That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty; violets dim
But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes
Or Cytherea’s breath; pale primroses,
That die unmarried ere they can behold
Bright Phoebus in his strength,—­a malady
Most incident to maids; bold oxlips, and
The crown-imperial; lilies of all kinds,
The flower-de-luce being one.—­O, these I lack,
To make you garlands of; and, my sweet friend,
To strew him o’er and o’er!

Florizel. 
                            What, like a corse?

Perdita. 
No; like a bank for love to lie and play on;
Not like a corse; 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
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 so; so give alms;
Pray so; and, for the ordering your affairs,
To sing them too:  when you do dance, I wish you
A wave o’ the sea, that you might ever do
Nothing but that; move still, still so, and own
No other function:  each your doing,
So singular in each particular,
Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds,
That all your acts are queens.

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

Florizel. 
                            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.

Perdita. 
                         I’ll swear for ’em.

Polixenes. 
This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever
Ran on the green-sward:  nothing she does or seems
But smacks of something greater than herself,
Too noble for this place.

Camillo. 
                          He tells her something
That makes her blood look out:  good sooth, she is
The queen of curds and cream.

Clown. 
                              Come on, strike up.

Dorcas. 
Mopsa must be your mistress; marry, garlic,
To mend her kissing with!

Mopsa. 
                          Now, in good time!

Clown. 
Not a word, a word; we stand upon our manners.—­
Come, strike up.

[Music.  Here a dance Of Shepherds and Shepherdesses.]

Polixenes. 
Pray, good shepherd, what fair swain is this
Which dances with your daughter?