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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 of 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.


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.


I think you


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.


I'll swear for 'em.



Florizel. Ce que vous faites surpasse toujours ce que vous avez fait. Quand vous parlez, ma douce amie, je voudrais vous entendre parler toujours; quand vous chantez, je voudrais vous voir tout faire en chantant, acheter et vendre, donner l'aumône, prier, régler vos affaires. Quand vous dansez, je me prends à désirer que vous soyez une vague de la mer, sans cesse balancée par le même mouvement. La manière dont vous faites toutes choses donne à chacun de vos actes une grâce particulière, je ne sais quoi de royal, et les revêt comme d'une


Perdita. O Doriclès, vos louanges sont trop fortes: si votre jeunesse, dont la sincérité se trahit à votre rougeur, n'indiquait en vous un berger candide et pur, j'aurais raison de craindre, mon cher Doriclès, que vous ne me fissiez la cour avec de mauvaises intentions.

Florizel. Vous n'avez pas plus à le craindre que je n'y songe moimême. Mais venez; notre danse, je vous prie. Votre main, ma chère Perdita; ainsi s'apparcillent deux tourterelles qui ne veulent plus se quitter.

Perdita. Je vous en réponds.


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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.

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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, too, 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.


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