Perdita […] Reuerend Sirs,
For you, there’s Rosemary, and Rue, these keepe
Seeming, and sauour all the Winter long:
Grace, and Remembrance be to you both,
And welcome to our Shearing

Polixenes Shepherdesse,
(A faire one are you:) well you fit our ages
With flowres of Winter

Perd. Sir, the yeare growing ancient,
Not yet on summers death, nor on the birth
Of trembling winter, the fayrest flowres o’th season
Are our Carnations, and streak’d Gilly-vors,
(Which some call Natures bastards) of that kind
Our rusticke Gardens barren, and I care not
To get slips of them

Pol. Wherefore (gentle Maiden)
Do you neglect them

Perd. For I haue heard it said,
There is an Art, which in their pidenesse shares
With great creating-Nature

Pol. Say there be:
Yet Nature is made better by no meane,
But Nature makes that Meane: so ouer that Art,
(Which you say addes to Nature) is an Art
That Nature makes: you see (sweet Maid) we marry
A gentler Sien, to the wildest Stocke,
And make conceyue a barke of baser kinde
By bud of Nobler race. This is an Art
Which do’s mend Nature: change it rather, but
The Art it selfe, is Nature

Perd. So it is

Pol. Then make you Garden rich in Gilly‘ vors,
And do not call them bastards

william shakespeare, ‚the winter’s tale‘, act IV. scene III (first folio, london, 1623).

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„The Art it selfe, is Nature“ / ‚the winter’s tale‘ von william shakespeare

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