Camillo. 
                        I cannot say ’tis pity
She lacks instruction; for she seems a mistress
To most that teach.

Perdita. 
                    Your pardon, sir; for this: 
I’ll blush you thanks.

Florizel. 
                       My prettiest Perdita!—­
But, O, the thorns we stand upon!—­Camillo,—­
Preserver of my father, now of me;
The medicine of our house!—­how shall we do? 
We are not furnish’d like Bohemia’s son;
Nor shall appear in Sicilia.

Camillo. 
                             My lord,
Fear none of this:  I think you know my fortunes
Do all lie there:  it shall be so my care
To have you royally appointed as if
The scene you play were mine.  For instance, sir,
That you may know you shall not want,—­one word.
[They talk aside.]

[Re-enter autolycus.]

Autolycus.  Ha, ha! what a fool Honesty is! and Trust, his sworn brother, a very simple gentleman!  I have sold all my trumpery; not a counterfeit stone, not a riband, glass, pomander, brooch, table-book, ballad, knife, tape, glove, shoe-tie, bracelet, horn-ring, to keep my pack from fasting;—­they throng who should buy first, as if my trinkets had been hallowed, and brought a benediction to the buyer:  by which means I saw whose purse was best in picture; and what I saw, to my good use I remembered.  My clown (who wants but something to be a reasonable man) grew so in love with the wenches’ song that he would not stir his pettitoes till he had both tune and words; which so drew the rest of the herd to me that all their other senses stuck in ears:  you might have pinched a placket,—­it was senseless; ’twas nothing to geld a codpiece of a purse; I would have filed keys off that hung in chains:  no hearing, no feeling, but my sir’s song, and admiring the nothing of it.  So that, in this time of lethargy, I picked and cut most of their festival purses; and had not the old man come in with whoobub against his daughter and the king’s son, and scared my choughs from the chaff, I had not left a purse alive in the whole army.

[Camillo, Florizel, and Perdita come forward.]

Camillo. 
Nay, but my letters, by this means being there
So soon as you arrive, shall clear that doubt.

Florizel. 
And those that you’ll procure from king Leontes,—­

Camillo. 
Shall satisfy your father.

Perdita. 
                           Happy be you! 
All that you speak shows fair.

Camillo.
[Seeing autolycus.] Who have we here? 
We’ll make an instrument of this; omit
Nothing may give us aid.

Autolycus.
[Aside.] If they have overheard me now,—­why, hanging.

Camillo. 
How now, good fellow! why shakest thou so?  Fear not, man; here’s
no harm intended to thee.