Act 3 - Scene 3
Bohemia. A desert country near the sea.
Enter ANTIGONUS with a Child, and a Mariner
Thou art perfect then, our ship hath touch'd upon
The deserts of Bohemia?
Ay, my lord: and fear
We have landed in ill time: the skies look grimly
And threaten present blusters. In my
The heavens with that we have in hand are angry
And frown upon 's.
Their sacred wills be done! Go, get aboard;
Look to thy bark: I'll not be long before
I call upon thee.
Make your best haste, and go not
Too far i' the land: 'tis like to be loud weather;
Besides, this place is
famous for the creatures
Of prey that keep upon't.
Go thou away:
I'll follow instantly.
I am glad at heart
To be so rid o' the business.
Come, poor babe:
I have heard, but not believed,
the spirits o' the dead
May walk again: if such thing be,
Appear'd to me last night, for ne'er was dream
So like a waking. To me comes a creature,
her head on one side, some another;
I never saw a vessel of like sorrow,
So fill'd and so becoming: in
pure white robes,
Like very sanctity, she did approach
My cabin where I lay; thrice bow'd before me,
gasping to begin some speech, her eyes
Became two spouts: the fury spent, anon
Did this break-from
her: 'Good Antigonus,
Since fate, against thy better disposition,
Hath made thy person for the thrower-
Of my poor babe, according to thine oath,
Places remote enough are in Bohemia,
There weep and
leave it crying; and, for the babe
Is counted lost for ever, Perdita,
I prithee, call't. For this ungentle business
on thee by my lord, thou ne'er shalt see
Thy wife Paulina more.' And so, with shrieks
She melted into air.
I did in time collect myself and thought
This was so and no slumber. Dreams are toys:
for this once, yea, superstitiously,
I will be squared by this. I do believe
Hermione hath suffer'd death, and
Apollo would, this being indeed the issue
Of King Polixenes, it should here be laid,
Either for life or
death, upon the earth
Of its right father. Blossom, speed thee well!
There lie, and there thy character: there
Which may, if fortune please, both breed thee, pretty,
And still rest thine. The storm begins; poor
That for thy mother's fault art thus exposed
To loss and what may follow! Weep I cannot,
heart bleeds; and most accursed am I
To be by oath enjoin'd to this. Farewell!
The day frowns more and
more: thou'rt like to have
A lullaby too rough: I never saw
The heavens so dim by day. A savage clamour!
may I get aboard! This is the chase:
I am gone for ever.
Exit, pursued by a bear
Enter a Shepherd
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