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<Does It Make Difference>
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“...Reverend, sirs,
“Shepherdess, A fair one are you!
Well you fit our ages With flowers of winter.”
“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 streaked gillyvors,
Which some call nature's bastards.
Of that kind, Our rustic garden's barren, and I care not
To get slips of them.”
“Wherefore, gentle maiden, Do you neglect them?”
“For I have heard it said
There is an art which in their piedness shares
With great creating nature.”
“Say, there be;
Yet nature is made better by no mean,
But nature makes that mean: so, over that art
Which you say adds to the nature,
is an art that nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry
A gentler scion to the wildest stock,
And make conceive a bark of baser kind
By bud of nobler race. This is an art
Which does mend nature – change it rather, but
The art itself is nature.”
(“So it is.”)
“Then make your garden rich in gillyvors,
And do not call them bastards.”
- from The Winter's Tale
(Act 3, Scene 4, 'Shepherds cottage')
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