Which ’tis not fit you know, I not acquaint

My father of this business.

POLIXENES

Let him know’t.

FLORIZEL

He shall not.

POLIXENES

Prithee let him.

FLORIZEL

No, he must not.

OLD 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 (removing his disguise)

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 sheep-hook?

(To the Old Shepherd) Thou, old traitor,

I am sorry that by hanging thee I can but

Shorten thy life one week.

(To Perdita) And thou, fresh piece

Of excellent witchcraft, who of force must know

The royal fool thou cop’st with—

OLD SHEPHERD O, my heart!

POLIXENES

I’ll have thy beauty scratched with briers and made

More homely than thy state.

(To Florizel) 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,

Farre than Deucalion off. Mark thou my words.

Follow us to the court.

(To the Old Shepherd) Thou churl, for this time,

Though full of our displeasure, yet we free thee

From the dead blow of it.

(To Perdita)

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. 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 farther,

But milk my ewes and weep.

CAMILLO (to the Old Shepherd) Why, how now, father?

Speak ere thou diest.

OLD 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 cursed 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 lived

To die when I desire. Exit

FLORIZEL (to Perdita) Why look you so upon me?

I am but sorry, not afeard; delayed,

But nothing altered. 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 (to Florizel)

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’th’ earth together

And mar the seeds within. Lift up thy looks.

From my succession wipe me, father! I

Am heir to my affection.

CAMILLO

Be advised.

FLORIZEL

I am, and by my fancy. If my reason

Will thereto be obedient, I have reason.

If not, my senses, better pleased with madness,

Do bid it welcome.

CAMILLO

This is desperate, sir.

FLORIZEL

So call it. But it does fulfil my vow.

I needs must think it honesty. Camillo,

Not for Bohemia, nor the pomp that may

Be thereat gleaned; for all the sun sees, or

The close earth wombs, or the profound seas hides

In unknown fathoms, will I break my oath

To this my fair beloved. Therefore, I pray you,

As you have ever been my father’s honoured friend,

When he shall miss me—as, in faith, I mean not

To see him any more—cast your good counsels

Upon his passion. Let myself and fortune

Tug for the time to come. This you may know,

And so deliver: I am put to sea

With her who here I cannot hold on shore;

And most opportune to her need, I have

A vessel rides fast by, but not prepared