SCENE III.
Bohemia. A Desert Country near the Sea.
Enter Antigonus, with the Babe9 note; and a Mariner.
Ant.
Thou art perfect, then, our ship hath touch'd upon
The deserts of Bohemia?
Mar.
Ay, my lord; and fear
We have landed in ill time: the skies look grimly,
And threaten present blusters. In my conscience,
-- 481 --
The heavens with that we have in hand are angry,
And frown upon us.
Ant.
Their sacred wills be done!—Go, get 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' the 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 am glad at heart
To be so rid o' the business.
[Exit.
Ant.
Come, poor babe:—
I have heard, (but not believ'd) the spirits o' the 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: 11Q0490 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, 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 myself, and thought
-- 482 --
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 babe.
There lie; and there thy character1 note: there these,
[Laying down a bundle.
Which may, if fortune please, both breed thee, pretty,
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 accurs'd am I,
To be by oath enjoin'd to this.—Farewell!
The day frowns more and more: thou art like to have
A lullaby too rough2 note. I never saw
The heavens so dim by day. [Bear roars.] A savage clamour?—
Well may I get aboard!—This is the chase;
I am gone for ever.
[Exit, pursued by a bear3 note.
Enter an old Shepherd.
Shep.
I would there were no age between ten and
three-and-twenty, or that youth would sleep out the
rest; for there is nothing in the between but getting
-- 483 --
wenches with child, wronging the ancientry, stealing,
fighting.—Hark you now!—Would any but these
boiled-brains of nineteen, and two-and-twenty, hunt
this weather? They have scared away two of my best
sheep; which, I fear, the wolf will sooner find, than the
master: if any where I have them, 'tis by the sea-side,
browzing of ivy. Good luck, an't be thy will! what
have we here? [Taking up the Child.] Mercy on's, a
barn; a very pretty barn! A boy, or a child, I wonder?
A pretty one; a very pretty one. Sure some scape:
though I am not bookish, yet I can read waiting-gentlewoman
in the scape. This has been some stair-work,
some trunk-work, some behind-door-work: they
were warmer that got this, than the poor thing is here.
I'll take it up for pity; yet I'll tarry till my son come:
he hallood but even now.—Whoa, ho hoa!
Enter Clown.
Clo.
Hilloa, loa!
Shep.
What! art so near? If thou'lt see a thing to
talk on when thou art dead and rotten, come hither.
What ail'st thou, man?
Clo.
I have seen two such sights, by sea, and by
land!—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.
Shep.
Why, boy, how is it?
Clo.
I would, you did but see how it chafes, how it
rages, how it takes up the shore! but that's not to the
point. O, the most piteous cry of the poor souls!
sometimes to see 'em, and not to see 'em: now
the ship boring the moon with her mainmast; and
anon swallowed with yest and froth, as you'd thrust a
cork into a hogshead. And then for the land service:
—to see how the bear tore out his shoulder bone;
how he cried to me for help, and said, his name was
-- 484 --
Antigonus, a nobleman.—But to make an end of the
ship:—to see how the sea flap-dragoned it4 note;—but,
first, how the poor souls roared, and the sea mocked
them;—and how the poor gentleman roared, and the
bear mocked him, both roaring louder than the sea, or
weather.
Shep.
Name of mercy! when was this, boy?
Clo.
Now, now; I have not winked since I saw
these sights: the men are not yet cold under water,
nor the bear half dined on the gentleman: he's at it
now.
Shep.
Would I had been by, to have helped the old
man!
Clo.
I would you had been by the ship's side, to
have helped her: there your charity would have lacked
footing.
Shep.
Heavy matters! heavy matters! but look thee
here, boy. Now bless thyself: thou met'st with things
dying, I with things new born. Here's a sight for
thee: look thee, a bearing-cloth for a squire's child!
Look thee here: take up, take up, boy; open't. So,
let's see. It was told me, I should be rich by the
fairies: this is some changeling5 note.—Open't: what's
within, boy?
Clo.
You're a made old man6 note: if the sins of your
youth are forgiven you, you're well to live. Gold! all
gold!
Shep.
This is fairy gold, boy, and 'twill prove so: up
with it, keep it close; home, home, the next way. We
-- 485 --
are lucky, boy; and to be so still requires nothing but
secrecy.—Let my sheep go.—Come, good boy, the next
way home.
Clo.
Go you the next way with your findings: I'll go
see if the bear be gone from the gentleman, and how
much he hath eaten: they are never curst, but when
they are hungry. If there be any of him left, I'll
bury it.
Shep.
That's a good deed. If thou may'st discern
by that which is left of him, what he is, fetch me to
the sight of him.
Clo.
Marry, will I; and you shall help to put him
i' the ground.
Shep.
'Tis a lucky day, boy, and we'll do good deeds
on't.
[Exeunt.
J. Payne Collier [1842–1844], The works of William Shakespeare. The text formed from an entirely new collation of the old editions: with the various readings, notes, a life of the poet, and a history of the Early English stage. By J. Payne Collier, Esq. F.S.A. In eight volumes (Whittaker & Co. [etc.], London) [word count] [S10101].