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Of trembling winter,-the fairest flowers o' the


Are our carnations, and streak'd gillyflowers,
Which some call Nature's bastards: of that kind
Our rustic garden's barren; and I care not
To get slips of them.


Wherefore, gentle maiden,

For 1 I have heard it said,

Do you neglect them?


There is an art, which, in their piedness,2 shares
With great creating Nature.


Say, there be;

Yet Nature is made better by no mean,

But Nature makes that mean: so, o'er that art,

Which, you say, adds to Nature, is an art

That Nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we


A gentler scion to the wildest stock;

And make conceive a bark of baser kind

By bud of nobler race. This is an art

Which does mend Nature,-change it rather: but The art itself is Nature.

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Pol. Then make your garden rich in gillyflowers, And do not call them bastards.


I'll not put

The dibble in earth to set one slip of them;


2 Diversity of color.

No more than, were I painted, I would wish
This youth should say, 'twere well; and only there-


Desire to breed by me.-
e.-Here's flowers for you;
Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram ;
The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun,
And with him rises weeping;-these are flowers
Of middle summer, and, I think, they are given
To men of middle age. You are very welcome.
Cam. I should leave grazing, were I of your flock,
And only live by gazing.


Out, alas!

You'd be so lean, that blasts of January

Would blow you through and through.-Now, my fairest friend,

I would, I had some flowers o' the spring, that might
Become your time of day; and yours, and yours,
That wear upon your virgin branches yet
Your maidenheads growing.-O Proserpina,

For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou let'st fall
From Dis's 1 waggon! daffodils,


That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty; violets, dim,
But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes,
Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses,
That die unmarried, ere they can behold
Bright Phoebus in his strength, a malady
Most incident to maids; bold oxlips, and


The crown-imperial; lilies of all kinds,

The flower-de-luce being one. O, these I lack.
To make you garlands of; and, my sweet friend,
To strew him o'er and o'er.


What? like a corse?

Per. No, like a bank, for love to lie and play on; Not like a corse; or if,-not to be buried,

But quick, and in mine arms. Come, take your


Methinks, I play as I have seen them do

In Whitsun pastorals: sure, this robe of mine
Does change my disposition.


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 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.1


O Doricles,

Your praises are too large: but that your youth. And the true blood, which peeps fairly through it, Do plainly give you out an unstain'd shepherd;

'Your manner in each act crowns the act.

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