Perdita Monologue from The Winter's Tale

From The Winter's Tale by William Shakespeare

female · contemplative · 1:27 min

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’ th’ land, you have obscur’d 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 attir’d; swoon, I think, To show myself a glass. (FLORIZEL: 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 us’d 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 up? What would he say? Or how Should I, in these my borrow’d flaunts, behold The sternness of his presence?

Rehearse Perdita's monologue

Run it out loud with a spotlight that follows your voice, line by line, until it's off the page. Free to start, no credit card.

Rehearse free Get started free