THE WINTER'S TALE. Sidney Lee

Methinks a father

       Is, at the nuptial of his son, a guest

       That best becomes the table. Pray you, once more;

       Is not your father grown incapable

       Of reasonable affairs? is he not stupid

       With age and altering rheums? can he speak? hear?

       Know man from man? dispute his own estate?

       Lies he not bed-rid? and again does nothing

       But what he did being childish?

       FLORIZEL

       No, good sir;

       He has his health, and ampler strength indeed

       Than most have of his age.

       POLIXENES

       By my white beard,

       You offer him, if this be so, a wrong

       Something unfilial: reason my son

       Should choose himself a wife; but as good reason

       The father,—all whose joy is nothing else

       But fair posterity,—should hold some counsel

       In such a business.

       FLORIZEL

       I yield all this;

       But, for some other reasons, my grave sir,

       Which ‘tis not fit you know, I not acquaint

       My father of this business.

       POLIXENES

       Let him know’t.

       FLORIZEL

       He shall not.

       POLIXENES

       Pr’ythee let him.

       FLORIZEL

       No, he must not.

       SHEPHERD

       Let him, my son: he shall not need to grieve

       At knowing of thy choice.

       FLORIZEL

       Come, come, he must not.—

       Mark our contract.

       POLIXENES

       [Discovering himself.] Mark your divorce, young sir,

       Whom son I dare not call; thou art too base

       To be acknowledged: thou a sceptre’s heir,

       That thus affects a sheephook!—Thou, old traitor,

       I am sorry that, by hanging thee, I can but

       Shorten thy life one week.—And thou, fresh piece

       Of excellent witchcraft, who of force must know

       The royal fool thou cop’st with,—

       SHEPHERD

       O, my heart!

       POLIXENES

       I’ll have thy beauty scratch’d with briers, and made

       More homely than thy state. For thee, fond boy,—

       If I may ever know thou dost but sigh

       That thou no more shalt see this knack,—as never

       I mean thou shalt,—we’ll bar thee from succession;

       Not hold thee of our blood, no, not our kin,

       Far than Deucalion off:—mark thou my words:

       Follow us to the court.—Thou churl, for this time,

       Though full of our displeasure, yet we free thee

       From the dead blow of it.—And you, enchantment,—

       Worthy enough a herdsman; yea, him too

       That makes himself, but for our honour therein,

       Unworthy thee,—if ever henceforth thou

       These rural latches to his entrance open,

       Or hoop his body more with thy embraces,

       I will devise a death as cruel for thee

       As thou art tender to’t.

       [Exit.]

       PERDITA

       Even here undone!

       I was not much afeard: for once or twice

       I was about to speak, and tell him plainly

       The selfsame sun that shines upon his court

       Hides not his visage from our cottage, but

       Looks on alike.—[To FLORIZEL.] Will’t please you, sir, be gone?

       I told you what would come of this! Beseech you,

       Of your own state take care: this dream of mine,

       Being now awake, I’ll queen it no inch further,

       But milk my ewes, and weep.

       CAMILLO

       Why, how now, father!

       Speak ere thou diest.

       SHEPHERD

       I cannot speak, nor think,

       Nor dare to know that which I know.—[To FLORIZEL.] O, sir,

       You have undone a man of fourscore-three,

       That thought to fill his grave in quiet; yea,

       To die upon the bed my father died,

       To lie close by his honest bones! but now

       Some hangman must put on my shroud, and lay me

       Where no priest shovels in dust.—[To PERDITA.] O cursèd wretch,

       That knew’st this was the prince, and wouldst adventure

       To mingle faith with him!—Undone, undone!

       If I might die within this hour, I have liv’d

       To die when I desire.

       [Exit.]

       FLORIZEL

       Why look you so upon me?

       I am but sorry, not afeard; delay’d,

       But nothing alt’red: what I was, I am:

       More straining on for plucking back; not following

       My leash unwillingly.

       CAMILLO

       Gracious, my lord,

       You know your father’s temper: at this time

       He will allow no speech,—which I do guess

       You do not purpose to him,—and as hardly

       Will he endure your sight as yet, I fear:

       Then, till the fury of his highness settle,

       Come not before him.

       FLORIZEL

       I not purpose it.

       I think Camillo?

       CAMILLO

       Even he, my lord.

       PERDITA

       How often have I told you ‘twould be thus!

       How often said my dignity would last

       But till ‘twere known!

       FLORIZEL

       It cannot fail but by

       The violation of my faith; and then

       Let nature crush the sides o’ the earth together

       And mar the seeds within!—Lift up thy looks.—

       From my succession wipe me, father; I

       Am heir to my