The day they chose for their expedition was the great feast of the sheep-shearing, when all the shepherds and shepherdesses collected together to make merry. Among the company, in the guise of a shepherd, came Florizel, who was only known to the adopted father of Perdita as Doricles, and whom he imagined to be nothing but a humble swain. The old shepherd had provided a goodly entertainment for his guests, and seeing that Perdita was inclined to be too shy and retiring, he insisted on her taking full direction of everything, reminding her that she was the hostess of the meeting, and that she must bid all these unknown friends welcome. “Come, quench your blushes, and present yourself that which you are, mistress of the feast,” he said. “Come on, and bid us welcome to your sheep-shearing; so your good flock shall prosper.” Thus urged, Perdita made a brave effort to conquer her girlish shyness, and with the prettiest grace possible she went up to the two strangers whom her father had pointed out, and bade them welcome. These strangers were Polixenes and Camillo. Calling to her a shepherdess who was carrying a basket of flowers, Perdita selected some and gave a little posy to each of the strangers. “Reverend sirs, for you there’s rosemary and rue; these keep seeming and savour all the winter long. Grace and remembrance be to you both, and welcome to our shearing.” Polixenes and Camillo were enchanted with the loveliness and modest grace of this lowly-born damsel, who, in spite of her bashfulness, showed that she could answer with wit and intelligence when they began to converse with her. For the King and Camillo, Perdita had chosen the flowers of middle summer--hot lavender, mint, savory, marjoram, the marigold that goes to bed with the sun and with him rises weeping. These are the flowers of middle summer, and these she thought suitable to give to men of middle age. But when a bevy of fair young shepherdesses approached, in all the first sweet bloom of early girlhood, she longed to have some flowers of the spring that would become their time of day. “O Proserpina, for the flowers now, that frighted thou let’st fall from Dis’s waggon!” she cried. “Daffodils, that come before the swallow dares, and take the winds of March with beauty; violets dim, but sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes, or Cytherea’s breath; pale primroses, that die unmarried ere they can behold bright Phœbus in his strength; bold oxlips, and the crown imperial; lilies of all kinds, the flower-de-luce being one. O, these I lack, to make you garlands of!” “This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever ran on green-sward!” cried Polixenes when, a few minutes later, Perdita led off with Florizel the rustic dance of shepherds and shepherdesses. “Nothing she does or seems but smacks of something greater than herself, too noble for this place.” “Good sooth,” agreed Camillo, “she is the Queen of curds and cream.”