Flo.
See, your guests approach?
Address yourself to entertain them sprightly,
And let's be red with mirth.

&wlquo;She.
&wlquo;Fie, daughter; when my old wife liv'd, upon
&wlquo;This day she was both pantler, butler, cook,
&wlquo;Both dame and servant; welcom'd all, serv'd all;
&wlquo;Would sing her song, and dance her turn; now here
&wlquo;At upper end o'th' table, now i'th' middle:
&wlquo;On his shoulder, and his; her face o' fire
&wlquo;With labour; and the thing she took to quench it
&wlquo;She would to each one sip.&wrquo; You are retired,
As if you were a feasted one, and not
The hostess of the meeting: pray you, bid

These unknown friends to's welcome, for it is
A way to make us better friends, more known.
Come, quench your blushes, and present yourself
That which you are, mistress o'th' feast. Come on,
And bid us welcome to your sheep-shearing,
As your good flock shall prosper.

Per.
Sirs, welcome. [To Pol. and Cam.
It is my father's will, I should take on me
The hostessship o'th' day; you're welcome, Sirs.
Give me those flowers there, Dorcas—Reverend Sirs,
&wlquo;For you there's rosemary and rue, these keep
&wlquo;Seeming and savour all the winter long:
&wlquo;Grace and remembrance be unto you both,
&wlquo;And welcome to our shearing!&wrquo;

Pol.
Shepherdess,
(A fair one are you,) well you fit our ages
With flowers of winter.

&wlquo;Per.
&wlquo;Sir, the year growing ancient,
&wlquo;Not yet on summer's death, nor on the birth
&wlquo;Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o'th' season
&wlquo;Are our carnations, and streak'd gilly-flowers,
&wlquo;Which some call nature's bastards: of that kind
&wlquo;Our rustick garden's barren, and I care not
&wlquo;To get slips of them.&wrquo;

Pol.
Wherefore, gentle maiden,
Do you neglect them?

&wlquo;Per.
&wlquo;For I have heard it said,
&wlquo;There is an art, which in their piedeness shares
&wlquo;With great creating nature.&wrquo;

Pol.
Say, there be;
&wlquo;Yet nature is made better by no mean,
&wlquo;But nature makes that mean; so over that art,
&wlquo;Which, you say, adds to nature, is an art
&wlquo;That nature makes; you see, sweet maid, we marry
&wlquo;A gentle scyon to the wildest stock;
&wlquo;And make conceive a bark of baser kind
&wlquo;By bud of nobler race. This is an art,

&wlquo;Which does mend nature, change it rather; but
&wlquo;The art itself is nature.&wrquo;

Per.
So it is.

Pol.
Then make your garden rich in gilly-flowers,
And do not call them bastards.

&wlquo;Per.
&wlquo;I'll not put
&wlquo;The dibble in earth, to set one slip of them:
&wlquo;No more than, were I painted, I would wish
&wlquo;This youth should say, 'twere well; and only therefore
&wlquo;Desire to breed by me.—Here's flowers for you;
&wlquo;Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram,
&wlquo;The mary-gold, that goes to bed with th' sun,
&wlquo;And with him rises, weeping: these are flowers
&wlquo;Of middle summer, and I think, they are given
&wlquo;To men of middle age.&wrquo; Y'are very welcome

Cam.
I should leave grazing, were I of your flock,
And only live by gazing.

&wlquo;Per.
&wlquo;Out, alas!
&wlquo;You'd be so lean, that blasts of January
&wlquo;Would blow you through and through. Now, my fairest friend
&wlquo;I would, I had some flowers o'th' spring, that might
&wlquo;Become your time of day; and yours, and yours,
&wlquo;That wear upon your virgin-branches yet
&wlquo;Your maiden-heads growing: O Proserpina,
&wlquo;For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou let'st fall
&wlquo;From Dis's waggon! daffadils,
&wlquo;That come before the swallow dares, and take
&wlquo;The winds of March with beauty; violets dim,
&wlquo;But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes,
&wlquo;Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses,
&wlquo;That die unmarried, ere they can behold
&wlquo;Bright Phœbus in his strength; (a malady
&wlquo;Most incident to maids;) (a) ^notegold oxlips, and

&wlquo;The crown-imperial; lillies of all kinds,
&wlquo;The flower-de-lis being one. O these, I lack
&wlquo;To make you garlands of, and, my sweet friend,
&wlquo;To strow him o'er and o'er.&wrquo;

Flo.
What? like a coarse?

Per.
No, like a bank, for love to lie and play on;
Not like a coarse; or if,—not to be buried
But quick, and in mine arms. Come, take your flowers;
Methinks, I play as I have seen them do
In whitson pastorals: sure, this robe of mine
Does change my disposition.

Flo.
What you do,
Still betters what is done. When you speak, (sweet)
I'd have you do it ever; when you sing,
I'd have you buy and sell so; so, give alms;
Pray, so; and for the ord'ring your affairs,
To sing them too. When you do dance, I wish you
A wave o'th' sea, that you might ever do
Nothing but that; move still, still so,
And own no other function. Each your doing,
So singular in each particular,
Crowns what you're doing in the present deeds,
That all your acts are Queens.

Per.
O Doricles,
Your praises are too large; but that your youth,
And the true blood, which peeps forth fairly through it,
Do plainly give you out an unstain'd shepherd;
With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles,
You woo'd me the false way.

Flo.
^{1 note}

To put you to't. But, come; our dance, I pray;
Your hand, my Perdita; so turtles pair,
That never mean to part.

Per.
I'll swear for 'em.

&wlquo;Pol.
&wlquo;This is the prettiest low-born lass, that ever
&wlquo;Ran on the green-ford; nothing she does, or seems,&wrquo;
But smacks of something greater than her self,
Too noble for this place.

Cam.
He tells her something,
That makes her blood look (a) ^noteout: good sooth, she is
The Queen of curds and cream.

Clo.
Come on, strike up.

Dor.

Mopsa must be your mistress; marry, garlick to mend her kissing with—

Mop.

Now, in good time!

Clo.

Not a word, a word; we stand upon our manners; come, strike up.

Pol.
Pray, good shepherd, what fair swain is this
Who dances with your daughter?

Shep.
They call him Doricles, and he boasts himself
To have ^{2 note}a worthy breeding; but I have it
Upon his own report, and I believe it:
He looks like sooth; he says, he loves my daughter,
I think so too; for never gaz'd the moon
Upon the water, as he'll stand and read
As 'twere my daughter's eyes; and, to be plain,
I think, there is not half a kiss to chuse
Who loves another best.

Pol.
She dances featly.

Shep.
She does any thing, tho' I report it
That should be silent; if young Doricles

Do light upon her, she shall bring him That
Which he not dreams of.

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