Which some call nature’s bastards; of that kind
Our rustic garden’s barren, and I care not
To get slips of them.
Polix.—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.
Polix.—Say, there be,
Yet nature is made better by no mean,