Shepherd. 
                   Take hands, a bargain!—­
And, friends unknown, you shall bear witness to’t: 
I give my daughter to him, and will make
Her portion equal his.

Florizel. 
                       O, that must be
I’ the virtue of your daughter:  one being dead,
I shall have more than you can dream of yet;
Enough then for your wonder:  but come on,
Contract us ’fore these witnesses.

Shepherd. 
                                   Come, your hand;—­
And, daughter, yours.

Polixenes. 
                      Soft, swain, awhile, beseech you;
Have you a father?

Florizel. 
                   I have; but what of him?

Polixenes. 
Knows he of this?

Florizel. 
                  He neither does nor shall.

Polixenes. 
Methinks a father
Is, at the nuptial of his son, a guest
That best becomes the table.  Pray you, once more;
Is not your father grown incapable
Of reasonable affairs? is he not stupid
With age and altering rheums? can he speak? hear? 
Know man from man? dispute his own estate? 
Lies he not bed-rid? and again does nothing
But what he did being childish?

Florizel. 
                                No, good sir;
He has his health, and ampler strength indeed
Than most have of his age.

Polixenes. 
                           By my white beard,
You offer him, if this be so, a wrong
Something unfilial:  reason my son
Should choose himself a wife; but as good reason
The father,—­all whose joy is nothing else
But fair posterity,—­should hold some counsel
In such a business.

Florizel. 
                    I yield all this;
But, for some other reasons, my grave sir,
Which ’tis not fit you know, I not acquaint
My father of this business.

Polixenes. 
                            Let him know’t.

Florizel. 
He shall not.

Polixenes. 
              Pr’ythee let him.

Florizel. 
                                No, he must not.

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.
[Discovering himself.] 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!—­Thou, old traitor,
I am sorry that, by hanging thee, I can but
Shorten thy life one week.—­And thou, fresh piece
Of excellent witchcraft, who of force must know
The royal fool thou cop’st with,—­

Shepherd. 
                                   O, my heart!