That die unmarried, ere they can behold
Bright Phoebus in his strength-a malady
Most incident to maids; bold oxlips and
The crown-imperial; lilies of all kinds,

The flower-de-luce being one! O, these I lack,
To make you garlands of, and my sweet friend,
To strew him o'er and o'er.

Florizel.
Per.

What, like a corse?
No, like a bank for love to lie and play on;
Not like a corse; or if, not to be buried,

Come, take your flowers:

But quick and in mine arms.
Methinks I play as I have seen them do

In Whitsun pastorals: sure this robe of mine
Does change my disposition.

Flo.

What you do

Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet,

I'd have you do it ever: when you sing,

I'd have you buy and sell so, so give alms,

Pray so; and, for the ordering your affairs,

To sing them too: when you do dance, I wish you

A wave of the sea, that you might ever do

Nothing but that; move still, still so,

And own no other function: each your doing,

So singular in each particular,

Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds,
That all your acts are queens.

Per.

O Doricles,

Your praises are too large: but that your youth,
And the true blood which peepès fairly through 't,
Do plainly give you out an unstain'd shepherd,
With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles,

You woo'd me the false way.

Flo.

I think you have

As little skill to fear as I have purpose

To put you to 't. But come; our dance, I pray,

Your hand, my Perdita: so turtles pair,

That never mean to part.

Per.

I'll swear for 'em.

Pol. This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever Ran on the green-sward: nothing she does or seems But smacks of something greater than herself,

Too noble for this place.

Cam.

He tells her something

That makes her blood look out: good sooth, she is

The queen of curds and cream.

Clown. Come on, strike up! Dorcas. Mopsa must be your mistress: marry, garlic, To mend her kissing with!

Mopsa.
Clo.

Now, in good time!

Not a word, a word; we stand upon our manners. Come, strike up.

Music. Here a dance of Shepherds and Shepherdesses

Pol. Pray, good shepherd, what fair swain is this Which dances with your daughter?

Shepherd. They call him Doricles; and boasts himself To have a worthy feeding: but I have it

Upon his own report, and I believe it;

He looks like sooth. He says he loves my daughter:

I think so too; for never gazed the moon

Upon the water, as he 'll stand and read

As 't were my daughter's eyes: and, to be plain,

I think there is not half a kiss to choose

Who loves another best.

Pol.

She dances featly.

Shep. So she does anything; though I report it, That should be silent: if young Doricles

Do light upon her, she shall bring him that

Which he not dreams of.

LVI. AN INSUBSTANTIAL PAGEANT.

From The Tempest (1610), Act iv. Scene 1.

IRIS speaks.

`ERES, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas

CERES,

Of wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats and peas;

Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep,
And flat meads thatch'd with stover1, them to keep;

Thy banks with pioned2 and twilled3 brims,

Which spongy April at thy hest betrims,

To make cold nymphs chaste crowns; and thy broom

groves,

Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves,

Being lass-lorn; thy pole clipp'd vineyard;

And thy sea-marge, sterile and rocky-hard,

Where thou dost thyself air;-the queen o' the sky,
Whose watery arch and messenger am I,

Bids thee leave these; and with her sovereign grace,
Here on this grass-plot, in this very place,

To come and sport: her peacocks fly amain;
Approach, rich Ceres, her to entertain.

Enter CERES.

Ceres. Hail, many-colour'd messenger, that ne'er Dost disobey the wife of Jupiter;

Who with thy saffron wings upon my flowers

Diffusest honey-drops, refreshing showers;

And with each end of thy blue bow dost crown

4

My bosky acres and my unshrubb'd down,

Rich scarf to my proud earth;-Why hath thy queen

1 stover, winter fodder.

2 pioned, either 'dug out', by the current or by water-voles; or 'covered with peonies', the Warwickshire name for 'marsh-marigolds'.

3 twilled, covered with 'twills' or 'reeds'.

4 bosky, bushy.

Summon'd me hither, to this short grass'd green?
Iris. A contract of true love to celebrate;

And some donation freely to estate

On the bless'd lovers.

Ceres.

Tell me, heavenly bow,

If Venus or her son, as thou dost know,

Do now attend the queen? Since they did plot
The means that dusky Dis my daughter got,

Her and her blind boy's scandal'd company
I have forsworn.

Cutting the clouds towards Paphos and her son
Dove-drawn with her. Here thought they to have done
Some wanton charm upon this man and maid,

Whose vows are, that no bed-right shall be paid
Till Hymen's torch be lighted: but in vain;

Mar's hot minion is return'd again;

Her waspish-headed son has broke his arrows,

Swears he will shoot no more, but play with sparrows

And be a boy right out.

Ceres.

High'st queen of state,

Great Juno comes; I know her by her gait.

Enter JUNO.

Juno. How does my bounteous sister? Go with me To bless this twain, that they may prosperous be And honour'd in their issue.

SONG.

Juno. Honour, riches, marriage-blessing,
Long continuance, and increasing,
Hourly joys be still upon you!

Juno sings her blessings on you.

(M 80)

L

Ceres. Earthës increase, foison plenty,
Barns and garners never empty;
Vines with clustering bunches growing,
Plants with goodly burden bowing;
Spring come to you at the farthest
In the very end of harvest!

Scarcity and want shall shun you;
Ceres' blessing so is on you.

Ferdinand. This is a most majestic vision, and
Harmonious charmingly. May I be bold

To think these spirits?

So rare a wonder'd father, and a wife,

Make this place Paradise.

[JUNO and CERES whisper, and send IRIS on employment.]

Prospero.

Sweet now, silence;

Juno and Ceres whisper seriously;

There's something else to do: hush and be mute,

Or else our spell is marr'd.

Iris. You nymphs, call'd Naiads, of the wandering brooks,

With your sedg'd crowns and ever-harmless looks,
Leave your crisp channels and on this green land
Answer your summons; Juno does command:
Come, temperate nymphs, and help to celebrate
A contract of true love; be not too late.

Enter certain Nymphs.

You sunburnt sicklemen, of August weary,
Come hither from the furrow and be merry;