Perdita.  I’ll not put
     The dibble in earth, to set one slip of them;
     [Footnote:  The lady, we here see, gives up the argument, but
     keeps her mind.]
     No more than, were I painted, I would wish
     This youth should say, ’twere well; and only therefore
     Desire to breed by me.—­Here’s flowers for you;
     Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram;
     The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun,
     And with him rises, weeping:  these are flowers
     Of middle summer, and, I think, they are given
     To men of middle age.  You are very welcome.

   Camillo.  I should leave grazing, were I of your flock,
     And only live by gazing.

   Perdita.  Out, alas! 
     You’d be so lean, that blasts of January
     Would blow you through and through.  Now my fairest friends. 
     I would I had some flowers o’ the spring that might
     Become your time of day; and yours, and yours,
     That wear upon your virgin branches yet
     Your maidenheads growing:  O Proserpina! 
     For the flowers now that frighted thou let’st fall
     From Dis’s waggon! daffodils,
     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 fleur-de-lis being one!  O, these I lack
     To make you garlands of; and my sweet friend
     To strow 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’re 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 forth 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.