Act 4, Scene 3

Original Text

SCENE III. The same. A Road near the Shepherd's cottage. Enter Autolycus, singing.

Modern English

Scene 3. The same. A road near the Shepherd's cottage. Autolycus enters, singing.

Original Text

AUTOLYCUS. _When daffodils begin to peer, With, hey! 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, hey! the sweet birds, O, how they sing! Doth set my pugging tooth on edge; For a quart of ale is a dish for a king._ _The lark, that tirra-lirra chants, With, hey! with, hey! the thrush and the jay, Are summer songs for me and my aunts, While we lie tumbling in the hay._

Modern English

AUTOLYCUS. _When the daffodils start to show their heads, Hey ho! with a pretty girl across the valley! Spring is rolling in, and my blood runs warm — The cold grip of winter is finally done._ _A white sheet drying on the hedge — Hey ho! and the sweet birds singing away! — Makes my thieving fingers itch and twitch, And a good quart of ale is fit for a king._ _The lark trilling his tirra-lirra tune, Hey ho! and the thrush and the jay — Those are summer songs for me and my girls, While we all go tumbling in the hay._

Original Text

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: And 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 And in the stocks avouch it._

Modern English

I used to serve Prince Florizel — wore the finest velvet in my day — but those days are behind me, and I'm out of a job. _But should I sit and weep about that, my love? The pale moon still shines at night. And when I drift from here to there, That's exactly when I'm going right._ _If a tinker's allowed to make his living Hauling his pigskin bag around, Then I can answer for my own accounts — Even if they clap me in the stocks for it._

Original Text

My traffic is sheets; when the kite builds, look to lesser linen. My father named me Autolycus; who being, I as am, littered under Mercury, was likewise a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles. With die and drab I 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!

Modern English

Stealing linen is my trade — when the kite starts building its nest, keep an eye on anything left out to dry. My father named me Autolycus, and being born under Mercury, as I was, he was likewise a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles. Gambling and women got me into this outfit, and petty theft keeps me going. Rope and fist are the real hazards of the open road — I won't lie, a beating or a hanging would put me off. As for what happens after I die, I sleep right through that worry. A prize! A prize!

Original Text

Enter Clown. 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.

Modern English

The Clown enters. CLOWN. Let me work this out: every eleven sheep make a tod of wool; every tod fetches a pound and a few shillings; fifteen hundred sheep shorn — so what does the wool come to? AUTOLYCUS. [_Aside._] If the trap holds, that bird is mine.

Original Text

CLOWN. I cannot do't without counters. 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 hath 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 colour the warden pies; "mace; dates", 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."

Modern English

CLOWN. I can't do this without my counters. Let me see — what do I need to buy for the sheep-shearing feast? "Three pounds of sugar, five pounds of currants, rice" — what is my sister planning to do with rice? But Father's put her in charge of the whole feast, so she's going all out. She's had me make twenty-four nosegays for the shearers — they're all three-part singers, very good ones — mostly tenors and basses, with one Puritan who insists on singing psalms to dance tunes. I need saffron for the pear pies; "mace; dates" — no, those aren't on my list; "seven nutmegs; a root or two of ginger" — though I might be able to beg those; "four pounds of prunes and as many sun-dried raisins."

Original Text

AUTOLYCUS. [_Grovelling on the ground._] O that ever I was born! CLOWN. I' th' name of me! AUTOLYCUS. O, help me, help me! Pluck but off these rags; and then, death, death! CLOWN. Alack, poor soul! thou hast need of more rags to lay on thee, rather than have these off.

Modern English

AUTOLYCUS. [_Throwing himself on the ground._] Oh, that I was ever born! CLOWN. Good Lord above! AUTOLYCUS. Oh, help me, help me! Just pull these rags off me — and then let me die, let me die! CLOWN. Poor wretch! You need more rags piled on you, not fewer taken off.

Original Text

AUTOLYCUS. O sir, the loathsomeness of them offends me more than the stripes I have received, which are mighty ones and millions. CLOWN. Alas, poor man! a million of beating may come to a great matter. AUTOLYCUS. I am robbed, sir, and beaten; my money and apparel ta'en from me, and these detestable things put upon me.

Modern English

AUTOLYCUS. Sir, the filth of these things bothers me worse than the blows I've taken — and there were mighty ones, thousands of them. CLOWN. Poor fellow! A thousand beatings would add up to something terrible. AUTOLYCUS. I've been robbed and beaten, sir. My money and my clothes taken, and these disgusting rags thrown on me instead.

Original Text

CLOWN. What, by a horseman or a footman? AUTOLYCUS. A footman, sweet sir, a footman. CLOWN. Indeed, he should be a footman by the garments he 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. [_Helping him up._]

Modern English

CLOWN. Was it a man on horseback or on foot? AUTOLYCUS. On foot, kind sir — on foot. CLOWN. On foot, I'd say, judging by the clothes he left you: if that's a horseman's coat, it's seen some very hard use. Here, give me your hand — I'll help you up. Come on, your hand. [_Helping him up._]

Original Text

AUTOLYCUS. O, good sir, tenderly, O! CLOWN. Alas, poor soul! AUTOLYCUS. O, good sir, softly, good sir. I fear, sir, my shoulder blade is out. CLOWN. How now! canst stand? AUTOLYCUS. Softly, dear sir! [_Picks his pocket._] good sir, softly. You ha' done me a charitable office.

Modern English

AUTOLYCUS. Oh, gently, good sir, gently, oh! CLOWN. Poor soul! AUTOLYCUS. Oh, easy, dear sir — easy. I'm afraid my shoulder is out of joint. CLOWN. All right — can you stand? AUTOLYCUS. Slowly, dear sir! [_Picks his pocket._] Easy, good sir, easy. You've done me a great kindness.

Original Text

CLOWN. 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 anything I want. Offer me no money, I pray you; that kills my heart.

Modern English

CLOWN. Are you short of money? I have a little I can give you. AUTOLYCUS. No, no, I beg you, sir — please don't. I have a cousin not three-quarters of a mile from here; I was on my way to him. He'll see me right — money, anything I need. Don't offer me charity, I pray you. It would break my heart.

Original Text

CLOWN. What manner of fellow was he that robbed you? AUTOLYCUS. A fellow, sir, that I have known to go about with 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. CLOWN. His vices, you would say; there's no virtue whipped out of the court. They cherish it to make it stay there; and yet it will no more but abide.

Modern English

CLOWN. What kind of man was this fellow who robbed you? AUTOLYCUS. A fellow I've known — runs with a rough crowd, plays at dice tables. I knew him once as a servant of the prince. I couldn't tell you which particular virtue got him thrown out of court, but thrown out he was — whipped out, as a matter of fact. CLOWN. His vices, you mean — there's no virtue that ever got anyone whipped out of court. They encourage virtue in there just enough to keep it around, and even then it barely stays.

Original Text

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 Son, 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. CLOWN. Out upon him! prig, for my life, prig: he haunts wakes, fairs, and bear-baitings.

Modern English

AUTOLYCUS. Vices — yes, that's what I meant. I know this man well. Since his time at court he's been a dancing-bear keeper, a process server, a bailiff. Then he put together a puppet show of the Prodigal Son, married a tinker's widow near where I happen to own a bit of land, and after drifting through every crooked trade imaginable, he settled on outright rogue as his calling. Some people know him as Autolycus. CLOWN. Good riddance to him! A thief through and through — he turns up at every fair, every festival, every bear-baiting.

Original Text

AUTOLYCUS. Very true, sir; he, sir, he; that's the rogue that put me into this apparel. CLOWN. Not a more cowardly rogue in all Bohemia. If you had but looked big and spit at him, he'd have run. 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.

Modern English

AUTOLYCUS. Quite right, sir — him, yes him — that's the rogue who dressed me in these rags. CLOWN. There isn't a bigger coward in all of Bohemia. If you'd just stood tall and spat at him, he'd have bolted. AUTOLYCUS. I have to be honest, sir — I'm no fighter. Courage of that kind isn't in me, and he knew it well enough.

Original Text

CLOWN. How do you now? AUTOLYCUS. Sweet sir, much better than I was. I can stand and walk: I will even take my leave of you and pace softly towards my kinsman's. CLOWN. Shall I bring thee on the way? AUTOLYCUS. No, good-faced sir; no, sweet sir. CLOWN. Then fare thee well. I must go buy spices for our sheep-shearing. AUTOLYCUS. Prosper you, sweet sir! [_Exit Clown._]

Modern English

CLOWN. And how are you feeling now? AUTOLYCUS. Much better, kind sir, much better. I can stand and walk. I'll take my leave of you and make my way slowly toward my cousin's. CLOWN. Shall I walk with you a bit? AUTOLYCUS. No, no, good sir — no need. CLOWN. Then fare you well. I've got spices to buy for our sheep-shearing feast. AUTOLYCUS. Good luck to you, sweet sir! [_The Clown exits._]

Original Text

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, and 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._ [_Exit._]

Modern English

Your purse is a bit light for all those spices — not that it matters now. I'll see you at the sheep-shearing, too. If I can't turn this one swindle into two, and those shearers don't prove to be as woolly-headed as the sheep they shear, then scratch my name from the rolls and put it in the book of virtue! [_Sings._] _Keep moving, keep moving down the footpath, And cheerfully hop the stile! A merry heart will carry you all day — A gloomy one gives out in a mile._ [_Exit._]

The Winter's Tale

Act 4, Scene 3

Act 4, Scene 3