138 THE MARCH OF THE SEASONS 



GILLYFLOWERS 



(From "The Winter's Tale") 



Perdita. Sir, the year growing ancient, 



Not yet on summer's death, nor on the birth 

 Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o' th' 



season 



Are our carnations, and streak'd gillyflowers, 

 Which some call nature's bastards : of that kind 

 Our rustic garden's barren ; and I care not 

 To get slips of them. 



Polixenes. Wherefore, gentle maiden, 



Do you neglect them ? 



Per. For I have heard it said, 



There is an art which in their piedness shares 

 With great creating nature. 



Pol. 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 scion 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. 



Per. So it is. 



Pol. Then make your garden rich in gillyflowers, 

 And do not call them bastards. 



Per. I'll not put 



The dibble in earth to set one slip of them. 



