With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles,
You woo’d me the false way.
Florizel. 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.
Perdita. I’ll swear for ‘em.
Polixenes. This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever
Ran on the green-sward; nothing she does, or seems,