When I have said, cry, woe!-The queen, the queen, The sweetest, dearest creature's dead; and vengeance for't Not dropped down yet.

If word nor oath

1 Lord.
The higher powers forbid!
Paul. I say, she's dead; I'll swear't.
Prevail not, go and see; if you can bring
Tincture, or lustre, in her lip, her eye,
Heat outwardly, or breath within, I'll serve you
As I would do the gods.-But, O thou tyrant!
Do not repent these things; for they are heavier
Than all thy woes can stir; therefore betake thee
To nothing but despair. A thousand knees
Ten thousand years together, naked, fasting,
Upon a barren mountain, and still winter
In storm perpetual, could not move the gods
To look that way thou wert.

Leon.

Go on, go on.

Thou canst not speak too much; I have deserved
All tongues to talk their bitterest.

1 Lord.

Say no more; Howe'er the business goes, you have made fault I'the boldness of your speech.

Paul.

I am sorry for❜t; All faults I make, when I shall come to know them, I do repent. Alas, I have showed too much.

The rashness of a woman: he is touched

To the noble heart.-What's gone and what's past help, Should be past grief. Do not receive affliction

At my petition, I beseech you; rather

Let me be punished, that have minded you

Of what you should forget. Now, good my liege,

Sir, royal sir, forgive a foolish woman.

The love I bore your queen,-lo, fool again!—
I'll speak of her no more, nor of your children;
I'll not remember you of my own lord,

Who is lost too. Take your patience to you,
And I'll say nothing.

Leon.
Thou didst speak but well,
When most the truth; which I receive much better
Than to be pitied of thee. Pr'ythee, bring me
To the dead bodies of my queen and son;
One grave shall be for both; upon them shall
The causes of their death appear, unto
Our shame perpetual. Once a day I'll visit
The chapel where they lie; and tears, shed there,
Shall be my recreation. So long as

Nature will bear up with this exercise,
So long I daily vow to use it. Come,
And lead me to these sorrows.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III. Bohemia. A desert Country near the Sea.

Enter ANTIGONUS, with the Child; and a Mariner.

Ant. Thou art perfect, then, our ship hath touched upon The deserts of Bohemia?

Mar.
Ay, my lord; and fear
We have landed in ill time; the skies look grimly,
And threaten present blusters. In my conscience,
The Heavens with that we have in hand are angry,
And frown upon us.

Ant. Their sacred wills be done!-Go, get aboard;
Look to thy bark; I'll not be long, before
I call upon thee.

Mar. Make your best haste; and go not
Too far i'the land; 'tis like to be loud weather;
Besides, this place is famous for the creatures

Of prey that keep upon't.

Ant.

I'll follow instantly.

Mar.

Go thou away.

I am glad at heart

Come, poor babe.

To be so rid o'the business.

Ant.

[Exit.

I have heard (but not believed) the spirits of the dead
May walk again. If such thing be, thy mother
Appeared to me last night; for ne'er was dream
So like to waking. To me comes a creature,
Sometimes her head on one side, some another;
I never saw a vessel of like sorrow,

So filled, and so becoming; in pure white robes,
Like very sanctity, she did approach

My cabin where I lay; thrice bowed before me;
And gasping to begin some speech, her eyes
Became two spouts; the fury spent, anon
Did this break from her: Good Antigonus,
Since fate, against thy better disposition,
Hath made thy person for the thrower-out
Of my poor babe, according to thine oath,—
Places remote enough are in Bohemia:

There weep, and leave it crying; and, for the babe
Is counted lost forever, Perdita,

I pr'ythee call't; for this ungentle business,

Put on thee by my lord, thou ne'er shalt see
Thy wife Paulina more: and so, with shrieks,
She melted into air. Affrighted much,

I did in time collect myself; and thought
This was so, and no slumber. Dreams are toys;
Yet, for this once, yea, superstitiously,
I will be squared by this. I do believe
Hermione hath suffered death; and that
Apollo would, this being indeed the issue
Of king Polixenes, it should here be laid,
Either for life, or death, upon the earth
Of its right father.-Blossom, speed thee well!

[Laying down the Child.

There lie; and there thy character: there these;

[Laying down a bundle. Which may, if fortune please, both breed thee, pretty, And still rest thine.The storm begins.-Poor wretch, That, for thy mother's fault, art thus exposed To loss, and what may follow!-Weep I cannot, But my heart bleeds; and most accursed am I,

To be by oath enjoined to this.-Farewell!

The day frowns more and more; thou art like to have
A lullaby too rough. I never saw

The heavens so dim by day. A savage clamor!-
Well may I get aboard!. -This is the chase;
I am gone forever.

[Exit, pursued by a bear.

Enter an old Shepherd.

Shep. I would there were no age between ten and threeand-twenty; or that youth would sleep out the rest; for there is nothing in the between but getting wenches with child, wronging the ancientry, stealing, fighting.-Hark you now! -Would any but these boiled brains of nineteen and two-and-twenty, hunt this weather? They have scared away two of my best sheep; which, I fear, the wolf will sooner find than the master; if anywhere I have them, 'tis by the seaside, browzing of ivy. Good luck, an't be thy will! what have we here? [Taking up the Child.] Mercy on's, a barne; a very pretty barne! A boy, or a child, I wonder? A pretty one; a very pretty one. Sure, some scape: though I am not bookish, yet I can read waitinggentlewoman in the scape. This has been some stair-work, some trunk-work, some behind-door work. They were warmer that got this, than the poor thing is here. I'll take it up for pity: yet I'll tarry till my son come; he hollaed but even now. Whoa, ho, hoa!

Enter Clown.

Clo. Hilloa, loa! Shep. What, art so near? on when thou art dead and ail'st thou, man?

If thou'lt see a thing to talk rotten, come hither. What

Clo. I have seen two such sights, by sea, and by land; -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.

Shep. Why, boy, how is it?

Clo. I would you did but see how it chafes, how it rages, how it takes up the shore! But that's not to the point. O, the most piteous cry of the poor souls! Sometimes to see 'em, and not to see 'em: now the ship boring the moon with her main-mast; and anon swallowed with yest and froth, as you'd thrust a cork into a hogshead. And then for the land service, To see how the bear tore out his shoulder-bone! how he cried to me for help, and said, his name was Antigonus, a nobleman.—But to make an end of the ship,-To see how the sea flap-dragoned it:-but, first, how the poor souls roared, and the sea mocked them;-and how the poor gentleman roared, and the bear mocked him, both roaring louder than the sea, or weather.

Shep. 'Name of mercy, when was this, boy?

Clo. Now, now; I have not winked since I saw these sights. The men are not yet cold under water, nor the bear half dined on the gentleman; he's at it now.

Shep. 'Would I had been by, to have helped the old man! Clo. I would you had been by the ship side, to have helped her; there your charity would have lacked footing. [Aside.

Shep. Heavy matters! heavy matters! but look thee here, boy. Now bless thyself; thou met'st with things dying, I with things new born. Here's a sight for thee; look thee, a bearing-cloth for a squire's child! Look thee here: take up, take up, boy; open't. So, let's see. It was told me, I should be rich, by the fairies: this is some changeling. Open't. What's within, boy?

Clo. You're a made old man; if the sins of your youth are forgiven you, you're well to live. Gold! All gold!

Shep. This is fairy gold, boy, and 'twill prove so: up with it, keep it close; home, home, the next way. We are lucky, boy; and to be so still, requires nothing but secrecy. -Let my sheep go.- Come, good boy, the next way home. Clo. Go you the next way with your findings; I'll

go see

if the bear be gone from the gentleman, and how much he hath eaten they are never curst, but when they are hungry if there be any of him left, I'll bury it.

Shep. That's a good deed. If thou mayst discern by that which is left of him, what he is, fetch me to the sight of him.

Clo. Marry, will I: and you shall help to put him i' the ground.

Shep. 'Tis a lucky day, boy; and we'll do good deeds

on't.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

Enter Time, as Chorus.

Time. I,-that please some, try all; both joy and terror, Of good and bad; that make, and unfold error,Now take upon me, in the name of Time, To use my wings. Impute it not a crime, To me, or my swift passage, that I slide O'er sixteen years, and leave the growth untried Of that wide gap; since it is in my power To o'erthrow law, and in one self-born hour To plant and o'erwhelm custom. Let me pass The same I am, ere ancient'st order was, Or what is now received. I witness to The times that brought them in; so shall I do To the freshest things now reigning; and make stale The glistering of this present, as my tale Now seems to it. Your patience this allowing, I turn my glass; and give my scene such growing, As you had slept between. Leontes leaving The effects of his fond jealousies; so grieving, That he shuts up himself; imagine me, Gentle spectators, that I now may be In fair Bohemia; and remember well, I mentioned a son o'the king's, which Florizel I now name to you; and with speed so pace To speak of Perdita, now grown in grace Equal with wondering. What of her ensues, I list not prophesy; but let Time's news

Be known, when 'tis brought forth:-a shepherd's daughter, And what to her adheres, which follows after,

Is the argument of Time. Of this allow,

K