Mark your divorce, young sir

Polixenes, removing his disguise
Mark your divorce, young sir,
Whom son I dare not call. Thou art too base
To be acknowledged. Thou a scepter’s heir
That thus affects a sheep-hook!—Thou, old traitor,
I am sorry that by hanging thee I can
But shorten thy life one week.—And thou, fresh piece
Of excellent witchcraft, whom of force must know
The royal fool thou cop’st with—
Shepherd
O, my heart!

This dream of mine—
Being now awake, I’ll queen it no inch farther,
But milk my ewes and weep.

Polixenes
I’ll have thy beauty scratched with briers and made
More homely than thy state.—For thee, fond boy,
If I may ever know thou dost but sigh
That thou no more shalt see this knack—as never
I mean thou shalt—we’ll bar thee from succession,
Not hold thee of our blood, no, not our kin,
Far’r than Deucalion off. Mark thou my words.
Follow us to the court.  To Shepherd.  Thou, churl, for this time,
Though full of our displeasure, yet we free thee
From the dead blow of it.—And you, enchantment,
Worthy enough a herdsman—yea, him too,
That makes himself, but for our honor therein,
Unworthy thee—if ever henceforth thou
These rural latches to his entrance open,
Or hoop his body more with thy embraces,
I will devise a death as cruel for thee
As thou art tender to ’t. He exits.
Perdita
Even here undone.
I was not much afeard, for once or twice
I was about to speak and tell him plainly
The selfsame sun that shines upon his court
Hides not his visage from our cottage but
Looks on alike.  To Florizell.  Will ’t please you, sir, be gone?
I told you what would come of this. Beseech you,
Of your own state take care. This dream of mine—
Being now awake, I’ll queen it no inch fartherEnallage,
But milk my ewes and weep.