CAMILLO.
Unbuckle, unbuckle.
[Florizel and Autolycus exchange garments.]
Fortunate mistress,—let my prophecy
Come home to you!—you must retire yourself
Into some covert. Take your sweetheart’s hat
And pluck it o’er your brows, muffle your face,
Dismantle you; and, as you can, disliken
The truth of your own seeming; that you may
(For I do fear eyes over) to shipboard
Get undescried.
PERDITA.
I see the play so lies
That I must bear a part.
CAMILLO.
No remedy.
Have you done there?
FLORIZEL.
Should I now meet my father,
He would not call me son.
CAMILLO.
Nay, you shall have no hat. [Giving it to Perdita.]
Come, lady, come. Farewell, my friend.
AUTOLYCUS.
Adieu, sir.
FLORIZEL.
O Perdita, what have we twain forgot?
Pray you a word.
[They converse apart.]