FLORIZEL.
Thou dearest Perdita,
With these forc’d thoughts, I prithee, darken not
The mirth o’ th’ feast. Or I’ll be thine, my fair,
Or not my father’s. For I cannot be
Mine own, nor anything 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 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!
FLORIZEL.
See, your guests approach:
Address yourself to entertain them sprightly,
And let’s be red with mirth.
Enter Shepherd with Polixenes and Camillo, disguised; Clown, Mopsa, Dorcas with others.
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’ th’ table, now i’ th’ 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’ 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’ the day.
[To Camillo.] 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!
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’ 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.