Gentleman.
Camillo.
The gods 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.
-- 2 --
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 royalty, 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 injunction 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 slew with
-- 3 --
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 innocent 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 that Hermione, in her weak condition
(the child bed privilege deny'd, which belongs to
women of all fashion) was haul'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
-- 4 --
king's living scourge, and perpetual remembrancer
to him of his dead 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 has 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 art; 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.
-- 5 --
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.
Paulino.
I have heard too of such a man, who hath a
daughter of most rare note; the report of her is
-- 6 --
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 mighty kingdoms,
-- 7 --
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 seaside,
browzing of ivy—Yet I'll tarry till my son
come: He hollow'd but even now—Whoa!
ho—hoa—
Enter Clown.
Clown.
Hoilloa! hoa!
Old Shep.
What, art so near? What ail'st thou man?
Clown.
I have seen such a sight!
-- 8 --
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 hogshead.
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.
Heavy 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.
-- 9 --
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 art 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,
-- 10 --
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—
Good 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;
-- 11 --
If from thy sainted seat above the clouds,
Thou see'st my weary pilgrimage 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.
-- 12 --
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)
SONG.
When daffadils 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.
-- 13 --
SONG.
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
likewise a snapper-up of unconsider'd trifles: 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 mine.
[Aside.
Clown.
I can't do't 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.
-- 14 --
Autolicus. (grovelling on the ground.)
Oh! that ever I was born!
Clown.
In the name of me—
Autolicus.
O help me, help me: Pluck but off these rags,
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
upon me.
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,
it hath seen very hot service—Lend me thy hand, I'll
help thee. Come, lend me thy hand.
[Helps him up.
-- 15 --
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
-- 16 --
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 having 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?
-- 17 --
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.
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.
David Garrick [1758], Florizel and Perdita. A Dramatic Pastoral, In three acts. Alter'd from The Winter's Tale of Shakespear. By David Garrick. As it is performed at the Theatre Royal in Drury-Lane (Printed for J. and R. Tonson [etc.], London) [word count] [S33300].
