CAMILLO.
'Tis now full sixteen years, that I have been
An outcast, banish'd man; and though I've found,
Thro' your good grace, a home more hospitable
Here in Bithynia, still I'd wish to lay
My wearied bones within the bosom of
My mother-earth, Sicilia.

King.
I prithee, good Camillo, don't request it;
You still shall tarry here to share our love.

Cam.
Ah! my good lord, Leontes
Hath long repented of his tyrant deeds,
Which, thro' ill-grounded jealousy, defam'd
His virtuous queen, and gave his little babe
(Most truly his) a prey to rav'ning wolves.

King.
Unhappy man!

Cam.
But see the vengeance of the gods! Antigonus,
Who undertook t'expose the harmless infant,
Most justly perish'd with it.—Now the king,
Too late convinc'd, and childless in his age,
Retires, in cloister'd solitude to waste
The weary remnant of his life in tears;

And wills me come to share the toils of state,
For him too much, already sunk with woe.

King.
But, as thou lov'st me, do not leave me now,
When most we need thy friendship; for thou know'st
How much prince Forizel, my son, afflicts me
With the strange courses he of late hath follow'd.
We oft have wonder'd whence arose the change
So visible in thoughts, words, looks, and actions;
Whence blew the sighs, like mildew blasts, to fade
The roses Hebe shed upon his cheek;
Whence came that irksomeness of ev'ry joy
Our court affords, and ev'ry beauty there;
Whence, for whole weeks, wou'd he withdraw himself.
Sequester'd, unattended, from the ken
Of ev'ry curious eye; whence that he shut
Out ev'ry friend, that once lodg'd in his heart,
Lest he shou'd know the secret brooding there.

Cam.
I oft have thought it strange.

King.
But little thinks he
That kings have eyes, piercing as those of Lynxe..
His ways are now no longer secret to me;
I've hunted him through all his darkest haunts,
Till, in his kennel, I have earth'd the cub,
Degen'rate boy! to mingle with the mud.

Cam.
What means my lord?

King.
My good Camillo, trust me,
I've had intelligence, the time he steals
From us, from study, and from manly feats,
And exercise of arms, is buried all
Beneath an aged shepherd's sordid roof,
Whose bleating flocks spread o'er that beauteous vale
That winds along the river's side. A stranger,
Here settled in Bithynia some few years,
Who yet, beyond th' imagination 'rose
Of all his neighbours, yea from very nothing,
To large possessions, and unnumber'd flocks.

Cam.
I've heard of such a man, who hath a daughter
Of note most rare, beyond her low estate.

King.
Ay, that's the angle plucks him to his ruin.
Fool! to be caught with such a paltry bait!
A woman's bait!—I could have patience with him,
Meant he to sport it with the am'rous wench,
And had he thriv'd, and, from the wholesome theft,
Had bred a mungril hardy as a mule,
I cou'd have kiss'd the sturdy bastard boy,

As he trudg'd barefoot o'er the mountain's brow;
Or smil'd to see his princely sire break forth,
In lording it above the village brats,—
But, O Camillo! where shall I find patience?—
Thou'lt not believe me, shou'd I swear it true—
My son, prince Florizel, Bithynia's hopes,
My kingdom's heir, this very day intends
To wed the daughter of that base-born clown.

Cam.
It is impossible,
A prince to wed a peasant!

King.
'Tis most certain.
But, to confound him past all contradiction,
We mean, at once, to prove and to prevent it.
To-day old Alcon (that's her father's name)
Holds an accustom'd rite, sacred to Pan,
The god of flocks; it is their shearers feast,
At which he means to solemnize the nuptials
With rural pomp, and pastoral festivity.
But I shall disconcert them, I'll thither,
And thou, Camillo, shalt attend me too,
Disguis'd like strangers chance had summon'd there.

Cam.
You may dispose me as your grace shall list.
Yet still, I think, the prince, in your report,
Is much abus'd.—I can not think it true.

King.
I'll think as thou, till I have prov'd the fact. [Exeunt. Scene 2 SCENE, A rural prospect near ALCON's house. FLORIZEL and PERDITA sitting under a shady tree.

Flor.
These, your unusul weeds, to each part of you
Do give a life; no shepherdess, but Flora
Peering in April's front. This, your sheep-shearing,
Is as a meeting of the petty gods,
And you the queen of it.

Perd.
My gracious lord, to chide at your extremes,
It not becomes me: O! pardon, that I name them!
Your high self, the kingdom's rising hope,
You have obscur'd with a swain's wearing;
And me, poor humble maid, most goddess like
Prank'd up.

Flor.
I bless the time, when my good falcon
Took her flight across thy father's grounds;
Celestial guide, to where my treasure lay.

Perd.
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
Father, by some accident, should pass this way,
As you did: O! the fates! how would he look
To see his work, so noble, vilely bound up:
What wou'd he say? or how should I, in these
My borrow'd flaunts, behold the sternness of his presence?

Flor.
Apprehend nothing but jollity. The gods
Themselves, humbling their deities to love,
Have taken the shapes of beasts upon them.
Jupiter became a bull, and bellowed:
The green Neptune a ram, and bleated: And
The fire-rob'd god, golden Apollo,
A poor humble swain, as I seem now.
'Tis our bridal day! Th' assembled gods,
This day, show'r roses down, to deck thy virgin couch!
And love shall lend the down of his soft wings,
To smooth thy pillow with eternal joys!
Speak to me, love, and charm me with thy voice.

Perd.
No, let me only answer you with blushes:
If I should speak, you'd think I were too fond;
My tongue's asham'd t'interpret for my heart.

Flor.
Hence with reserve; it is a foe to love—
What you tell me is whisper'd to yourself.
Virtue and love may harmless sport together,
Like little Lambs that wanton on the plain;
While, like a faithful pastor by their side,
Honour keep off each ravenous desire.

Perd.
I think you love me, and think there is
Such virtue shines about you, that I dare
Intrust mine honour to your faithful love.
Oft, oft, I wish thou wer't some peasant swain,
Born lowly as myself; than should we live
Unknown, unenvied in our humble state,
Content with love beneath the cottage straw.

Flor.
By heav'n! there's such a charm in all thy words,
I wish I were just what you'd have me be,
Distinguish'd only from the rest by love.
The guest are come; let's in and entertain
Them chearily, nor think of ought but jollity and love. [Exeunt.

Scene 3 SCENE, The Country, Enter the King and Camillo habited like old yeomen.

King.

I am certain it cannot be far off, though we have lost our way.