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. Out upon him! prig, for my life, prig: he haunts wakes, fairs and bear-baitings. Very true, sir; he, sir, he; that's the rogue that put me into this apparel. Not a more cowardly rogue in all Bohemia: if you had but looked big and spit at him, he'ld have run. I must confess to you, sir, I am no fighter: I am false of heart that way; and that he knew, I warrant him. How do you now? 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. Shall I bring thee on the way? No, good-faced sir; no, sweet sir. Then fare thee well: I must go buy spices for our sheep-shearing. Prosper you, sweet sir! 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! Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way, And merrily hent the stile-a: A merry heart goes all the day, Your sad tires in a mile-a. These your unusual weeds to each part of you Do give a life: no shepherdess, but Flora Peering in April's front. This your sheep-shearing Is as a meeting of the petty gods, And you the queen on't. Sir, my gracious lord, To chide at your extremes it not becomes me: O, pardon, that I name them! Your high self, The gracious mark o' the land, you have obscured With a swain's wearing, and me, poor lowly maid, Most goddess-like prank'd up: but that our feasts In every mess have folly and the feeders Digest it with a custom, I should blush To see you so attired, sworn, I think, To show myself a glass. I bless the time When my good falcon made her flight across Thy father's ground. Now Jove afford you cause! To me the difference forges dread; your greatness Hath not been used to fear. Even now I tremble To think your father, by some accident, Should pass this way as you did: O, the Fates! How would he look, to see his work so noble Vilely bound