[Act 4, Scene 3]
Enter Autolicus singing.
When Daffadils begin to peere,
With heigh the Doxy ouer the dale,
Why then comes in the sweet o’the yeere,
For the red blood raigns in
The white sheete bleaching on the hedge,
With hey the sweet birds, O how they sing:
Doth set my pugging tooth an edge,
For a quart of Ale is a dish for a King.
The Larke, that tirra Lyra chaunts,
With heigh, the Thrush and the Iay:
Are Summer songs for me and my Aunts
While we lye tumbling in the hay.
I haue seru’d Prince
Florizell, and in my time wore
pile, but now I am out of seruice.
But shall I go mourne for that (my deere)
the pale Moone shines by night:
And when I wander here, and there
I then do most go right.
If Tinkers may haue leaue to liue,
and beare the Sow‑skin Bowget,
Then my account I well may giue,
and in the Stockes auouch‑it.
My Trafficke is sheetes: when the Kite builds, looke to
My Father nam’d me
Autolicus, who be
ing (as I am) lytter’d vnder Mercurie, was likewise a
snapper‑vp of vnconsidered triﬂes: With Dye and drab,
purchas’d this Caparison, and my Reuennew is the silly
Gallowes, and Knocke, are too powerfull on
the Highway. Beating and
hanging are terrors to mee:
For the life to come, I sleepe out the
thought of it. A
prize, a prize.
Let me see, euery Leauen‑weather toddes, euery
tod yeeldes pound
and odde shilling: ﬁfteene hundred
shorne, what comes the wooll
If the sprindge hold, the Cocke’s mine.
I cannot do’t without Compters. Let mee see,
what am I to buy for our
pound of Sugar, ﬁue pound of
Currence, Rice: What
will this sister of mine do with Rice? But my
made her Mistris of the Feast, and she layes it on. Shee
hath made‑me four and twenty Nose‑gayes for the
rers (three‑man song‑men, all, and very good
they are most of them Meanes and Bases; but one
tan amongst them, and he sings Psalmes to
I must haue Saffron to colour the Warden Pies,
Dates, none: that’s out of my note: Nutmegges, seuen;
or two of Ginger, but that I may begge: Foure
pound of Prewyns, and as
many of Reysons o’th Sun.
Oh, that euer I was borne.
I’th’name of me.
Oh helpe me, helpe mee: plucke but off these
ragges: and then, death,
Alacke poore soule, thou hast need of more rags
to lay on thee, rather
then haue these off.
Oh sir, the loathsomnesse of them offend mee,
more then the stripes I
haue receiued, which are mightie
ones and millions.
Alas poore man, a million of beating may come
to a great matter.
I am rob’d sir, and beaten: my money, and ap
parrell tane from
me, and these detestable things put vp
What, by a horse‑man, or a foot‑man?
A footman (sweet sir) a footman.
Indeed, he should be a footman, by the garments
he has left with thee:
If this bee a horsemans Coate, it
hath seene very hot seruice. Lend me
thy hand, Ile helpe
thee. Come, lend me thy hand.
Oh good sir, tenderly, oh.
Alas poore soule.
Oh good sir, softly, good sir: I feare (sir) my
How now? Canst stand?
Softly, deere sir: good sir, softly: you ha done
me a charitable
Doest lacke any mony? I haue a little mony for
No, good sweet sir: no, I beseech you sir: I haue
a Kinsman not past
three quarters of a mile hence, vnto
whome I was going: I shall there
haue money, or anie
thing I want: Offer me no money I pray you, that
What manner of Fellow was hee that robb’d
A fellow (sir) that I haue knowne to goe about
Troll‑my‑dames: I knew him once a seruant of the
I cannot tell good sir, for which of his Ver
tues it was, but
hee was certainely Whipt out of the
His vices you would say: there’s no vertue whipt
out of the Court: they
cherish it to make it stay there;
and yet it will no more but
Vices I would say (Sir.) I know this man well,
he hath bene since an
Ape‑bearer, then a Processe‑seruer
(a Baylffe) then hee
compast a Motion of the Prodigall
sonne, and married a Tinkers wife,
within a Mile where
my Land and Liuing lyes; and (hauing ﬂowne ouer
ny knauish professions) he setled onely in Rogue: some
Out vpon him: Prig, for my life Prig: he haunts
Wakes, Faires, and
Very true sir: he sir hee: that’s the Rogue that
put me into this
Not a more cowardly Rogue in all
had but look’d bigge, and spit at him, hee’ld haue
I must confesse to you (sir) I am no fighter: I am
false of heart that
way, & that he knew I warrant him.
How do you now?
Sweet sir, much better then I was: I can stand,
and walke: I will euen
take my leaue of you, & pace soft
ly towards my
Shall I bring thee on the way?
No, good fac’d sir, no sweet sir.
Then fartheewell, I must go buy Spices for our
Prosper you sweet sir. Your purse is not hot e
nough to purchase
your Spice: Ile be with you at your
sheepe‑shearing too: If I
make not this Cheat bring out
another, and the sheerers proue sheepe,
let me be vnrold,
and my name put in the booke of Vertue.
Iog‑on, Iog‑on, the foot‑path way,
And merrily hent the Stile‑a:
A merry heart goes all the day,
Your sad tyres in a Mile‑a.