Ant.
Thou art perfect then, our ship hath touch'd upon
The desarts of Bohemia?

Mar.
Ay, my lord, and fear
We've landed in ill time: the skies look grimly,
And threaten present blusters. In my conscience,
The heav'ns with that we have in hand are angry,
And frown upon's.

Ant.
Their sacred wills be done; get thee aboard,
Look to thy bark, I'll not be long before
I call upon thee.

Mar.
Make your best haste, and go not
Too far i'th' land; 'tis like to be loud weather.
Besides, this place is famous for the creatures
Of prey that keep upon't.

Ant.
Go thou away.
I'll follow instantly.

Mar.
I'm glad at heart
To be so rid o'th' business. [Exit.

Ant.
Come, poor babe;
I have heard, but not believ'd, the spirits o'th' dead
May walk again; if such thing be, thy mother
Appear'd to me last night; for ne'er was dream
So like a waking. To me comes a creature,

Sometimes her head on one side, some another,
I never saw a vessel of like sorrow
So fill'd, and so becoming; in pure white robes,
Like very sanctity, she did approach
My cabin where I lay; thrice bow'd before me,
And, gasping to begin some speech, her eyes
Became two spouts; the fury spent, anon
Did this break from her. Good Antigonus,
Since fate, against thy better disposition,
Hath made thy person for the thrower-out
Of my poor babe, according to thine oath,
Places remote enough are in Bohemia,
There weep, and leave it crying; and, for the babe
Is counted lost for ever and ever, Perdita
I pr'ythee call't. For this ungentle business
Put on thee, by my lord, thou ne'er shalt see
Thy wife Paulina more. And so, with shrieks,
She melted into air. Affrighted much,
I did in time collect my self, and thought
This was so, and no slumber: dreams are toys,
Yet for this once, yea superstitiously,
I will be squar'd by this. I do believe
Hermione hath suffer'd death, and that
Apollo would, this being indeed the issue
Of King Polixenes, it should here be laid,
Either for life or death, upon the earth
Of its right father. Blossom, speed thee well, [Laying down the Child.
There lye, and there thy character: there these,
Which may, if fortune please, both breed thee, pretty one,
And still rest thine. The storm begins; poor wretch,
That for thy mother's fault art thus expos'd
To loss, and what may follow. Weep I cannot,

But my heart bleeds: and most accurst am I
To be by oath enjoin'd to this. Farewel.
The day frowns more and more; thou art like to have
A lullaby too rough: I never saw
The heav'ns so dim by day. A savage clamour!
Well may I get aboard: this is the chace,
I am gone for ever. [Exit pursued by a bear.

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