Act 3 - Scene 3
A road near the Shepherd's cottage.
Enter AUTOLYCUS, singing
When daffodils begin to peer,
With heigh! the doxy over the dale,
Why, then comes in the sweet o' the
For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale.
The white sheet bleaching on the hedge,
the sweet birds, O, how they sing!
Doth set my pugging tooth on edge;
For a quart of ale is a dish for a
The lark, that tirra-lyra chants,
With heigh! with heigh! the thrush and the jay,
Are summer songs
for me and my aunts,
While we lie tumbling in the hay.
I have served Prince Florizel and in my time
three-pile; but now I am out of service:
But shall I go mourn for that, my dear?
The pale moon shines by
And when I wander here and there,
I then do most go right.
If tinkers may have leave to live,
bear the sow-skin budget,
Then my account I well may, give,
And in the stocks avouch it.
My traffic is sheets; when
the kite builds, look to
lesser linen. My father named me Autolycus; who
being, as I am, littered under
Mercury, was likewise
a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles. With die and
drab I purchased this caparison,
and my revenue is
the silly cheat. Gallows and knock are too powerful
on the highway: beating and hanging
are terrors to
me: for the life to come, I sleep out the thought
of it. A prize! a prize!
Let me see: every 'leven wether tods; every tod
yields pound and odd shilling; fifteen hundred
comes the wool to?
If the springe hold, the cock's mine.
I cannot do't without counters. Let me see; what am
I to buy for our sheep-shearing feast? Three pound
sugar, five pound of currants, rice, what will
this sister of mine do with rice? But my father
hath made her
mistress of the feast, and she lays it
on. She hath made me four and twenty nose-gays for
three-man-song-men all, and very good
ones; but they are most of them means and bases; but
amongst them, and he sings psalms to
horn-pipes. I must have saffron to colour the warden
pies; mace; dates?none,
that's out of my note;
nutmegs, seven; a race or two of ginger, but that I
may beg; four pound of prunes,
and as many of
raisins o' the sun.
O that ever I was born!
Grovelling on the ground
I' the name of me
O, help me, help me! pluck but off these rags; and
then, death, death!
Copyright: All texts on Bibliomania are © Bibliomania.com Ltd,
and may not be reproduced in any form without our written permission.
See our FAQ for more details.