Perd. O Doricles,

Your praises are too large; but that your youth
And the true blood, which peeps forth fairly thro it,
Do plainly give you out an unstained shepherd;
With wisdom, I might fear, my Doricles,
You woo'd me the false way.

Flor, 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.

Perd. I'll swear for 'em.

Old Shep. Come, come, daughter. leave for a while these private dalliances, and love-whisperings, clear up your pipes and call, as custom is; our neighbours to our shearing. Perd. I will obey you.



Come, come, my good shepherds, our flocks we must shear,
In your boly-day suits, with your lasses appear;

The bappiest of folk, are the giltless and free
And who are so giltless so happy as we?

We barbour no passions, by luxury taught,

We practise no arts, with bypocrisy fraught;

What we think in our bearts, you may read in our eyes ;
For knowing no falsbood, we need no disguise,


By mode and caprice are the city dames led,

But we, as the children of nature are bred;

By ber band alone, we are painted and dress'd

For the roses will bloom, when there's peace in the breast. IV.

That giant, ambition we never can dread ;

Our roofs are too low, for so lofty a bead;
Content and sweet cbearfulness open our door,

They smile with the simple, and feed with the poor.


When love bas posses'd us, but love we reveal :
Like the flocks that we feed, are the passions we feel;


So barmless and simple we sport, and we play,
And leave to fine folks to deceive and betray.

Polix. This is the prettiest low born lass that ever
Ran on the green-ford; 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-our dance-strike up.

Dorc. Mopsa must be our mistress, marry, buy some garlick to mend her kissing with.

Mops. Now, in good time, musk, will not mend thine. Dorc. Thou art a false man; did'st not thou swear, ('it was but yesternight in the tallet, over the dove house) how that at your shearing, you wou'd this day shaune Mopsa,and

Clown. Hold ye, maidens, hold ye--not a word—we stand upon our manners here,come strike up.

Mops. Here's to do; marry I'll swear he promis'd me long enough afore that in the hay-field-by the token, our curate, came by, and whereof all our folk were gone further a field; he advis'd us to get up, and go home quickly, for that the dew fell apace and the ground was dank, and unhealsome; more nor that, you promis'd me gloves, and ribbands, and knacks at the fair, and more nor that

Clown. Not a word; not a word more, wenches.

Dorc. Marry, come up! others have had promises, as well as some ;-but I have heard old folks in the parish say, that some folks have been proud and courtly, and falshearted ever since some folks father found a pot of money by the sea-side here.- But I say nothing.

Clown. Come, come' strike up.

A Dance of Shepherds and Shepherdesses.

Polix. I pray good shepherd, what fair swain is this,

Who dances with your daughter.

Old Shep. They call him Doricles; and he boasts himself

To have a worthy breeding; 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 gaz'd the moon


Upon the water, as he'll stand and read

As 'twere my daughter's eyes; and to be plain, 1 think there's not half a kiss to chuse,

Who loves the other best.

Polix. She dances featly.

Old Shep. So she does any thing, tho' I report it
Thou shou'd be silent: if young Ďoricles,

Do light upon her, she shall bring him that,
Which he not dreams of.

Enter a Servant.

O, master, if you did but hear the pedlar at the door you wou'd never dance again after a tabor and pipe; no the bagpipe cou'd not move you; he sings several tunes faster than you'll tell money; he utters then, as he had eaten ballads, and all men's ears grow to his tunes.

Clown. He cou'd never come better; he shall come in; I love a ballad but even too well; if it be doleful matter merrily set down; or a very pleasant thing indeed, and sung lamentably.

Serv. He hath songs for man or woman of all sizes; no miliner can fit her customers with gloves,; he has the pret tiest love-songs for maids, so without bawdry (which is strange) for such delicate burthens of jump ber and thump ber: and where some stretch-moth'd rascal wou'd, as it were, mean mischief, and break a full gap into the matter, he makes the maid to answer- Whoap, do me no barm good man-puts him off, slights him, with-Whoop, do me na barm good man.

Polix. This is a brave fellow.

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Clown. Believe me,thou talk'd of an admirable conceited fellow; has he any unbraided wares?

Serv. He hath ribbands of all colours i' th' rainbow; points more than all the lawyers in Bohemia can learnedly handle, though they came to him by the gross; inkles, caddisses, cambricks, lawns; why, he sings them over, as they were Gods and Goddesses; you wou'd think a smock a she-angel. he so chants to the sleeve-hand, and the work about the square on't.

Clown. Prithee, bring him in, and let him approach singing.


Perd. Forewarn him that he use no scurrilous words in's


Clown. You have of these pedlars, that have more in 'em than you think, sister.

Perd. Ay, good brother, or go about to think.
Enter AUTOLICUs singing.

Lawn, as white as driven snow,
Cyprus, black as e'er was crow;
Gloves, as sweet as damask roses,
Mask, for faces, and for noses :
Bugle bracelets, necklace amber,
Perfume for a lady's chamber,
Golden coifs, and stomachers,
For my lads to give their dears:
Pins, and packing-sticks of steel,

What maids lack from bead to beel:

Come buy of me, come; come buy, come buy;

Buy lads, or else your lasses ery,

Come buy, etc.

Clown. If I were not in love with Mopsa, thou shou’d'st take no money of me; but being enthralled as I am, it will also be the bondage of certain ribbands and gloves.

Mops. I was promised them against the feast; but they come not too late now.

Dorc. He hath promis'd you; more than that or there be liars.

Mops. He hath paid you all he promis'd you; may be, he hath paid you more, which will shame you to give him again.

Clown, Is there no manners left among you maids? Is there no milking time when you are going to bed, or killhole, to whistle of those secrets, but you must be tittle-tattle before all our guests? 'tis well they are whispering, clamour your tongues, and not a word more.

Mops. I have done: come, you promis'd me a tawdry lace and a pair of sweet gloves.

Clown. Have I not told thee how I was cozen'd by the way, and lost all my money.

Autol. and, indeed, Sir, there are cozeners abroad; therefore it behoves men to be wary.

Clown. Fear not, thou, man


-thou shalt lose nothing


Autol. I hope so, Sir; for I have about me many parces

of charge.
Clown. What hast here? ballads?

Mops. Pray now buy some; I love a ballad in print,
Or a life, for then we are sure they are true.

Autol. Here's one, to a very doleful tune, how a usurer's wife was brought to bed with twenty money bags at a burthen, and how she long'd to eat adder's heads, and toads carbonado'd.

Mops. Is it true, think you?

Autol. Very true, and but a month old,

Dorc. Bless me, from marrying a usurer!

Antot. Here's the midwife's name to it; and five or six honest wives that were present. Why shou'd I carry lies abroad?

Mops. Pray, you now, buy it.

Clown. Come on: lay it buy; let's first see more ballads; we'll buy the other things anon.

Autol. Here's another ballad of a fish, that appear'd upon the coast on Wednesday the fourscore of April, forty thousand fathom above water, and sung this ballad, against the hard hearts of maids: it was thought she was a woman, and turn'd into a cold fish, for she wou'd not exchange flesh with one that lov'd her; the ballad is very pitiful, and as


Dorc. Is it true, too, think you?

Autol. Five justices hands at it; and witnesses more than my pack will hold.

Clown. Lay it by too.


Autol, This is a merry ballad, but a very pretty one.
Mops Let's have some merry ones.

Antol. Why, this is a passing merry one, and goes to the tune of two maids wooing a man: there's scarce a maid westward but she sings it; 'tis in request, I can tell you.

Clown. Nicholas, Dorcas, and Mopsa can sing that; we had the tune on't a month ago.- Come Nicholas, strike



Man. Get you bence, for I must go,

Whitber it fits not you to know,

Dor. Whither? Mop. O Whitber? Dor. Whitber


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