition

    Is yet unanswer'd. I will to your father:

    Your honour not o'erthrown by your desires,

    I am friend to them and you: upon which errand

    I now go toward him; therefore follow me

    And mark what way I make: come, good my lord.




SCENE II. Before LEONTES' palace.


    Enter AUTOLYCUS and a Gentleman




    Beseech you, sir, were you present at this relation?


First Gentleman


    I was by at the opening of the fardel, heard the old

    shepherd deliver the manner how he found it:

    whereupon, after a little amazedness, we were all

    commanded out of the chamber; only this methought I

    heard the shepherd say, he found the child.




    I would most gladly know the issue of it.


First Gentleman


    I make a broken delivery of the business; but the

    changes I perceived in the king and Camillo were

    very notes of admiration: they seemed almost, with

    staring on one another, to tear the cases of their

    eyes; there was speech in their dumbness, language

    in their very gesture; they looked as they had heard

    of a world ransomed, or one destroyed: a notable

    passion of wonder appeared in them; but the wisest

    beholder, that knew no more but seeing, could not

    say if the importance were joy or sorrow; but in the

    extremity of the one, it must needs be.


    Enter another Gentleman

    Here comes a gentleman that haply knows more.

    The news, Rogero?


Second Gentleman


    Nothing but bonfires: the oracle is fulfilled; the

    king's daughter is found: such a deal of wonder is

    broken out within this hour that ballad-makers

    cannot be able to express it.


    Enter a third Gentleman

    Here comes the Lady Paulina's steward: he can

    deliver you more. How goes it now, sir? this news

    which is called true is so like an old tale, that

    the verity of it is in strong suspicion: has the king

    found his heir?


Third Gentleman


    Most true, if ever truth were pregnant by

    circumstance: that which you hear you'll swear you

    see, there is such unity in the proofs. The mantle

    of Queen Hermione's, her jewel about the neck of it,

    the letters of Antigonus found with it which they

    know to be his character, the majesty of the

    creature in resemblance of the mother, the affection

    of nobleness which nature shows above her breeding,

    and many other evidences proclaim her with all

    certainty to be the king's daughter. Did you see

    the meeting of the two kings?


Second Gentleman




Third Gentleman


    Then have you lost a sight, which was to be seen,

    cannot be spoken of. There might you have beheld one

    joy crown another, so and in such manner that it

    seemed sorrow wept to take leave of them, for their

    joy waded in tears. There was casting up of eyes,

    holding up of hands, with countenances of such

    distraction that they were to be known by garment,

    not by favour. Our king, being ready to leap out of

    himself for joy of his found daughter, as if that

    joy were now become a loss, cries 'O, thy mother,

    thy mother!' then asks Bohemia forgiveness; then

    embraces his son-in-law; then again worries he his

    daughter with clipping her; now he thanks the old

    shepherd, which stands by like a weather-bitten

    conduit of many kings' reigns. I never heard of such

    another encounter, which lames report to follow it

    and undoes description to do it.


Second Gentleman


    What, pray you, became of Antigonus, that carried

    hence the child?


Third Gentleman


    Like an old tale still, which will have matter to

    rehearse, though credit be asleep and not an ear

    open. He was torn to pieces with a bear: this

    avouches the shepherd's son; who has not only his

    innocence, which seems much, to justify him, but a

    handkerchief and rings of his that Paulina knows.


First Gentleman


    What became of his bark and his followers?


Third Gentleman


    Wrecked the same instant of their master's death and

    in the view of the shepherd: so that all the

    instruments which aided to expose the child were

    even then lost when it was found. But O, the noble

    combat that 'twixt joy and sorrow was fought in

    Paulina! She had one eye declined for the loss of

    her husband, another elevated that the oracle was

    fulfilled: she lifted the princess from the earth,

    and so locks her in embracing, as if she would pin

    her to her heart that she might no more be in danger

    of losing.


First Gentleman


    The dignity of this act was worth the audience of

    kings and princes; for by such was it acted.


Third Gentleman


    One of the prettiest touches of all and that which

    angled for mine eyes, caught the water though not

    the fish, was when, at the relation of the queen's

    death, with the manner how she came to't bravely

    confessed and lamented by the king, how

    attentiveness wounded his daughter; till, from one

    sign of dolour to another, she did, with an 'Alas,'

    I would fain say, bleed tears, for I am sure my

    heart wept blood. Who was most marble there changed

    colour; some swooned, all sorrowed: if all the world

    could have seen 't, the woe had been universal.


First Gentleman


    Are they returned to the court?


Third Gentleman


    No: the princess hearing of her mother's statue,

    which is in the keeping of Paulina,--a piece many

    years in doing and now newly performed by that rare

    Italian master, Julio Romano, who, had he himself

    eternity and could put breath into his work, would

    beguile Nature of her custom, so perfectly he is her

    ape: he so near to Hermione hath done Hermione that

    they say one would speak to her and stand in hope of

    answer: thither with all greediness of affection

    are they gone, and there they intend to sup.


Second Gentleman


    I thought she had some great matter there in hand;

    for she hath privately twice or thrice a day, ever

    since the death of Hermione, visited that removed

    house. Shall we thither and with our company piece

    the rejoicing?


First Gentleman


    Who would be thence that has the benefit of access?

    every wink of an eye some new grace will be born:

    our absence makes us unthrifty to our knowledge.

    Let's along.


    Exeunt Gentlemen




    Now, had I not the dash of my former life in me,

    would preferment drop on my head. I brought the old

    man and his son aboard the prince: told him I heard

    them talk of a fardel and I know not what: but he

    at that time, overfond of the shepherd's daughter,

    so he then took her to be, who began to be much

    sea-sick, and himself little better, extremity of

    weather continuing, this mystery remained

    undiscovered. But 'tis all one to me; for had I

    been the finder out of this secret, it would not

    have relished among my other discredits.


    Enter Shepherd and Clown

    Here come those I have done good to against my will,

    and already appearing in the blossoms of their fortune.




    Come, boy; I am past moe children, but thy sons and

    daughters will be all gentlemen born.




    You are well met, sir. You denied to fight with me

    this other day, because I was no gentleman born.

    See you these clothes? say you see them not and

    think me still no gentleman born: you were best say

    these robes are not gentlemen born: give me the

    lie, do, and try whether I am not now a gentleman born.




    I know you are now, sir, a gentleman born.




    Ay, and have been so any time these four hours.




    And so have I, boy.




    So you have: but I was a gentleman born before my

    father; for the king's son took me by the hand, and

    called me brother; and then the two kings called my

    father brother; and then the prince my brother and

    the princess my sister called my father father; and

    so we wept, and there was the first gentleman-like

    tears that ever we shed.




    We may live, son, to shed many more.




    Ay; or else 'twere hard luck, being in so

    preposterous estate as we are.




    I humbly beseech you, sir, to pardon me all the

    faults I have committed to your worship and to give

    me your good report to the prince my master.




    Prithee, son, do; for we must be gentle, now we are





    Thou wilt amend thy life?




    Ay, an it like your good worship.




    Give me thy hand: I will swear to the prince thou

    art as honest a true fellow as any is in Bohemia.




    You may say it, but not swear it.




    Not swear it, now I am a gentleman? Let boors and

    franklins say it, I'll swear it.




    How if it be false, son?




    If it be ne'er so false, a true gentleman may swear

    it in the behalf of his friend: and I'll swear to

    the prince thou art a tall fellow of thy hands and

    that thou wilt not be drunk; but I know thou art no

    tall fellow of thy hands and that thou wilt be

    drunk: but I'll swear it, and I would thou wouldst

    be a tall fellow of thy hands.




    I will prove so, sir, to my power.




    Ay, by any means prove a tall fellow: if I do not

    wonder how thou darest venture to be drunk, not

    being a tall fellow, trust me not. Hark! the kings

    and the princes, our kindred, are going to see the

    queen's picture. Come, follow us: we'll be thy

    good masters.




SCENE III. A chapel in PAULINA'S house.






    O grave and good Paulina, the great comfort

    That I have had of thee!




    What, sovereign sir,

    I did not well I meant well. All my services

    You have paid home: but that you have vouchsafed,

    With your crown'd brother and these your contracted

    Heirs of your kingdoms, my poor house to visit,

    It is a surplus of your grace, which never

    My life may last to answer.




    O Paulina,

    We honour you with trouble: but we came

    To see the statue of our queen: your gallery

    Have we pass'd through, not without much content

    In many singularities; but we saw not

    That which my daughter came to look upon,

    The statue of her mother.




    As she lived peerless,

    So her dead likeness, I do well believe,

    Excels whatever yet you look'd upon

    Or hand of man hath done; therefore I keep it

    Lonely, apart. But here it is: prepare

    To see the life as lively mock'd as ever

    Still sleep mock'd death: behold, and say 'tis well.


    PAULINA draws a curtain, and discovers HERMIONE standing like a statue

    I like your silence, it the more shows off

    Your wonder: but yet speak; first, you, my liege,

    Comes it not something near?




    Her natural posture!

    Chide me, dear stone, that I may say indeed

    Thou art Hermione; or rather, thou art she

    In thy not chiding, for she was as tender

    As infancy and grace. But yet, Paulina,

    Hermione was not so much wrinkled, nothing

    So aged as this seems.




    O, not by much.




    So much the more our carver's excellence;

    Which lets go by some sixteen years and makes her

    As she lived now.




    As now she might have done,

    So much to my good comfort, as it is

    Now piercing to my soul. O, thus she stood,

    Even with such life of majesty, warm life,

    As now it coldly stands, when first I woo'd her!

    I am ashamed: does not the stone rebuke me

    For being more stone than it? O royal piece,

    There's magic in thy majesty, which has

    My evils conjured to remembrance and

    From thy admiring daughter took the spirits,

    Standing like stone with thee.




    And give me leave,

    And do not say 'tis superstition, that

    I kneel and then implore her blessing. Lady,

    Dear queen, that ended when I but began,

    Give me that hand of yours to kiss.




    O, patience!

    The statue is but newly fix'd, the colour's Not dry.




    My lord, your sorrow was too sore laid on,

    Which sixteen winters cannot blow away,

    So many summers dry; scarce any joy

    Did ever so long live; no sorrow

    But kill'd itself much sooner.




    Dear my brother,

    Let him that was the cause of this have power

    To take off so much grief from you as he

    Will piece up in himself.




    Indeed, my lord,

    If I had thought the sight of my poor image

    Would thus have wrought you,--for the stone is mine--

    I'ld not have show'd it.




    Do not draw the curtain.




    No longer shall you gaze on't, lest your fancy

    May think anon it moves.




    Let be, let be.

    Would I were dead, but that, methinks, already--

    What was he that did make it? See, my lord,

    Would you not deem it breathed? and that those veins

    Did verily bear blood?




    Masterly done:

    The very life seems warm upon her lip.




    The fixture of her eye has motion in't,

    As we are mock'd with art.




    I'll draw the curtain:

    My lord's almost so far transported that

    He'll think anon it lives.




    O sweet Paulina,

    Make me to think so twenty years together!

    No settled senses of the world can match

    The pleasure of that madness. Let 't alone.




    I am sorry, sir, I have thus far stirr'd you: but

    I could afflict you farther.




    Do, Paulina;

    For this affliction has a taste as sweet

    As any cordial comfort. Still, methinks,

    There is an air comes from her: what fine chisel

    Could ever yet cut breath? Let no man mock me,

    For I will kiss her.




    Good my lord, forbear:

    The ruddiness upon her lip is wet;

    You'll mar it if you kiss it, stain your own

    With oily painting. Shall I draw the curtain?




    No, not these twenty years.




    So long could I

    Stand by, a looker on.




    Either forbear,

    Quit presently the chapel, or resolve you

    For more amazement. If you can behold it,

    I'll make the statue move indeed, descend

    And take you by the hand; but then you'll think--

    Which I protest against--I am assisted

    By wicked powers.




    What you can make her do,

    I am content to look on: what to speak,

    I am content to hear; for 'tis as easy

    To make her speak as move.




    It is required

    You do awake your faith. Then all stand still;

    On: those that think it is unlawful business

    I am about, let them depart.





    No foot shall stir.




    Music, awake her; strike!



    'Tis time; descend; be stone no more; approach;

    Strike all that look upon with marvel. Come,

    I'll fill your grave up: stir, nay, come away,

    Bequeath to death your numbness, for from him

    Dear life redeems you. You perceive she stirs:


    HERMIONE comes down

    Start not; her actions shall be holy as

    You hear my spell is lawful: do not shun her

    Until you see her die again; for then

    You kill her double. Nay, present your hand:

    When she was young you woo'd her; now in age

    Is she become the suitor?




    O, she's warm!

    If this be magic, let it be an art

    Lawful as eating.




    She embraces him.




    She hangs about his neck:

    If she pertain to life let her speak too.




    Ay, and make't manifest where she has lived,

    Or how stolen from the dead.




    That she is living,

    Were it but told you, should be hooted at

    Like an old tale: but it appears she lives,

    Though yet she speak not. Mark a little while.

    Please you to interpose, fair madam: kneel

    And pray your mother's blessing. Turn, good lady;

    Our Perdita is found.




    You gods, look down

    And from your sacred vials pour your graces

    Upon my daughter's head! Tell me, mine own.

    Where hast thou been preserved? where lived? how found

    Thy father's court? for thou shalt hear that I,

    Knowing by Paulina that the oracle

    Gave hope thou wast in being, have preserved

    Myself to see the issue.




    There's time enough for that;

    Lest they desire upon this push to trouble

    Your joys with like relation. Go together,

    You precious winners all; your exultation

    Partake to every one. I, an old turtle,

    Will wing me to some wither'd bough and there

    My mate, that's never to be found again,

    Lament till I am lost.




    O, peace, Paulina!

    Thou shouldst a husband take by my consent,

    As I by thine a wife: this is a match,

    And made between's by vows. Thou hast found mine;

    But how, is to be question'd; for I saw her,

    As I thought, dead, and have in vain said many

    A prayer upon her grave. I'll not seek far--

    For him, I partly know his mind--to find thee

    An honourable husband. Come, Camillo,

    And take her by the hand, whose worth and honesty

    Is richly noted and here justified

    By us, a pair of kings. Let's from this place.

    What! look upon my brother: both your pardons,

    That e'er I put between your holy looks

    My ill suspicion. This is your son-in-law,

    And son unto the king, who, heavens directing,

    Is troth-plight to your daughter. Good Paulina,

    Lead us from hence, where we may leisurely

    Each one demand an answer to his part

    Perform'd in this wide gap of time since first

    We were dissever'd: hastily lead away.