Per. Out, alas! You'd be fo lean, that blafts of January Would blow you through and through. Now, my faireft friend, I would, I had fome flowers o'th' fpring, that might That come before the swallow dares, and take Flo. What? like a coarse? Per. No, like a bank, for love to lie and play on; Not like a coarse; or if,-not to be buried But quick, and in mine arms. Come, take your flowers; Methinks, I play as I have seen them do n whitfon pastorals: fure, this robe of mine Does change my difpofition. Fla. What you do, Still betters what is done. When you speak, (fweet) I'd have you buy and fell fo; fo, give alms; To fing them too. When you do dance, I wish you And own no other function. Each your doing, Crowns what you're doing in the present deeds, Per. Per. O Doricles, Your praises are too large; but that your youth 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; That never mean to part. Per. I'll fwear for 'em. Pol. This is the prettieft low-born lafs, that ever Cam. He tells her fomething, (13) That makes her blood look out: good footh, fhe is Clo. Come on, strike up. Dor. Mopfa must be your mistrefs; marry, garlick to mend her kiffing with Mop. Now, in good time! Clo. Not a word, a word; we ftand upon our manners; come, ftrike up. Here a dance of Shepherds and Shepherdeffes. Pol. Pray, good shepherd, what fair fwain is this, Who dances with your daughter? (13) He tells her Something, That makes her Blood look on't.] Thus all the old Edftions corruptedly I dare fay, I have reftor'd the true Reading; and the Meaning must be this. The Prince tells her Something, that calls the Blood up into her Cheeks, and makes her blush. She, but a little before, ufes a like Expreffion to defcribe the Prince's Sincerity, which appear'd in the honeft Blood rifing on his Face. Tour Praises are too large; but that your Touth And the true Blood, which peeps forth fairly through it, Shep. They call him Doricles, and he boasts himself He looks like footh; he fays, he loves my daughter, As 'twere my daughter's eyes: and, to be plain, Pol. She dances featly. Shep. So fhe does any thing, tho' I report it Do light upon her, fhe fhall bring him That Enter a Servant. Ser. O mafter, if you did but hear the pedler at the door, you would never dance again after a tabor and pipe: no, the bag-pipe could not move you; he fings feveral tunes, fafter than you'll tell mony; he utters them as he had eaten ballads, and all mens ears grew to his tunes. Clo. He could never come better; he fhall come in; I love a ballad but even too well, if it be doleful matter merrily fet down; or a very pleafant thing indeed, and fung lamentably. Ser. He hath fongs for man, or woman, of all fizes; no milliner can fo fit his cuftomers with gloves he has the prettieft love-fongs for maids, fo without bawdry, (which is strange) with fuch delicate barthens of dil-do's and fa-ding's jump her and thump her: and where fome stretch-mouth'd rafcal would, as it were, mean mischief, and break a foul gap into the matter, he makes the maid to answer, Whoop, do me no harm, good mans puts him off, flights him, with Whoop, do me no harm, good man. Pol. This is a brave fellow. Clo. Believe me, thou talkeft of an admirable-concited fellow; has he any unbraided wares ? Ser. He hath ribbons of all the colours i'th' rainbow points, points, more than all the lawyers in Bohemia can learnedly handle, though they come to him by the grofs; inkles, caddiffes, cambricks, lawns; why, he fings them over, as they were Gods and Goddeffes; you would think a fmock were a fhe-angel, he so chants to the sleeve-hand, and the work about the fquare on't. Clo. Pr'ythee, bring him in; and let him approach, finging. Per. Forewarn him, that he use no fcurrilous words in's tunes. Clo. You have of these pedlers that have more in 'em than you'd think, fifter. Per. Ay, good brother, or go about to think. Enter Autolicus finging. Lawn as white as driven fnow, Come buy of me, come: come buy, come buy, Come buy, &c. Clo. If I were not in love with Mopfa, thou fhould't take no mony of me; but being enthrall'd as I am, it will also be the bondage of certain ribbons and gloves. Mop. I was promis'd them against the feaft, but they come not too late now. Dor. He hath promis'd you more than that, or there be liars. Mop. He hath paid you all he promis'd you: 'may be, he has paid you more; which will fhame you to give him again. Clo. Is there no manners left among maids? will they wear their plackets, where they should wear their faces? is there not milking-time, when you are going to bed, or kill-hole, to whittle of thefe fecrets, but you muft be tittle tattling before all our guests? 'tis well, they are whifpring clamour your tongues, and not a word more. Mop. I have done: come, you promis'd me a tawdry lace, and a pair of fweet gloves. Clo. Have I not told thee how I was cozen'd by the way, and loft all my mony? Aut. And, indeed, Sir, there are cozeners abroad, therefore it behoves men to be wary. Clo. Fear not thou, man, thou fhalt lofe nothing here. Aut. I hope fo, Sir, for I have about me many parcels of charge. Clo. What haft here? ballads? Mop. Pray now, buy fome; I love a ballad in print, or a life; for then we are fure they are true. Aut. Here's one to a very doleful tune, how a ufurer's wife was brought to bed with twenty mony bags at a burthen; and how the long'd to eat adders" heads, and toads carbonado'd. Mop. Is it true, think you? Aut. Very true, and but a month old. Dar. Blefs me from marrying a usurer! Aut. Here's the widwife's name to't, one mistress Tale porter, and five or fix honeft wives that were present. Why fhould I carry lies abroad? Mop. Pray you now, buy it. Clo. Come on, lay it by; and let's firft fee more ballads; we'll buy the other things anon. Aut. Here's another ballad, of a fish that appear'd upon the coaft, on Wednesday the fourfcore of April, forty thousand fadom above water, and fung this ballad against the hard hearts of maids; it was thought, fhe was a wo man, and was turn'd into a cold fish, for fhe would not exchange flesh with one that lov'd her: the ballad is very pitiful, and as true. |