BACK-WIN.  I will peep forth, thy kingdom to supplant. 
My father I will quickly freeze to death,
And then sole monarch will I sit, and think,
How I may banish thee as thou dost me.

WIN.  I see my downfall written in his brows. 
Convey him hence to his assigned hell! 
Fathers are given to love their sons too well.

[Exit BACK-WINTER.

WILL SUM.  No, by my troth, nor mothers neither:  I am sure I could never find it.  This Back-winter plays a railing part to no purpose:  my small learning finds no reason for it, except as a back-winter or an after-winter is more raging, tempestuous, and violent than the beginning of winter; so he brings him in stamping and raging as if he were mad, when his father is a jolly, mild, quiet old man, and stands still and does nothing.  The court accepts of your meaning.  You might have written in the margin of your play-book—­“Let there be a few rushes laid[138] in the place where Back-winter shall tumble, for fear of ’raying[139] his clothes:”  or set down, “Enter Back-winter, with his boy bringing a brush after him, to take off the dust, if need require.”  But you will ne’er have any wardrobe-wit while you live:  I pray you, hold the book well;[140] [that] we be not non plus in the latter end of the play.

SUM.  This is the last stroke my tongue’s clock must strike. 
My last will, which I will that you perform. 
My crown I have dispos’d already of. 
Item, I give my wither’d flowers and herbs
Unto dead corses, for to deck them with. 
My shady walks to great men’s servitors,
Who in their masters’ shadows walk secure. 
My pleasant open air and fragrant smells
To Croydon and the grounds abutting round. 
My heat and warmth to toiling labourers,
My long days to bondmen and prisoners,
My short night[s] to young [un]married souls. 
My drought and thirst to drunkards’ quenchless throats: 
My fruits to Autumn, my adopted heir: 
My murmuring springs, musicians of sweet sleep,
To malcontents [who], with their well-tun’d ears,[141]
Channell’d in a sweet falling quatorzain,
Do lull their cares[142] asleep, listening themselves. 
And finally, O words, now cleanse your course
Unto Eliza, that most sacred dame,
Whom none but saints and angels ought to name,
All my fair days remaining I bequeath
To wait upon her, till she be return’d. 
Autumn, I charge thee, when that I am dead,
Be prest[143] and serviceable at her beck,
Present her with thy goodliest ripen’d fruits;
Unclothe no arbours, where she ever sat,
Touch not a tree thou think’st she may pass by. 
And, Winter, with thy writhen, frosty face,
Smooth up thy visage, when thou look’st on her;
Thou never look’st on such bright majesty. 
A charmed circle draw about her court,
Wherein warm days may dance, and no cold come: 
On seas let winds make war, not vex her rest;