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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' th' Feast. Come on,

And bid us welcome to your sheep-shearing,

As your good flock shall prosper.

PERDITA.

[To POLIXENES] Sir, welcome.

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

The hostess-ship o' th' day. [To CAMILLO]

You're welcome, sir.

Give me those flow'rs 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.

POLIXENES.

Shepherdess-

A fair one are you- well you fit our ages

With flow'rs of winter.

PERDITA.

Sir, the year growing ancient,

Not yet on summer's death nor on the birth

Of trembling winter, the fairest flow'rs o' th' 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.

POLIXENES.

Wherefore, gentle maiden,

Do you neglect them?

PERDITA.

For I have heard it said

There is an art which in their piedness shares

With great creating nature.

POLIXENES.

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.

PERDITA.

So it is.

POLIXENES.

Then make your garden rich in gillyvors,

And do not call them bastards.

PERDITA.

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 flow'rs for you:

Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram;

The marigold, that goes to bed wi' th' sun,

And with him rises weeping; these are flow'rs

Of middle summer, and I think they are given

To men of middle age. Y'are very welcome.

CAMILLO.

I should leave grazing, were I of your flock,

And only live by gazing.

PERDITA.

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 flow'rs o' th' spring that might

Become your time of day- and yours, and yours,

That wear upon your virgin branches yet

Your maidenheads growing. O Proserpina,

From the flowers now that, frighted, thou let'st fall

From Dis's waggon!- daffodils,

That come before the swallow dares, and take

The winds of March with beauty; violets, dim

But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes

Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses,

That die unmarried ere they can behold

Bright Phoebus in his strength- a malady

Most incident to maids; bold oxlips, and

The crown-imperial; lilies of all kinds,

The flow'r-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!

FLORIZEL.

What, like a corse?

PERDITA.

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 flow'rs.

Methinks I play as I have seen them do

In Whitsun pastorals. Sure, this robe of mine

Does change my disposition.

FLORIZEL.

What you do

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

I'd have you do it ever. When you sing,

I'd have you buy and sell so; so give alms;

Pray so; and, for the ord'ring your affairs,

To sing them too. When you do dance, I wish you

A wave o' th' 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 deeds,

That all your acts are queens.

PERDITA.