The Winter’s Tale

When daffodils begin to sprout, with the poor wench over the hills, why then it’s the sweetest part of the year as red blood reigns in flesh made pale by winter. The white sheet airing out on the hedge, and oh, the sweet birds singing, makes my thieving fingers itch, and a quart of beer is a drink for a king! The lark chants “tirra-lyra,” and the thrush and the jay sing, while my mistress and I tumble about in the hay. I have served Prince Florizel and worn three-piled velvet, but now I’m unemployed. But should I mourn for that, my dear? The pale moon shines at night, and in wandering here and there, I take the right course through life. If menders of metal pots have the right to live and bear the burden of their tool bag, then I can tell my own story and in the stocks. I deal in sheets, and when the thieving bird builds his nest, he takes up poorer linen. My father named me Autolycus. Like me he was born under Mercury, and like me he would steal those little things left unsecured. By gambling and pimping I bought this outfit, and my income is from little deceptions. Being a highwayman might get me hanged or beat, which are terrors to me, and as for the afterlife, I try not to think about it. Oh, look—a prize!

Let’s see. Every eleven sheep gives about twenty-eight pounds of wool. Every twenty-eight pounds of wool earns a pound and some shillings. If we’ve shorn fifteen hundred sheep, how much does that come to?

(aside) If the trap holds, the bird is mine.

I can’t do it without something to add it up. Let’s see, what do I need to buy for our sheep-shearing feast? Three pounds of sugar, five pounds of currants, rice. What does my sister need rice for? But my father has put her in charge of the feast, and she is doing a good job with it. She’s made twenty-four small bouquets for the shearers, who can all sing three-part songs, and very well. But they are mostly tenors and basses, and one is so saintly he sings psalms for dances. I have to get saffron to color the pear pies. Do I need mace and dates? No, that’s not on my list. Seven nutmegs, some ginger root—though I might be able to get that for free—and four pounds each of prunes and raisins.

Oh, that I was ever born!

What in the world—

Oh, help me! Take off these rags, and then I can die!

Alas, poor soul! You need more rags to cover you, not to take your rags off.

Oh, sir, their awfulness offends me more than the blows I received, which were numerous and painful.

Alas, poor man! To have suffered a million blows is a serious problem.

I’ve been robbed, sir, and beaten, my money and clothes taken from me, and these horrible rags put on me instead.

What, by a man on horse or on foot?

A man on foot, sweet sir, on foot.

Indeed, he should be a man on foot, judging by those clothes. If it were the coat of a man on a horse, it has seen some terrible service. Give me your hand, and I’ll help you. Here, give me your hand.

Oh, good sir, be gentle!

Alas, poor soul!

Oh, good sir, carefully! I’m afraid my shoulder might be dislocated.

What else? Can you stand?

(picking the Yokel’s pocket) Careful, dear sir, careful. You have done me a charitable deed.

Do you need money? I have a little I can give you.

No, good kind sir, I beg you. I have a relative less than a mile from here whom I was going to visit. He can give me money or whatever I need. Please, don’t offer me money. That kills me.

What did the fellow who robbed you look like?

A fellow, sir, that I have known to go about with prostitutes. I know he was once a servant of the prince. I’m not sure, good sir, for which of his virtues it was, but he certainly got whipped out of court.

Vices, you mean, since virtues aren’t whipped out of court. They cherish virtues there, and yet they won’t stay there long.

I would say vices, sir. I know this man well. Since he left he has been a performer with a monkey, then a summons server, a bailiff, and then he came up with a puppet show about the Prodigal Son, and then he married a pot-mender’s wife within a mile of my property. Having entered and abandoned all these disreputable professions, he finally settled on being a rogue. Some call him Autolycus.

A curse on him! A crook, upon my life, a crook. He lingers about funerals, fairs, and bear-baitings.

Very true, sir, that’s him, the rogue that put me in these clothes.

There’s no more cowardly rogue in all of Bohemia. If you had looked large and had spit at him, he would have run.

I have to confess to you, sir, I’m not a fighter. I’m too faint at heart, and I’m sure he knew it.

How are you now?

Kind sir, much better now than before. I can stand on my own and walk. I’ll even say goodbye to you, and make my way carefully to my relative’s home.

Shall I help you there?

No, pretty sir. No, kind sir.

Then best of luck to you. I have to go buy spices for our sheep-shearing.

May you prosper, sweet sir!

Your purse is not full enough to purchase your spices. I’ll join you at your sheep-shearing, too. If I don’t make this deception lead to another and prove the shearers as stupid as sheep, let me be removed from the list of thieves and my name become known for virtue!

Jog on, jog on, along the foot-path, and merrily grasp the gate. A merry heart can go all day, a sad heart tires after just a mile.