When daffodils begin to peer, With heigh! the doxy over the dale, Why, then comes in the sweet o’ the year; For the red blood reigns in the winter’s pale. The white sheet bleaching on the hedge, With heigh! the sweet birds, O, how they sing! Doth set my pugging tooth on edge; For a quart of ale is a dish for a king. The lark, that tirra-lyra chants, With heigh! with heigh! the thrush and the jay, Are summer songs for me and my aunts, While we lie tumbling in the hay. I have served Prince Florizel and in my time wore three-pile; but now I am out of service: But shall I go mourn for that, my dear? The pale moon shines by night: And when I wander here and there, I then do most go right. If tinkers may have leave to live, And bear the sow-skin budget, Then my account I well may, give, And in the stocks avouch it. My traffic is sheets; when the kite builds, look to lesser linen. My father named me Autolycus; who being, as I am, littered under Mercury, was likewise a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles. With die and drab I purchased this caparison, and my revenue is the silly cheat. Gallows and knock are too powerful on the highway: beating and hanging are terrors to me: for the life to come, I sleep out the thought of it. A prize! a prize!
When daffodils start to appear, With hooray! the girl across the valley, That’s when the best part of the year comes in; Because the red blood takes over the winter’s pale. The white sheet drying on the fence, With hooray! the sweet birds, oh, how they sing! Makes my little tooth ache; Because a quart of beer is fit for a king. The lark, that sings its sweet song, With hooray! with hooray! the thrush and the jay, Are summer songs for me and my aunts, While we lie tumbling in the hay. I’ve served Prince Florizel, and in my time wore fine clothes; but now I’m out of work: But should I cry over that, my dear? The pale moon shines at night: And when I wander here and there, I always seem to find my way. If tinkers can be allowed to live, And carry their bundles, Then I might as well give my account, And be locked in the stocks for it. My trade is sheets; when the kite builds its nest, look for smaller linens. My father named me Autolycus; who being, as I am, born under Mercury, was also someone who picked up things that others didn’t care about. With dice and women, I bought this outfit, and my income is the silly trick. The gallows and being knocked around are too strong on the highway: being beaten and hanged scare me: as for the life after this one, I don’t think about it. A prize! A prize!
Autolycus · Act 4, Scene 3
Autolycus enters singing about spring and freedom, a rogue who lives by his wits and appetite outside the law. The song matters because it is the voice of the play's underworld—a character who survives by trickery and has no allegiance to order or morality. He represents a kind of liberty that exists entirely separate from the court's tragedy, and his arrival marks the play's turn from winter toward something lighter.
