“Pray, good shepherd, what fair swain is this who dances with your daughter?” asked Polixenes of their aged host. The shepherd replied that he was called Doricles, and boasted that he was well off; he had it only on the young man’s own report, but he believed it, for he looked like truth. “He says he loves my daughter; I think so too. And, to be plain, I think there is not half a kiss to choose which loves the other best.” “She dances featly,” said the King. “So she does everything, though I report it who should be silent. If young Doricles do light upon her, she shall bring him that which he dreams not of.” But in spite of the King’s admiration for Perdita, he had no mind that the heir to the throne of Bohemia should wed the daughter of a lowly shepherd. As the feast went on and became merrier and more uproarious, Florizel could no longer restrain his affection; and calling the two strangers as witness, he begged that the contract of marriage between himself and Perdita should be there and then concluded. The aged shepherd was quite willing to join their hands, but Polixenes bade the young man pause. Had he no father, he asked, and did he know of this? “He neither does nor shall,” replied Florizel. “Methinks a father is, at the nuptial of his son, a guest that best becomes the table,” said Polixenes. Was the father incapable, stupid with age or illness, crazy, childish? “No,” answered Florizel to all this; but he nevertheless persisted in refusing to let him know what was taking place. Then Polixenes threw off his disguise and revealed himself as the King. All was now consternation. He terrified the shepherd by saying he would probably be hanged for letting his daughter entrap the young Prince; he commanded Florizel to part instantly from Perdita, and follow him to the Court; and he threatened the maiden with cruel death if ever she dared henceforth to encourage his son by the slightest word or caress. The old shepherd was in despair at the King’s displeasure, for it meant ruin to them all, and perhaps a shameful death for himself. Perdita prepared with a breaking heart to give up her lover. She had often warned him what would come of this; she was no fitting mate for a Prince. Her dream of happiness was over. “Being now awake, I’ll queen it no inch further, but milk my ewes and weep,” she murmured sorrowfully. But Florizel had no intention of giving up the bride to whom he had plighted his troth. Not for Bohemia, nor for all the pomp that the sun saw, or the earth held, or the sea hid, would he break his oath to his beloved.