Perdita.  O lady Fortune, Stand you auspicious!

   Enter Shepherd, Clown, Mopsa, Dobcas, Servants;
   with Polixenes, and Camillo, disguised.

   Florizel.  See, your guests approach. 
     Address yourself to entertain them sprightly,
     And let’s be red with mirth.

   Shepherd.  Fie, daughter! when my old wife liv’d, upon
     This day, she was both pantler, butler, cook;
     Both dame and servant:  welcom’d all, serv’d all: 
     Would sing her song, and dance her turn:  now here
     At upper end o’ the table, now i’ the middle: 
     On his shoulder, and his:  her face o’ fire
     With labour; and the thing she took to quench it
     She would to each one sip.  You are retir d,
     As if you were a feasted one, and not
     The hostess of the meeting.  Pray you, bid
     These unknown friends to us welcome; for it is
     A way to make us better friends, more known. 
     Come, quench your blushes; and present yourself
     That which you are, mistress o’ the feast.  Come on,
     And bid us welcome to your sheep-shearing,
     As your good flock shall prosper.

   Perdita.  Sir, welcome! [To Polixenes and Camillo.]
     It is my father’s will I should take on me
     The hostess-ship o’ the day:  you’re welcome, sir! 
     Give me those flowers there, Dorcas.—­Reverend sirs,
     For you there’s rosemary and rue; these keep
     Seeming, and savour, all the winter long: 
     Grace and remembrance be unto you both
     And welcome to our shearing!

   Polixenes.  Shepherdess,
     (A fair one are you) well you fit our ages
     With flowers of winter.

   Perdita.  Sir, the year growing ancient,
     Not yet on summer’s death, nor on the birth
     Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o’ the season
     Are our carnations, and streak’d gilly-flowers,
     Which some call nature’s bastards:  of that kind
     Our rustic garden’s barren; and I care not
     To get slips of them.

   Polixenes.  Wherefore, gentle maiden,
     Do you neglect them?

   Perdita.  For I have heard it said
     There is an art which in their piedness shares
     With great creating nature.

   Polixenes.  Say, there be:  Yet nature is made better by no mean,
     But nature makes that mean:  so, o’er that art
     Which, you say, adds to nature, is an art
     That nature makes.  You see, sweet maid, we marry
     A gentler scion to the wildest stock;
     And make conceive a bark of baser kind
     By bud of nobler race.  This is an art
     Which does mend nature, change it rather:  but
     The art itself is nature.

   Perdita.  So it is.
     [Footnote:  The lady, we here see, gives up the
     argument, but keeps her mind.]

   Polixenes.  Then make your garden rich in gilly-flowers,
     And do not call them bastards.