In the last two Acts we have a most artful interchange and blending of romantic beauty and comic drollery.  The lost Princess and the heir-apparent of Bohemia, two of the noblest and loveliest beings that ever fancy conceived, occupy the centre of the picture, while around them are clustered rustic shepherds and shepherdesses amid their pastimes and pursuits, the whole being enlivened by the tricks and humours of a merry pedler and pickpocket.  For simple purity and sweetness, the scene which unfolds the loves and characters of the Prince and Princess is not surpassed by any thing in Shakespeare.  Whatsoever is enchanting in romance, lovely in innocence, elevated in feeling, and sacred in faith, is here concentrated; forming, all together, one of those things which we always welcome as we do the return of Spring, and over which our feelings may renew their youth for ever.  So long as flowers bloom and hearts love, they will do it in the spirit of this scene.

It is a pastoral frolic, where free thoughts and guileless hearts rule the hour, all as true and as pure as the tints and fragrances with which field and forest and garden have beautified the occasion.  The neighbouring swains and lasses have gathered in, to share and enhance the sport.  The old Shepherd is present, but only as a looker-on, having for the nonce resigned the command to his reputed daughter.  Under their mutual inspiration, the Prince and Princess are each in the finest rapture of fancy, while the surrounding influences of the rustic festival are just enough to enfranchise their inward music into modest and delicate utterance.  He has tastefully decked her person with flowers, till no traces of the shepherdess can be seen, and she seems herself a multitudinous flower; having also attired himself “with a swain’s wearing,” so that the prince is equally obscured.

“These your unusual weeds to each part of you
Do give a life:  no shepherdess; but Flora,
Peering in April’s front.  This your sheep-shearing
Is as a meeting of the petty gods,
And you the queen on’t.”

Thus he opens the play.  And when she repeats her fears of the event: 

                            “Thou dearest Perdita,
    With these forc’d thoughts, I pr’ythee, darken not
    The mirth o’ the feast:  or I’ll be thine, my fair,
    Or not my father’s; for I cannot be
    Mine own, nor any thing to any, if
    I be not thine:  to this I am most constant,
    Though destiny say no.”

The King and Camilla steal upon them in disguise, and while they are present we have this: 

“Perdita.  Come, take your flowers:  Methinks I play as I have seen them do In Whitsun pastorals:  sure, this robe of mine Does change my disposition.

Florizel.  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