SCENE III.
Enter Autolicus singing.
When Daffadils begin to Peer,
With heigh the Doxy over the dale,
Why then comes in the sweet o'th' Year:
For the red Blood reigns in the Winter's pale.
-- 932 --
The white Sheet bleaching on the Hedge,
With hey the sweet Birds, O how they sing:
Doth set my pugging Tooth an edge,
For a quart of Ale is a dish for a King.
The Lark with Tirra lyra chaunts,
With hey, with hey the Thrush and the Lay:
Are Summer Songs for me and my Aunts,
While we lye tumbling in the Hay.
I have served Prince Florizel, and in my time wore three
Pile, but now I am out of Service.
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 most go right.
If Tinkers may have leave to live,
And bear the Sow-skin Budget,
Then my Account I well may give,
And in the Stocks avouch it.
My Traffick is Sheets; when the Kite builds, look to lesser
Linen. My Father nam'd me Autolicus, who being,
as I am, litter'd under Mercury, was likewise a Snapper-up
of unconsider'd Trifles: With Die and Drab, I purchas'd
Caparison, and my Revenue is the silly Cheat.
Gallows, and Knock, are too powerful on the Highway,
Beating and Hanging are Terrors to me: For the
Life to come, I sleep out the thought of it. A Prize! a
Prize!
Enter Clown.
Clo.
Let me see, every eleven Weather Tods, every Tod
yields Pound and odd Shillings: Fifteen hundred shorn,
what comes the Wooll to?
Aut.
If the sprindge hold, the Cock's mine.
[Aside.
Clo.
I cannot do it without Compters. Let me see, what
am I to buy for our Sheep-shearing-Feast? Three Pound
of Sugar, five Pound of Currants, Rice—What will this
Sister of mine do with Rice? But my Father hath made
-- 933 --
her Mistress of the Feast, and she lays it on. She hath
made me four and twenty Nose-gays for the Shearers; three-Man-Song-men,
all, and very good ones, but they are most
of them, Mean and Bases; but one Puritan among them,
and he sings Psalms to Horn-Pipes. I must have Saffron to
colour the Wardens 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 Pruns, and as many of
Rasins o'th' Sun.
Aut.
Oh, that ever I was born.
[Groveling on the Ground.
Clo.
I'th' name of me—
Aut.
Oh help me, help me: Pluck but off these Rags,
and then Death, Death—
Clo.
Alack, poor Soul, thou hast need of more Rags to
lay on thee, rather than have these off.
Aut.
Oh, Sir, the loathsomness of them offends me, more
than the stripes I have receiv'd, which are mighty ones,
and millions.
Clo.
Alas, poor Man! a million of beating may come to
a great matter.
Aut.
I am robb'd, Sir, and beaten; my Mony and Apparel
ta'en from me, and these detestable Things put upon
me.
Clo.
What, by a Horse-man, or a Foot-man?
Aut.
A Foot-man, sweet Sir, a Foot-man.
Clo.
Indeed, he should be a Foot-man, by the Garments
he has left with thee; if this be a Horse-man's Coat, it hath
seen very hot Service. Lend me thy hand, I'll help thee.
Come, lend me thy hand.
[Helping him up.
Aut.
Oh! good Sir, tenderly, oh!
Clo.
Alas, poor Soul.
Aut.
Oh good Sir, softly, good Sir: I fear, Sir, my
Shoulder-blade is out.
Clo.
How now? canst stand?
Aut.
Softly, dear Sir; good Sir, softly; you ha' done
me a charitable Office.
Clo.
Dost lack any Mony? I have a little Mony for
thee.
Aut.
No, good sweet Sir: No, I beseech you, Sir; I
have a Kinsman not past three quarters of a Mile hence, unto
-- 934 --
whom I was going; I shall there have Mony, or any thing
I want: Offer me no Mony, I pray you, that kills my
Heart.
Clo.
What manner of Fellow was he that robb'd
you?
Aut.
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 Whip'd out of the
Court.
Clo.
His Vices you would say; there's no Virtue whip'd
out of the Court; they cherish it to make it stay there,
and yet it will no more but abide.
Aut.
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 lyes; and, having flown over many knavish
Professions, he settled only in Rogue; some call him
Autolicus.
Clo.
Out upon him, Prig! for my Life Prig; he haunts
Wakes, Fairs, and Bear-baiting.
Aut.
Very true; Sir; he, Sir, he; that's the Rogue that
put me into this Apparel.
Clo.
Not a more cowardly Rogue in all Bohemia; if
you had but look'd big, and spit at him, he'ld have
run.
Aut.
I must confess to you, Sir, I am no fighter; I am
false of Heart that way, and that he knew I warrant
him.
Clo.
How do you do now?
Aut.
Sweet Sir, much better than I was; I can stand,
and walk; I will even take my leave of you, and pace softly
towards my Kinsman's.
Clo.
Shall I bring thee on thy way?
Aut.
No, good fac'd Sir; no, sweet Sir.
Clo.
Then farewel, I must go and buy Spices for our
Sheep-shearing.
[Exit.
Aut.
Prosper you, sweet Sir. Your Purse is not hot
enough to purchase your Spice. I'll be with you at your
-- 935 --
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 in the Book of Virtue.
SONG.
Jog on, Jog on, the foot-path way,
And merrily hent the Stile-a.
A merry Heart goes all the day,
Your sad tires in a Mile-a.
[Exit.
Charles Gildon [1709–1710], The works of Mr. William Shakespear; in six [seven] volumes. Adorn'd with Cuts. Revis'd and Corrected, with an Account of the Life and Writings of the Author. By N. Rowe ([Vol. 7] Printed for E. Curll... and E. Sanger [etc.], London) [word count] [S11401].
