and her child, after her long separation from them, is as affecting in itself as it is striking in the representation. Camillo, and the old shepherd and his son, are subordinate but not uninteresting instruments in the developement of the plot, and though last, not least, comes Autolycus, a very pleasant, thriving rogue; and (what is the best feather in the cap of all knavery) he escapes with impunity in the end.

The Winter's Tale is one of the best-acting of our author's plays. We remember seeing it with great pleasure many years ago. It was on the night that King took leave of the stage, when he and Mrs. Jordan played together in the afterpiece of the Wedding day. Nothing could go off with more eclat, with more spirit, and grandeur of effect. Mrs. Siddons played Hermione, and in the last scene acted the painted statue to the life-with true monumental dignity and noble passion; Mr. Kemble, in Leontes, worked himself up into a very fine classical phrenzy ; and Bannister, as Autolycus, roared as loud for pity as a sturdy beggar could do, who felt none of the pain he counterfeited, and was sound of wind and limb. We shall never see these parts so acted again; or if we did, it would be in vain. Actors grow old, or no longer surprise us by their novelty. But true poetry, like nature, is always young ; and we still read the courtship of Florizel and Perdita, as we welcome the return of spring, with the same feelings as ever.

" Florizel. Thou dearest Perdita,
With these fore'd thoughts, I prythee, darken not
The mirth o'the the least : or, I'll be thine, my fair,
Or not my father's : for I cannot be

Mine own, nor any thing to any, if
I be not thine. To this I am most constant,
Tho' destiny say, No. Be merry, gentle ;
Strangle such thoughts as these, with any thing
That you behold the while. Your guests are coming :
Lift up your countenance; as it were the day
Of celebration of that nuptial, which
We two have sworn shall come.

Perdita. O lady fortune,
Stand you auspicious !

ز

Enter Shepherd, Clown, Mopsa, Dorcas, Servants ; with POLIXENES,

Polirenes. Shepherdess,
(A fair one are you) well you it 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' the season
Are our carpations, and streak'd gilly-flowers,
Which some call nature's bastards : of that kind
Our rustick 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, o'er that art
Which, you say, adds to nature, is an art
That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry
A gentler scyon 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 gilly-flowers, And do not call them bastards.

Perdita. l'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, savoury, marjoram;
The marigold, that goes to bed with the sun,
And with him rises, weeping : these are flowers
Of middle summer, and, I think, they are given
To men of middle age. You are very welcome.

Camillo. I should leave grazing, were 1 of your flock, And only live by gazing.

Perdita. Onit, alas ! You'd be so lean, that blasts of January Would blow you through and through. Now, my fairest friends, I would I had some flowers o' the spring, that might Become your time of day; and your's, and your's, That wear upon your virgin branches yet Your maiden-beads growing: Proserpina, For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou let'st fall From Dis's wagon ! daffodils, That come before swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty : violets dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes, Or Cytherea's breath; pale primroses, That die unmarried, ere they can behold Bright Phæbus in his strength (a malady Most incident to maids ;) hold oxlips, and The crown imperial ; lilies of all kinds, The fleur-de-lis being one! O, these I lack To make you garlands of ; and, my sweet friend To strow him o'er and o'er.

Florizel. What, like a corse ?

Perdita. No, like a bank, for love to lie and play on ;
Not like a corse; or if-not to be buried,
But quick, and in mine arms. Come, take your flowers;
Methioks, 1 play as I have seen them do
In Whitsup pastorals : sure this robe of mine
Does change my disposition.

Florizel. What you do,
Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet,
I'd have you do it ever: when you sing,
I'd have you buy and sell so ; so give alms;
Pray so; and for the ordering your affairs,
To sing them too. When you do dance, I wish you
A wave o' the sea, that you might ever do
Nothing but that: move still, still so,
And own no other function. Each your doing,
So singular in each particular,
Crowns what you're doing in the present deeds,
That all your acts are queens.

Perdita. O Doricles,
Your praises are too large; but that your youth
And the true blood, which peeps forth fairly through it,

Do plainly give you out an unstained shepherd ;
With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles,
You woo'd me the false way.

Florizel. I think you have
As little skill to fear, as I have purpose
To put you to't ut come, our dance, I pray :
Your hand, my Perdita : so turtles pair,
That never mean to part.

Perdita. I'll swear for 'em.

Polixenes. This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever
Ran on the green-sward ; nothing she does, or seems,
But smacks of something greater than herself,
Too noble for thie place.

Camillo. He tells her something
That makes her blood look out: good sooth, she is
The queen of curds and cream."

This delicious scene is interrupted by the father of the prince discovering himself to Florizel, and haughtily breaking off the intended match between his son and Perdita. When Polixenes goes out

Perdita says,

" Even here undone :
I was not much afraid ; for once or twice
I was about to speak; and tell him plainly,
The self-same sun that shines upon his court,
Hides not his visage from our cottage, but
Looks on't alike. Wilt please you, sir, begone ?

(To Florizel.
I told you what would come of this. Beseech you,
of your own state take care : this dream of mine,
Being wow awake, I'll queen it po inch farther,
But milk my ewes and weep.”

As Perdita, the supposed shepherdess, turns out to be the daughter of Hermione, and a princess in disguise, both feelings of the pride of birth and the claims of nature, are satisfied by the fortunate event of the story, and the fine romance of poetry is reconciled to the strictest court etiquette.