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
But smacks of something greater than herself,
Too noble for this place.
CAMILLO.
He tells her something
That makes her blood look out. Good sooth, she is
The queen of curds and cream.
CLOWN.
Come on, strike up.
DORCAS.
Mopsa must be your mistress: marry, garlic, to mend her kissing with!
MOPSA.
Now, in good time!
CLOWN.
Not a word, a word; we stand upon our manners.
Come, strike up.
[Music. Here a dance Of Shepherds and Shepherdesses.]
POLIXENES.
Pray, good shepherd, what fair swain is this
Which dances with your daughter?