Shep.

I would there were no age between ten and three and twenty, or that youth would sleep out the rest: for there is nothing in the between but getting wenches with child, wronging the ancientry, stealing,

fighting—hark you now!—would any but these boil'd brains of nineteen, and two and twenty, hunt this weather? They have scarr'd away two of my best sheep, which, I fear, the wolf will sooner find than the master; if any where I have them, 'tis by the seaside, brouzing of ivy. Good luck, an't be thy will! what have we here? [Taking up the child.] Mercy on's, a bearne! a very pretty bearne! a boy, or a child, I wonder! a pretty one, a very pretty one; sure, some 'scape: tho' I am not bookish, yet I can read waiting gentlewoman in the 'scape. This has been some stair-work, some trunk-work, some behind-door-work: they were warmer that got this, than the poor thing is here. I'll take it up for pity, yet I'll tarry 'till my son come: he hollow'd but even now; Whoa, ho-hoa!

Clo.

Hilloa, loa!—

Shep.

What, art so near? if thou'lt see a thing to talk on when thou art dead and rotten, come hither. What ail'st thou, man?

Clo.

I have seen two such sights, by sea and by land; 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.

Shep.

Why, boy, how is it?

Clo.

I would, you did but see how it chafes, how it rages, how it takes up the shore; but that's not to the point; oh, the most piteous cry of the poor souls, sometimes to see 'em, and not to see 'em: now the ship boring the moon with her main-mast, and anon swallow'd with yest and froth, as you'd thrust a cork into a hogshead. And then for the land service,—to see how the Bear tore out his shoulder-bone, how he cry'd to me for help, and said his name was Antigonus, a nobleman. But to make an end of the ship, to see how the sea flap-dragon'd it. But first, how the poor souls

roar'd, and the sea mock'd them. And how the poor gentleman roar'd, and the bear mock'd him; both roaring louder than the sea, or weather.

Shep.

'Name of mercy, when was this, boy?

Clo.

Now, now, I have not wink'd since I saw these sights; the men are not yet cold under water, nor the bear half din'd on the gentleman; he's at it now.

^{6 note}Shep.

'Would, I had been by to have help'd the old man.

Clo.

I would, you had been by the ship side, to have help'd her; there your charity would have lack'd footing.—

Shep.

Heavy matters, heavy matters! but look thee here, boy. Now bless thyself; thou meet'st with things dying, I with things new-born. Here's a sight for thee; look thee, a bearing-cloth for a squire's child! look thee here; take up, take up, boy; open't; so, let's see; it was told me, I should be rich by the fairies. This is some changeling: open't; what's within, boy?

^{7 note}

You're a made old man; if the sins of your youth are forgiven you, you're well to live. Gold! all gold!

Shep.

This is fairy gold, boy, and will prove so. Up with it, keep it close: home, home, the next way.

We are lucky, boy; and to be so still, requires nothing but secrecy. Let my sheep go: come, good boy, the next way home.

Clo.

Go you the next way with your findings, I'll go see if the Bear be gone from the gentleman; and how much he hath eaten: they are never curst but when they are hungry: if there be any of him left, I'll bury it.

Shep.

That's a good deed. If thou may'st discern by that which is left of him, what he is, fetch me to th' sight of him.

Clo.

Marry, will I; and you shall help to put him i'th' ground.

Shep.

'Tis a lucky day, boy, and we'll do good deeds on't.

Time.
I, that please some, try all, both joy and terror
Of good and bad, that make and unfold error;^{8 note}

Now take upon me, in the name of Time,
To use my wings. Impute it not a crime
To me, or my swift passage, that I slide
O'er sixteen years, and leave the growth untry'd^{9 note}

Of that wide gap; since it is in my power^{1 note}
To o'erthrow law, and in one self-born hour
To plant and o'erwhelm custom. Let me pass
The same I am, ere ancient'st order was,
Or what is now receiv'd. I witness to
The times, that brought them in; so shall I do
To the freshest things now reigning, and make stale
The glistering of this present, as my tale
Now seems to it: your patience this allowing,
I turn my glass; and give my scene such growing,
As you had slept between. Leontes leaving
Th' effects of his fond jealousies, so grieving
That he shuts up himself; imagine me,^{2 note}

And what to her adheres, which follows after,
Is th' * ^noteargument of time; of this allow,
If ever you have spent time worse ere now:
If never, yet that Time himself doth say,
He wishes earnestly, you never may.^{3 note} [Exit.

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