Internet Shakespeare Editions

About this text

  • Title: The Winter's Tale (Modern)
  • Editor: Hardin Aasand
  • ISBN: 978-1-55058-367-0

    Copyright Internet Shakespeare Editions. This text may be freely used for educational, non-proift purposes; for all other uses contact the Coordinating Editor.
    Author: William Shakespeare
    Editor: Hardin Aasand
    Not Peer Reviewed

    The Winter's Tale (Modern)

    [4.3]
    Enter Autolycus singing
    Autolycus
    When daffodils begin to peer
    1670 With heigh, the doxy over the dale,
    Why then comes in the sweet o'the year,
    For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale.
    The white sheet bleaching on the hedge,
    With heigh, the sweet birds, O how they sing!
    1675Doth set my pugging tooth on edge,
    For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.
    The lark that tirra lirra chants,
    With heigh, with heigh, the thrush and the jay,
    Are summer songs for me and my aunts
    1680 While we lie tumbling in the hay.
    I have served Prince Florizel, and in my time wore three-pile, but now I am out of service.
    But shall I go mourn for that, my dear?
    The pale moon shines by night,
    1685And when I wander here and there
    I then do most go right.
    If tinkers may have leave to live,
    And bear the sow-skin budget,
    Then my account I well may give,
    1690And 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, 1695I 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!
    1700Enter Clown.
    Let me see, every 'leven wether tods, every tod yields pound and odd shilling. Fifteen hundred shorn, what comes the wool to?
    Autolycus
    [Aside] If the springe hold, the cock's mine.
    I cannot do't without counters. [Taking out a list] Let me see,what am I to buy for our sheep-shearing feast? Three pound of 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 1710hath made me four-and-twenty nosegays for the shearers -- three-man song men, all, and very good ones -- but they are most of them means and basses but one puritan amongst them, and he sings psalms to hornpipes. I must have saffron to color the warden pies; mace; 1715dates, 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'th'sun.
    Autolycus
    [Groveling on the ground] Oh, that ever I was born.
    I'th'name of me --
    1720Autolycus
    Oh, help me, help me! Pluck but off these rags, and then, death, death!
    Alack, poor soul, thou hast need of more rags to lay on thee rather than have these off.
    Autolycus
    O sir, the loathsomeness of them offend me1725more than the stripes I have received, which are mighty ones and millions.
    Alas, poor man, a million of beating may come to a great matter.
    Autolycus
    I am robbed, sir, and beaten; my money and 1730apparel ta'en from me, and these detestable things put upon me.
    What, by a horseman or a footman?
    Autolycus
    A footman, sweet sir, a footman.
    Indeed, he should be a footman by the garments 1735he has left with thee. If this be a horseman's coat, it hath seen very hot service. Lend me thy hand. I'll help thee. Come, lend me thy hand.
    [Helps Autolycus to stand]
    Autolycus
    Oh, good sir, tenderly, Oh!
    Alas, poor soul!
    1740Autolycus
    Oh, good sir, softly, good sir! I fear, sir, my shoulder blade is out.
    How now? Canst stand?
    Autolycus
    Softly, dear sir! Good sir, softly! [Picking Clown's pocket] You have done me a charitable office.
    Dost lack any money? I have a little money for thee.
    Autolycus
    No, good sweet sir. No, I beseech you, sir. I have a kinsman not past three quarters of a mile hence, unto whom I was going. I shall there have money or any 1750thing I want. Offer me no money I pray you; that kills my heart.
    What manner of fellow was he that robbed you?
    Autolycus
    A fellow, sir, that I have known to go about 1755with troll-my-dames. I knew him once a servant of the prince. I cannot tell, good sir, for which of his virtues it was, but he was certainly whipped out of the court.
    His vices you would say. There's no virtue whipped 1760out of the court: they cherish it to make it stay there, and yet it will no more but abide.
    Autolycus
    Vices I would say, sir. I know this man well. He hath been since an ape-bearer, then a process-server -- a bailiff. Then he compassed a motion of the prodigal 1765son and married a tinker's wife within a mile where my land and living lies, and, having flown over many knavish professions, he settled only in rogue. Some call him Autolycus.
    Out upon him! Prig, for my life, prig! He haunts 1770wakes, fairies, and bearbaitings.
    Autolycus
    Very true, sir, he, sir, he. That's the rogue that put me into this apparel.
    Not a more cowardly rogue in all Bohemia. If you had but looked big and spit at him, he'd have 1775run.
    Autolycus
    I must confess to you, sir, I am no fighter. I am false of heart that way, and that he knew, I warrant him.
    How do you now?
    Autolycus
    Sweet sir, much better than I was. I can stand 1780and walk. I will even take my leave of you and pace softly towards my kinsman's.
    Shall I bring thee on the way?
    Autolycus
    No, good-faced sir, no, sweet sir.
    Then fare thee well. I must go buy spices for our 1785sheep-shearing.
    Exit.
    Autolycus
    Prosper you, sweet sir. Your purse is not hot enough to purchase your spice. I'll be with you at your sheep-shearing too. If I make not this cheat bring out another and the shearers prove sheep, let me be unrolled 1790and my name put in the book of virtue!
    [Sings]
    Jog on, jog on, the footpath way,
    And merrily hent the stile-a;
    A merry heart goes all the day,
    Your sad tires in a mile-a.