 | Florizel and Perdita |  |
SCENE II.
The country by the sea-side. A storm.Enter an Old Shepherd.
I wou'd there were no age between thirteen and
three and twenty; or that youth wou'd sleep out
the rest: For there is nothing in the between, but
getting wenches with child, wronging the ancientry,
stealing, fighting—Hark you now! wou'd any
but these boil'd brains of two and twenty hunt this
weather! they have scar'd away two of my best
sheep, which, I fear, the wolf will sooner find than
the master; if any where I have 'em, 'tis by the seaside,
browzing of ivy—Yet I'll tarry till my son
come: He hollow'd but even now—Whoa!
ho—hoa—
Enter Clown.
Clown.
Hoilloa! hoa!
Old Shep.
What, art so near? What ail'st thou man?
Clown.
I have seen such a sight!
Why, boy, how is it?
Clown.
I wou'd you did but see how the sea chafes, how
it rages, how it rakes up the shore—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.—But O the most pitious cry of the poor souls,
sometimes to see 'em, and not to see 'em—But
then, the ship—to see how the sea flap-dragon'd it—
but first how the poor souls roar'd, and the sea mock'd
'em—Then the ship, now boring the moon with
her main-mast, and anon swallow'd with yest and
froth, as you'd thrust a cork into a hogshead.
Old Shep.
Name of mercy! when was this, boy?
Clown.
Now, now, I have not wink'd since I saw it; the
men are not yet cold under water.
Old Shep.
Wou'd I had been by the ship-side to have help'd
'em.
Clown.
There your charity wou'd have lack'd footing.
Old Shep.
Heavy matters! heavy matters!
Clown.
Look! look, father—there are two of 'em cast
ashore, and crawling up the rock—now they are
down again—poor souls, they have not strength to
keep their hold—I will go help them.
Run, run, boy! thy legs are youngest.
Clown.
Stay, they have found the road to the beach, and
come towards us.
Old Shep.
Some rich men, I warrant 'em; that are poorer
than we now.
Clown.
Lord, father! look—they are out-landish folk;
their fine cloaths are shrunk in the wetting.
Enter Leontes, supported by Cleomines.
Cleomines.
Bear up, my liege;—again welcome on shore.
Leontes.
Flatter me not—In death distinctions cease—
Am I on shore; walk I on land, firm land,
Or ride I yet upon the billows backs?
Methinks I feel the motion—who art thou?
Cleomines.
Know you me not?—your friend Cleomines.
Leontes.
Where are my other friends?—What, perish'd all!
Cleomines.
Not a soul sav'd! ourselves are all our crew,
Pilot, shipmaster, boatswain, sailors, all.
Leontes.
Laud we the gods! Yet wherefore perish'd they,
Live yet to load the earth?—O righteous gods!
Your ways are past the line of man to fathom.
Cleomines.
Waste not your small remaining strength of body
In warring with your mind. This desart waste
Has some inhabitants—Here's help at hand—
Good day, old man—
Old Shep.
Never said in worse time—a better to both your
worships—command us, Sir.
Clown.
You have been sweetly soak'd; give the gods
thanks that you are alive to feel it.
Leontes.
We are most thankful, Sir.
Cleomines.
What desarts are these same?
Old Shep.
The desarts of Bohemia.
Leontes.
Say'st thou Bohemia? ye gods, Bohemia!
In ev'ry act your judgments are sent forth
Against Leontes!—Here to be wreck'd and sav'd!
Upon this coast!—All the wrongs I have done,
Stir now afresh within me—Did I not
Upon this coast expose my harmless infant—
Bid Polixenes (falsly deem'd the father)
To take his child—O hell-born jealousy!
All but myself most innocent—and now
Upon this coast—Pardon, Hermione!
'Twas this that sped thee to thy proper heav'n;
Thou see'st my weary pilgrimage thro' life,
Loath'd, hated life, 'cause unenjoy'd with thee—
Look down, and pity me.
Cleomines.
Good Sir, be calm:
What's gone, and what's past help, shou'd be past grief;
You do repent these things too sorely.
Leontes.
I can't repent these things, for they are heavier
Than all my woes can stir: I must betake me
To nothing but despair—a thousand knees
Ten thousand years together, naked, fasting,
Upon a barren mountain, and still winter,
In storms perpetual, could not move the gods
To look this way upon me.
Clown.
What says he, pray? The sea has quite wash'd
away the poor gentleman's brains. Come, bring
him along to our farm; and we'll give you both a
warm bed, and dry cloathing.
Cleomines.
Friends, we accept your offer'd courtesy.
Come, Sir—bear up—be calm—compose your mind;
If still the tempest rages there, in vain
The gods have sav'd you from the deep.
Leontes.
I'll take thy council, friend,—Lend me thy arm
—Oh, Hermione!—
[Leans on him.
Cleomines.
Good shepherd, shew us to the cottage.
This way, this way—
Clown.
And now the storm's blown over, father, we'll
send down Nicholas and his fellow to pick up the
dead bodies, if any may be thrown ashore, and bury
them.
Old Shep.
'Tis a good deed, boy—Help the gentlemen,
and bring them after me.
[Exeunt.
| Florizel and Perdita | |