 | Florizel and Perdita |  |
SCENE III.
Another part of the country.Enter Autolicus, (Singing)
SONG.
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.
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.
. (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.
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
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?
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.
And merrily hent the stile—a—
A merry heart goes all the day,
Your sad tires in a mile—a—
[Exit.
| Florizel and Perdita | |