“And the rathe primrose that forsaken dies.”
_Ib._ Perdita’s speech:—
“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 alike. Will’t please you, Sir, be gone!
(_To Florizel._)
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 farther,
But milk my ewes, and weep.”
O how more than exquisite is this whole speech! And that profound nature
of noble pride and grief venting themselves in a momentary peevishness of
resentment toward Florizel:—
... “Will’t please you, Sir, be gone!”
_Ib._ Speech of Autolycus:—
“Let me have no lying; it becomes none but tradesmen, and they
often give us soldiers the lie; but we pay them for it with
stamped coin, not stabbing steel;—therefore they do not _give_ us
the lie.”
As we _pay_ them, they, therefore, do not _give_ it us.
“Othello.”