Page 830 - Shakespeare - Vol. 4

I am sorry that by hanging thee I can [415]
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!

POLIXENES
I’ll have thy beauty scratch’d with briers and made
More homely than thy state. For thee, fond boy, [420]
If I may ever know thou dost but sigh
That thou no more shalt see this knack (as never

I mean thou shalt), we’ll bar thee from succession;
Not hold thee of our blood, no, not our kin,
Farre than Deucalion off: mark thou my words! [425]
Follow us to the court. Thou churl, for this time,

Though full of our displeasure, yet we free thee
From the dead blow of it. And you, enchantment, −
Worthy enough a herdsman; yea, him too,
That makes himself, but for our honour therein, [430]

Unworthy thee. If ever henceforth thou
These rural latches to his entrance open,
Or hoop his body more with thy embraces,
I will devise a death as cruel for thee

As thou art tender to ’t.
Exit.

PERDITA
Even here, undone, [435]
I was not much afeard; for once or twice

I was about to speak, and tell him plainly,
The selfsame sun that shines upon his court
Hides not his visage from our cottage, but
Looks on alike. Will’t please you, sir, be gone? [440]
I told you what would come of this: beseech you,

Of your own state take care: this dream of mine −
Being now awake, I’ll queen it no inch farther,