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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 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?

Autolicus.

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

Clown.

Then farewell—I must go buy spices for our sheep-shearing.

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.