Dramatis Personae.

Prologue

PROLOGUE to the WINTER'S TALE, and CATHARINE AND
PETRUCHIO.

(Both from Shakespear.)

Written and Spoken by

Mr. Garrick.



To various Things the Stage has been compar'd,

As apt Ideas strike each humorous Bard:

This Night, for want of better Simile,

Let this our Theatre a  Tavern be:

The Poets Vintners, and the Waiters we.

So (as the Cant, and Custom of the Trade is)

You're welcome Gem'min, kindly welcome Ladies.

To draw in Customers, our Bills are spread;               
																																						[Shewing a Play Bill.]

You  cannot miss the Sign, 'tis  Shakespear's Head.

From this fame Head, this  Fountain-head divine,

For different Palates springs a different Wine!

In which no Tricks, to strengthen, or to thin 'em--

Neat as imported--no French Brandy in 'em--

Hence for the choicest Spirits flow  Champaign;

Whose sparkling Atoms shoot tho' evey Vein,

Then mount in magic Vapours, to th' enraptur'd Brain!

Hence flow for martial Minds Potations strong;

And sweet Love Potions, for the Fair and Young.

For you, my Hearts of Oak, for your Regale,          [To the Upper Gallery.]

There's good old English Stingo, mild and stale.

For high, luxurious Souls with luscious smaks;

There's  Sir John Falstaff, as a Butt of Sack:

And if the stronger Liquors more invite ye;

Bardolph is Gin, and  Pistol Aqua Vitae.

But shou'd you call for Falstaff, where to find him,

*He's gone--nor left one Cup of Sack behind him.

Sunk in his Elbow Chair, no more he'll roam;

No more, with merry Wags, to  Eastcheap come;

He'd gone,--to jest, and laugh, and give his Sack at Home.

As for the learned Critics, grave and deep,

Who catch at Words, and catching fall asleep;

Who in the Storms of Passion--hum,--and haw!

For such, our Master will no Liquor draw--

So blindy thoughtful, and so darkly read,

They take Tom Durfy's, for the Shakespear's Head.

     A Vintner once acquir'd both Praise and Gain,

And sold much Perry for the best Champaign.

Some Rakes, this precious Stuff did so allure;

They drank whole Nights--what's that--when Wine is pure?

"Come fill a Bumper, Jack--, I will my Lord--

"Here's Cream!--Damn'd fine!--immense!--upon my Word!

"Sir William, what for you?--The best, believe me--

"In this--Eh Jack!--the Devil can't deceive me."

Thus the wise Critic too, mistakes his Wine,

Cries out with lifted Hands, 'tis great!--divine!

This Shakespear! Shakespear!--Oh, there's nothing like him!

In this Night's various, and enchanted Cup,

Some little Perry's mixt for filling up.

The five long Acts, from which our Three are taken,

Stretch'd out to sixteen Years, lay by, forsaken.

Left then this precious Liquor run to waste,

'Tis now confin'd and bottled for your Taste.

'Tis my chief Wish, my Joy, my only Plan,

To lose no Drop of that immortal Man!


*Mr. Quin had then left the stage.





FLORIZEL AND PERDITA

SCENE. 
 The court of BOHEMIA.

Enter Camillo and a  Gentleman.

Camillo.
The good send him safe passage to us, for he seems embarked in a
tempestuous season.

Gent.
I pray thee, Lord Camillo, instruct me, what concealed
matter there is in the coming of Leontes to
Bohemia,  shou'd so wrap our king in astonishment?

Camillo.
Good sign your knowledge in the court is young, if you make that
your question.

Gent.
I wou'd not be thought too curious, but I prithee, be my tutor in
this matter.

Camillo.
To be short then--Give it thy hearing, for my tale is well worthy of it; 
these two kings, Leontes of Sicily, and  Polixenes of Bohemia, 
were train'd together in their childhoods, and there 
rooted betwixt 'em such an affection as cou'd not chuse but branch 
as it grew up. One unhappy summer (and full sixteen as unhappy have 
follow'd it) our Polixenes went to repay Sicily the visitation 
which he justly ow'd him.--Most royally, and with the utmost freedom of 
society, was he entertain'd both by Leontes, and his queen 
Hermione; a lady, whose bodily accomplishments were unparallel'd, 
but by those of her own mind. The free strokes of youth and gaiety, in her 
extended civility to Polixenes (pleas'd as she was to see her lord 
delighted) bred in him suspicion of her conduct. 

Gent.
And that is an evil weed, that once taking root, needs no manure.

Camillo.
I then waited about the person of Leontes, and was alone thought 
worthy the participation of his jealousy. Into my bosom he disgorg'd his 
monstrous secret, with no tenderer an unjunction than to take off his 
innocent, abused guest, by poison. 

Gent.
To kill Polixenes!

Camillo.
Even so.--What cou'd I do? What ran evenest with the grain of my honesty 
I did, and have not since repented me:--whisper'd Polixenes of the 
matter--left my large fortunes, and my larger hopes in Sicily, and 
on the very wing of occasion flew with him hither, no richer than my honor; 
and have since been ever of his bosom.

Gent.
I tremble for the poor queen, left to the injuries of a powerful king, and 
jealous husband.

Camillo.
Left too in her condition! for she had some while promis'd an heir to 
Sicily, and now, mark me,----for the occasion----

Gent.
Cannot surpass my attention.

Camillo.
Scarcely settled in Bohemia here, we are alarm'd with the 
arrival of Paulina (that excellent matron, and true friend of 
her unhappy queen) from whom we too soon learn how sad a tragedy 
had been acted in Sicily----the dishonor'd Hermione 
clapp'd up in prison, where she gave the king a princess----the 
child (the innocent milk yet in her mouth) by the king's command, 
expos'd; expos'd even on the desarts of this kingdom;--our 
Polixenes being falsly deem'd the father.

Gent.
Poor babe! unhappy queen! tyrant Leontes!

Camillo.
What  blacker title will you fix upon him, when you shall hear the 
Hermione, in her weak condition (the child-bed privilege deny'd, 
which belongs to women of all fashion) was hal'd out to an open mockery 
of trial; that on this inhuman outrage (her fame being kill'd before) she 
died--in the very prison where she was deliver'd, died; and that on her 
decease, Paulina (whose free tongue was the king's living scourge, 
and perpetual remembrancer to him of his dea queen) fled with her effects, 
for safety of her life, to Bohemia, here-----I tire you.

Gent.
My king concern'd, I am too deeply interested in the event, to be indifferent 
to the relation.

Camillo.
All this did Leontes, in defiance of the plain answer of the oracle, 
by him consulted at Delphi; which now, after sixteen years occurring 
to his more sober thoughts, he first thinks it probable, then finds it true, 
and his penitence thereupon is as extreme, as his suspicions had been fatal. 
In the course of his sorrows he has, as we are inform'd, twice attempted on 
his life; and this is now his goad to the present expedition; to make all 
possible atonement to his injur'd brother Bohemia , 
and to us the fellow-sufferers in his wrongs--we must break 
off--the king and good Paulina--

Enter Polixenes and  Paulina.

Polixenes.  
Weep not now, Paulina, so long-gone-by misfortunes; this strange 
and unexpected visit, from Leontes, calls all your sorrows up a-new: 
but good Paulina, be satisfied that heav'n was will'd it so. That 
sixteen years absence shou'd pass unnotic'd by this king, without exchange 
of gifts, letters, or embassies; and now!----I am amaz'd as thou are; but 
not griev'd----

Paulina.
Grudge me not a tear to the memory of my queen, my royal mistress; and 
there dies my resentment; now,  Leontes, welcome.

Polixenes.  
Nobly resolv'd: of him think we no more 'till he arrives.

Camillo.
Hail, royal Sir. If the king of Sicily escape this
dreadful tempest, I shall esteem him a favourite of the gods, and
his penitence effectual.

Polixenes.  
Of that fatal country Sicily, and of its penitent (as we
must think him) and reconcil'd king, my brother, (whose loss of
his most precious queen and child are even now afresh lamented) I
prithee, speak no more--say to me, when saw'st thou prince
Florizel, my son? Fathers are no less unhappy, their issue
not being gracious, than they are in losing 'em, when they have
approv'd their virtues.

Camillo.
Sir, it is three days since I saw the prince; what his happier
affairs may be, are to me unknown; but I have musingly noted, he
is of late much retir'd from court, and is less frequent to his
princely exercises than formerly he hath appear'd. 

Polixenes. 
I have consider'd so much, Camillo, and with some care; so
far, that I have eyes under my service, which look upon his
removedness; from whom I have this intelligence, that he is
seldom from the house of a most homely shepherd--A man, they say,
that from very nothing, is grown rich beyond the imagination of
his neighbours.

Paulina.
I have heard too of such a man, who hath a daughter of most rare
note; the report of her is extended more than can be thought to
begin from such a cottage.

Polixenes.  
That's likewise part of my intelligence, and I fear, the angle
that plucks our son thither. Thou, Camillo, shalt
accompany us to the place, where we will (not appearing what we
are) have some question with the shepherd; from whose simplicity,
I think it not uneasy to get the cause of my son's resort
thither.

Camillo.
I willingly obey your command.

Polixenes.  
My best Camillo!--we must disguise ourselves.

Paulina.
Lest your royalty be discover'd by the attendance of any of your
own train; my steward, Dion, shall provide disguises, and
accompany your design with all secrecy.

Polixenes.  
It is well advis'd--I will make choice of some few to attend us,
who shall wait at distance from the cottage--you instruct 
Dion in the matter, while we prepare ourselves.           
     [Ex.  Polix. and  Camillo.]

Paulina, sola.

What fire is in my ears! can it be so,
Or are my senses cheated with a dream?
Leontes in Bohemia!--O most welcome,
My penitent liege--my tears were those of joy
--Paulina, for her royal mistress' sake,
Shall give thee welcome to this injur'd coast:
Such as the riches of two might kingdoms,
Bohemia  join'd with fruitful Sicily,
Wou'd not avail to buy--Leontes, welcome.
Let thy stout vessel but the beating stand
Of this chaf'd sea, and thou art whole on land.        
																													[Ex. Paulina.]




SCENE II.

The country by the sea-side.  A storm.

Enter an  Old Shepherd.
     I wou'd there were no age between thirteen and three and
twenty; or that youth wou'd sleep out the rest: For there is
nothing in the between, but getting wenches with child, wronging
the ancientry, stealing, fighting----Hark you now! wou'd any but
these boil'd brains of two and twenty hunt this weather! they
have scar'd away two of my best sheep, which, I fear, the wolf
will sooner find than the master; if any where I have 'em, 'tis
by the sea-side, browzing of ivy----Yet I'll tarry till my son
come: He hollow'd but even now-----Whoa!  ho----hoa----

Enter Clown.

Clown.
Hoilla! hoa!

Old Shep.
What, art so near? What ail'st thou man?

Clown.
I have seen such a fight!

Old Shep.

Why, boy, how is it?

Clown.
I wou'd you did but see how the sea chafes, how it rages, how it
rakes up the shore----But I am not to say it is a sea, for it is
now the sky; betwixt the firmament and it you cannot thrust a
bodkin's point.--But O the most pitious cry of the poor souls,
sometimes to see 'em, and not to see 'em--But then, the ship--to
see how the sea flap-dragon'd it--but first how the poor souls
roar'd, and the sea mock'd 'em--Then the ship, now boring the
moon with her main-mast, and anon swallow'd with yest and froth,
as you'd thrust a cork into a hoghead. 

Old Shep.
Name of mercy! when was this, boy?

Clown.
Now, now, I have not wink'd since I saw it; the men are not yet
cold under water.

Old Shep.
Wou'd I had been by the ship-side to have help'd 'em.

Clown.
There your charity wou'd have lack'd footing.

Old Shep.
Heavey matters! heavy matters!

Clown.
Look! look, father--there are two of 'em cast ashore, and
crawling up the rock--now they are down again--poor souls, they
have not strength to keep their hold--I will go help them.

Old Shep.
Run, run, boy! thy legs are youngest.

Clown.
Stay, they have found the road to the beach, and come towards us.

Old Shep.
Some rich men, I warrant 'em; that are poorer than we now.

Clown.
Lord, father! look--they are out-landish folk; their fine cloaths
are shrunk in the wetting.

Enter Leontes, supported by  Cleomines.

Cleomines.
Bear up, my liege;----again welcome on shore.

Leontes.
Flatter me not----In death distinctions cease--
Am I on shore; walk I on land, firm land,
Or ride I yet upon the billows backs?
Methinks I feel the motion----who are thou?

Cleomines.
Know you me not?--your friend Cleomines.

Leontes.
Where are my other friends?--What, perish'd all!

Cleomines.
Not a soul sav'd! ourselves are all our crew,
Pilot, shipmaster, boatswain, sailors, all.

Leontes.
Laud we the gods! Yet wherefore perish'd they,
Innocent souls! and I, with all my guilt,
Live yet to load the earth?--O righteous gods!
Your ways are past the line of man to fathom.

Cleomines.
Waste not your small remaining strength of body
In warring with your mind. This desart waste
Has some inhabitants----Here's help at hand----
God day, old man----

Old Shep.
Never said in worse time----a better to both your
worships----command us, Sir.

Clown.
You have been sweetly soak'd; give the gods thanks that you are
alive to feel it.

Leontes.
We are most thankful, Sir.

Cleomines.
What desarts are these same?

Old Shep.
The desarts of Bohemia.

Leontes.
Say'st thou  Bohemia? ye gods,  Bohemia!
In ev'ry act your judgments are sent forth
Against Leontes!----Here to be wreck'd and sav'd!
Upon this coast!--All the wrongs I have done,
Stir now afresh within me--Did I not
Upon this coast expose my harmless infant--
Bid Polixenes (falsly deem'd the father)
To take his child----O hell-born jealousy!
All but myself most innocent----and now
Upon this coast----Pardon, Hermione!
'Twas this that sped thee to thy proper heav'n;
If from thy sainted seat above the clouds,
Thou feel'st my weary pilrimage thro' life,
Loath'd, hated life, 'cause unenjoy'd with thee--
Look down, and pity me.

 Cleomines.
          										Good Sir, be calm:
What's gone, and what's past help, shou'd be past grief;
You do repent these things too sorely.

Leontes.
I can't repent these things, for they are heavier
Than all my woes can stir: I must betake me
To nothing but despair--a thousand knees
Ten thousand years together, naked, fasting,
Upon a barren mountain, and still winter,
In storms perpetual, could not move the gods
To look this way upon me.

Clown.
What says he, pray? The sea has quite wash'd away the poor
gentleman's brains. Come, bring him along to our farm; and we'll
give you both a warm bed, and dry cloathing.

Cleomines.
Friends, we accept your offer'd courtesy.
Come, Sir--bear up--be calm--compose your mind;
If still the tempest rages there, in vain
The gods have sav'd you from the deep.

Leontes.
I'll take thy council, friend,--Lend me thy arm
----Oh, Hermione!----            [Leans on him.]

Cleomines.
Good shepherd, shew us to the cottage.

Old Shep.
This way, this way----

Clown.
And now the storm's blown over, father, we'll send down
Nicholas and his fellow to pick up the dead bodies, if any
may be thrown ashore, and bury them.

Old Shep.
'Tis a good deed, boy--Help the gentlemen, and bring them after
me.                 [Exeunt.]



SCENE III.

Another part of the country.

Enter  AUTOLICUS,   (Singing)


S O N G.
When daffodils begin to peere

     With hey the doxy over the dale,

Why then comes in the sweet o'th' year,

     For the red blood reigns o'er the winter's pale.

The white sheet bleaching on the hedge;

     With hey the sweet birds, O how they sing!

Doth set my progging tooth on edge;

     For a quart of ale is a dish for a King.


I once serv'd prince Florizel, and in my time wore
three-pile, but now am out of service.

S O N G.


But shall I go mourn for that my dear?

     The pale moon shines by night,

And when I wander here and there,

     I then do go most right.


     My traffic is sheets; when the kite builds, look to lesser
linen. My father nam'd me Autolicus,  being litter'd under
Mercury; who, as I am, was likewse a snapper-up of
unconsider'd trigles: with dice and drab I purchas'd this
caparison, and my revenue is the silly cheat--for the life to
come, I sleep out the thought of it--a prize! a prize!

Enter Clown.

Clown.
Let me see, every eleven weather tods--every tod yields pound,
and odd shilling; fifteen hundred shorn----what comes the wool
to?

Autolicus.
If the sprindge hold, the cock's mind.                      
[Aside.]

Clown.
I can't do it without counters----Let me see, what am I to buy
for our sheep-shearing feast?----Three pounds of sugar, five
pounds of currants, rice----What will this sister of mine do with
rice? But my father hath made her mistress of the feast, and she
lays it on.--She hath made me four and twenty nosegays for the
shearers--I must have saffron to colour the warden
pies--mace--dates--none--that's out of my note; nutmegs, seven; a
race or two of ginger, but that I may beg; four pound of prunes,
and as many raisins o'th'sun. 

Autolicus.
Oh! that ever I was born!

Clown.
In the name of me----

Autolicus.
O help me, help me: Pluck but off these rages, and then death,
death----

Clown.
Alack, poor soul, thou hast need of more rags to lay on thee,
rather than to have these off.

Autolicus.
Oh, Sir, the loathsomeness of 'em offend me, more than the
stripes I have receiv'd; which are mighty ones, and millions--

clown.
Alas, poor man! a million of beating may come to a great matter.

Autolicus.
I am robb'd, Sir, and beaten; my money and apparel ta'en from me,
and these detestable things put uponme.

Clown.
What, by a horseman or a footman?

Autolicus.
A footman, sweet Sir; a footman.

Clown.
Indeed he should be a footman, by the garments he has left with
thee. If this be a horseman's coat, if hath seen very hot
service--Lend me thy hand, I'll help thee. Come, lend me thy
hand.          [Helps him up.]

Autolicus.
Oh, good Sir; tenderly----Oh!

Clown.
Alas, poor soul!

Autolicus.
O! good Sir; softly, good Sir; I fear, Sir, my shoulder blade is
out.

Clown.
How now, can'st stand?

Autolicus.
Softly, dear Sir; good Sir, softly; you ha' done me a charitable
office.        [Picks his pocket.]

Clown.
Dost lack any money? I have a little money for thee.

Autolicus.
No, good, sweet Sir; no, I beseech you, Sir; I have a kinsman not
past three-quarters of a mile hence, unto whom I was going; I
shall there have money, or any thing I want--Offer me no money, I
pray you, that kills my heart.

Clown.
What manner of fellow was he that robb'd you?

Autolicus.
A fellow, Sir, that I have known to go about with trol-my-dames:
I knew him once a servant of the prince; I cannot tell, good Sir,
for which of his virtues it was; but he was certainly whipp'd out
of the court.

Clown.
His vices, you wou'd say; there is no virtue whipp'd out of the
court; they cherish it to make it stay there, and yet it will do
no more but abide.

Autolicus.
Vices, I would say, Sir.--I know this man well, he hath been
since an ape-bearer, then a process-server, a bailiff; then he
compast a motion of the prodigal son, and married a tinker's wife
within a mile where my land and living lies; and have flown over
many knavish professions, he settled only in rogue; some call him
Autolicus.

Clown.
Out upon him, prig! for my life, prig;----he haunts wakes, fairs,
and bear-baitings.

Autolicus.
Very true, Sir; he, Sir, he; that's the rogue that put me into
this apparel.

Clown.
Not a more cowardly rogue in all Bohemia; if you had but
look'd big, and spit at him, he'd have run.

Autolicus.
I must confess to you, Sir, I am no fighter; I am false of heart
that way; and that he knew, I warrant him.

Clown.
How do you do now?

Autolicus.
Sweet Sir, much better than I was; I can stand and walk; I will
e'en take my leave of you, and pace softly towards my kinsman's.

Clown.
Shall I bring thee on thy way?

Autolicus.
No good-fac'd Sir; no good Sir no, sweet Sir.

Clown.
Then farewell--I must go buy spices for our sheep-shearing.      
          [Exit.]

Autolicus.
Prosper you, sweet Sir. Your purse is not hot enough to purchase
your spice. I'll be with you at your sheep-shearing too--If I
make not this cheat bring out another, and the shearers prove
sheep, let me be unrol'd, and my name put into the book of
virtue.


S O N G.

Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way,

     And merrily bent the stile--a--

A merry heart goes all the day,

     Your sad tires in a mile--a--


                                             [Exit.]


ACT II. SCENE I.

A prospect of a Shepherd's cottage.

Enter Florizel and  Perdita:

Florizel.
These your unusual weeds, to each part of you
Do give a life; no shepherdess but Flora,
Peering it April's front, this your sheep-shearing,
Is a meeting of the petty gods,
And you the queen on't. 

Perdita.
Sir, my gracious Lord,
To chide at your extreams it not becomes me:
O pardon that I name 'em; your high self,
The gracious mark o' th' land; you have obscur'd
With a swain's wearing; and me, poor lowly maid,
Most goddess-like prank'd up: but that our feasts
In every mess have folly, and the feeders
Digest it with a custom, I shou'd blush
To see you so attired; sworn, I think,
To shew myself a glass.

Florizel.
               I bless the time,
When my good Faulcon made her flight across
Thy Father's ground.

Perdita.
     Now Jove  afford you cause!
To me the difference forges dread: your greatness
Hath not been us'd to fear; ev'n now I tremble
To think your rather, by some accident,
Shou'd pass this way, as you did: O the fates!
How wou'd he look, to see his work, so noble,
Vilely bound up! What wou'd he say! Or how
Shou'd I, in these my borrow's flaunts, behold
the sterness of his presence?

Florizel.
               Apprehend
Nothing but jolity: the gods themselves,
Humbling their deities to love, have taken
The shapes of Beasts upon 'em--Jupiter
Became a bull, and bellow'd; the green Neptune
A ram, and beated; and the fire-rob'd god,
Golden Apollo, a poor humble swain,
As I seem now----their transformations
Were never for a piece of beauty rarer,
Nor in a way so chaste; since my desires
Run not before mine honor, nor my lusts
Burn hotter than my faith.

Perdita.
          Oh, but dear Sir,
Your resolution cannot hold, when 'tis
Oppos'd, as it must be, by th' power o' th' king:
One of these two must be necessities,
Which then will pseak, that you must change this purpose,
Or I my life.

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 any thing to any, if
I be not thine. To this, I am most constant,
Tho' destiny say, no. Be merry, gentlest,
Strangle such thoughts as these, with any thing
That you behold the while. Your guests are coming;
Lift up your countenance; as 'twere the day
Of celebration of that nuptial, which
We two have sworn shall come.

Perdita.
               O lady fortune,
Stand thou auspicious!

Enter  Old Shepherd, Clown, Mopsa, Dorcas; with
Polixenes, Camillo, and servants.  Polixenes and Camillo,
disguis'd.

Florizel.
     See your guests approach;
Address yourself to entertain 'em sprightly,----
And let's be red with nirth.

Old 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;
Wou'd 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 wou'd to each one sip: you are retir'd,
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.
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.
          Sirs, welcome.
It is my father's will, I shou'd take on me
The hostess-ship o' th' day; you're welcome, sirs.
Give me those flowers there, Dorcas; reverend sirs,
For you, there's rosemary, and rue; these keep
Seeming and favour all the winter long:
Grace and remembrance be unto you both,   
																									[To Polixenes and  Camillo.]
And welcome to our shearing.

Polixenes.
               Shepherdess,
A fair one are you; well you fit our ages
With flowers of winter.

Perdita.
Here are flowers for you;    [To others.]
Hot lavender, mint, savoury, marjoram,
The mary-gold, that goes to bed with the sun,
And with him rises weeping; these are flowers
Of middle summer; and I think are given
To men of middle age. You're very welcome.

Camillo.
I shou'd leave grazing were I of your flock,
And only live by gazing.

Perdita.
          														Out, alas!
You'd be so lean, that blasts of January,
Wou'd blow you thro' and thro'----now my fairest friend,
I wou'd I had some flowers o' th' spring, that might
Become your time of day; and yours, and yours,
That wear upon your virgin-branches, yet
Your maiden honours growing; daffadils,
That come before the swallow dares; and take
The winds of March  with beauty; vi'lets dim,
But sweeter than the lids of  Juno's eyes,
Or  Cytherea's breath; pale primroses,
That die unmarried, e're they can behold
Bright  Phoebus in his strength; gold oxlips and
The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds
The flower-de-lis being one; o' these, I lack
To make you garlands of, and my sweet friend,         [To Florizel]
To strow him o'er and o'er.



 Go to Section II of Florizel and Perdita
 Go to Section III of Florizel and Perdita


Click here to return to The Bluestocking Archive