Monologue

Perdita Monologue from The Winter's Tale

From The Winter's Tale by William Shakespeare

female · contemplative · 40 sec

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.

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