MOPSA.

Mopsa. Come, you promised me a tawdry lace, and a pair of sweet gloves.

Clown. Have I not told thee, how I was cozened by the way, and lost all my money?

Autolycus. And, indeed, sir, there are cozeners abroad: therefore it behoves men to be wary.

Clown. Fear not thou, man, thou shalt lose nothing here.

Autolycus. I hope so, sir; for I have about me many parcels of charge.

Clown. What hast here? ballads?

Mopsa. 'Pray now, buy some: I love a ballad in print, a'-life: for then we are sure they are true.

Autolycus. Here's one to a very doleful tune, How a usurer's wife was brought to bed of twenty money-bags at a burden; and how she longed to eat adders' heads, and toads carbonadoed.

Mopsa. Is it true, think you?

Autolycus. Very true, and but a month old.

Dorcas. Bless me from marrying a usurer!

Autolycus. Here's the midwife's name to 't, one mistress Taleporter; and five or six honest wives that were present: Why should I carry lies abroad?

Mopsa. 'Pray you now, buy it.

Clown. Come on, lay it by: And let's first see more ballads; we'll buy the other things anon.

Autolycus. Here's another ballad, of a fish, that appeared upon the coast, on Wednesday the fourscore of April, forty thousand fathom above water, and sung this ballad against the hard hearts of maids; it was thought she was a woman, and was turned into a cold fish, for she would not exchange flesh with one that loved her: The ballad is very pitiful, and as true.

Dorcas. Is it true, think you ?

Autolycus. Five justices' hands at it; and witnesses, more than my pack will hold.

Clown. Lay it by too: Another.

Autolycus. This is a merry ballad; but a very pretty one.

Mopsa. Let's have some merry ones.

WINTER'S TALE. Act IV. Scene III.

PERDITA.

Florizel.

Still betters what is done.

What

you do.

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 are 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 fairly peeps through it,
Do plainly give you out an unstain'd shepherd;
With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles,

You woo'd me the false way.

Florizel.

I think, you have

As little skill to fear, as I have purpose

To put you to't.-But, come; our dance, I pray :
Your hand, my Perdita: so turtles pair,

That never mean to part.

Perdita.

I'll swear for 'em.