Monologue

Perdita Monologue from The Winter's Tale

From The Winter's Tale by William Shakespeare

female · contemplative · 25 sec

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 gillyvors, Which some call nature’s bastards: of that kind Our rustic garden’s barren; and I care not To get slips of them.

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