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Strangle such thoughts as these, with anything

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.

Perdita. O lady Fortune, Stand you auspicious!

Enter Shepherd, Clown, Mopsa, Dobcas, Servants;

with Polixenes, and Camillo, disguised.

Florizel. See, your guests approach.

Address yourself to entertain them sprightly,

And let's be red with mirth.

Shepherd. Fie, daughter! when my old wife liv'd, upon

This day, she was both pantler, butler, cook;

Both dame and servant: welcom'd all, serv'd 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 retir d,

As if you were a feasted one, and not

The hostess of the meeting. Pray you, bid

These unknown friends to us 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.

Perdita. Sir, welcome! [To Polixenes and Camillo.]

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 unto you both

And welcome to our shearing!

Polixenes. Shepherdess,

(A fair one are you) well you fit our ages

With flowers of winter.

Perdita. 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 gilly-flowers,

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, o'er that art

Which, you say, adds to nature, is an art

That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry

A gentler scion to the wildest stock;

And make conceive a bark of baser kind

By bud of nobler race. This is an art

Which does mend nature, change it rather: but

The art itself is nature.

Perdita. So it is.

[Footnote: The lady, we here see, gives up the

argument, but keeps her mind.]

Polixenes. Then make your garden rich in gilly-flowers,

And do not call them bastards.

Perdita. I'll not put

The dibble in earth, to set one slip of them;

[Footnote: The lady, we here see, gives up the argument, but

keeps her mind.]

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, savory, marjoram;

The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun,

And with him rises, weeping: these are flowers

Of middle summer, and, I think, they are given

To men of middle age. You are very welcome.

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 fairest friends.

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

Bright Phoebus in his strength (a malady

Most incident to maids); bold oxlips, and

The crown-imperial; lilies of all kinds,

The fleur-de-lis