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Sir, welcome. It is my father’s will

Perdita, to Polixenes
Sir, welcome.
It is my father's will I should take on me
The hostess-ship o' th' day. To Camillo. You're
welcome, sir.—
Give me those flowers there, Dorcas.—Reverend
sirs,
For you there's rosemary and rue. These keep
Seeming and savor all the winter long.
Grace and remembrance be to you both,
And welcome to our shearing.
Polixenes
Shepherdess—
A fair one are you—well you fit our ages
With flowers of winter.
Perdita
Sir, the year growing ancient,
Not yet on summer's death nor on the birth
Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o' th' season
Are our carnations and streaked gillyvors,
Which some call nature's bastards. Of that kind
Our rustic garden's barren, and I care not
To get slips of them.
Polixenes
Wherefore, gentle maiden,
Do you neglect them?
Perdita
For I have heard it said
There is an art which in their piedness shares
With great creating nature.
Polixenes
Say there be;
Yet nature is made better by no mean
But nature makes that mean. So, over that art
Which you say adds to nature is an art
That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry
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.
Perdita
So it is.
Polixenes
Then make your  garden rich in gillyvors,
And do not call them bastards.
Perdita
I'll not put
The dibble in earth to set one slip of them,
No more than, were I painted, I would wish
This youth should say 'twere well, and only
therefore
Desire to breed by me. Here's flowers for you:
Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram,
The marigold, that goes to bed wi' th' sun
And with him rises weeping. These are flowers
Of middle summer, and I think they are given
To men of middle age. You're very welcome.
Camillo
I should leave grazing, were I of your flock,
And only live by gazing.
Perdita
Out, alas!
You'd be so lean that blasts of January
Would blow you through and through.
Source:
Act 4
Scene 4
Line 80

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