Autolycus speaks in two registers simultaneously: warm, confiding directness to the audience (his real voice) and theatrical performance for whoever he's conning. He's never more honest than when describing his own dishonesty. Watch for how he uses the third person — 'Some call him Autolycus' — to describe himself with a kind of delighted detachment, as if his own roguery is a comedy he's watching. His energy is spring energy: the play has thawed.
_When daffodils begin to peer,
With, hey! 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, hey! 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-lirra chants,
With, hey! with, hey! 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, I as 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 spring daffodils start to bloom, With, hey! the woman of easy virtue over the valley, Why, then comes the lovely season of the year, For the red blood thrives when winter is pale. The white sheet bleaching on the hedge, With, hey! the sweet birds, O, how they sing! Does set my mouth watering for food; For a quart of ale is a feast for a king. The lark, that sings its cheerful song, With, hey! with, hey! the thrush and the jay, Are summer songs for me and my friends, While we lie tumbling in the hay. I have served Prince Florizel, and in my time wore expensive clothing, 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 carry the pack, Then my account I well may give And in the stocks confirm it. My business is stealing sheets; when the hawk builds, watch out for smaller linen. My father named me Autolycus; who, being as I am, born under Mercury, was likewise a picker-up of forgotten trifles. With gambling and rough cloth I purchased this outfit, and my income is from simple fraud. Prison and execution are too powerful on the highway. Beating and hanging are terrors to me. For the life to come, I sleep without thinking of it. A prize! a prize!
When the daffodils start popping up in spring—you know, hey, that's when the women come out to play in the meadows—that's when life gets good again. The sun's warm, the blood's flowing, winter's just a gray memory. You see the white sheets drying on the hedges, and with all those birds singing, hey, it's beautiful. But honestly, it just makes my stomach growl for food—a beer is worth more than a king's dinner to me. The lark's out there singing its little song, the thrush and the jay too, and we'd be rolling around in the hay all summer to those sounds. I used to work for Prince Florizel in nice clothes, but those days are done. Should I sit around feeling sorry for myself? No way. The moon lights my way at night, and when I'm out wandering around, I do just fine. Look, if travelers can make a living carrying packs, then I can make mine too—I can prove it even from the stocks if I have to. My job is stealing sheets—when the hawks are nesting, keep an eye on the smaller linens. My father named me Autolycus, and I was born under Mercury just like him, so I was always picking up whatever little things people left lying around. I got my fancy clothes from gambling and old rags, and my money comes from simple scams. The law and execution scare me though. I don't want to think about what happens after death. There's money to be made! There's money to be made!
daffodils = spring = life hey, feel that warmth, blood's flowing sheets drying, birds singing, stomach rumbling a beer's better than a feast used to work for a prince not anymore moon lights the way sheets are my business i'm a thief born under mercury gambling paid for these rags no thanks on hanging though money to be made
Let me see: every ’leven wether tods; every tod yields pound and odd
shilling; fifteen hundred shorn, what comes the wool to?
Let me see: every eleven wethers produces tods of wool; every tod yields a pound and an odd shilling; fifteen hundred shorn, what comes the wool to?
Okay, let me work this out. So for every eleven male sheep, we get one bundle of wool. Each bundle brings in a pound and maybe a shilling extra. We've sheared fifteen hundred sheep—so how much wool money is that altogether?
eleven sheep = 1 bundle 1 bundle = 1 pound ish 1500 sheep sheared how much $?
[_Aside._] If the springe hold, the cock’s mine.
If the trap holds, the victim is mine.
If this trap works, I've got them.
trap works = got em
I cannot do’t without counters. Let me see; what am I to buy for our
sheep-shearing feast? “Three pound of sugar, five pound of currants,
rice”—what will this sister of mine do with rice? But my father hath
made her mistress of the feast, and she lays it on. She hath made me
four-and-twenty nosegays for the shearers, three-man song-men all, and
very good ones; but they are most of them means and basses, but one
puritan amongst them, and he sings psalms to hornpipes. I must have
saffron to colour the warden pies; “mace; dates”, none, that’s out of
my note; “nutmegs, seven; a race or two of ginger”, but that I may beg;
“four pound of prunes, and as many of raisins o’ th’ sun.”
I cannot do it without counting stones. Let me see; what am I to buy for our sheep-shearing feast? "Three pounds of sugar, five pounds of currants, rice"—what will this sister of mine do with rice? But my father has made her mistress of the feast, and she spends lavishly. She has made me twenty-four bouquets for the shearers, three-part singers all, and very good ones; but they are most of them middle voices and basses, except one puritan among them, and he sings psalms to dance tunes. I must have saffron to color the warden pies; "mace; dates", none, that's not on my list; "nutmegs, seven; a root or two of ginger", but that I may beg for; "four pounds of prunes, and as many of sun-dried raisins."
I can't do this math in my head—I need to use stones as counters. So what am I buying for the sheep-shearing party? Three pounds of sugar, five pounds of currants, rice—why does my sister need rice? But Dad's put her in charge of the whole feast and she's going all out. She's made me twenty-four flower arrangements for the shearers—they're all three-part singers, and really good ones too. Most of them sing middle and bass parts, except there's this one guy who's super religious and insists on singing psalms to dance music. I need saffron to color the pies; mace and dates—no, dates aren't on my list anyway; seven nutmegs, maybe one or two pieces of ginger if I can get it free; four pounds of prunes and four pounds of sun-dried raisins.
need to count this buying for feast 3lb sugar 5lb currants rice sister's in charge, going wild 24 bouquets for singers mostly good but one psalm guy need saffron, nutmegs, ginger prunes and raisins
[_Grovelling on the ground._] O that ever I was born!
Oh, I wish I had never been born!
I wish I'd never been born!
i wish i was never born
I’ th’ name of me!
In the name of me!
For crying out loud!
omg!
Autolycus is one of the most beloved characters in Shakespeare partly because he comes trailing no tragic consequence. In a play that has just put us through infanticide, a collapsed trial, a death-by-bear, and sixteen years of grief, he walks onstage singing about spring and stealing sheets off hedges — and the play immediately brightens. This is by design. The second half of The Winter's Tale operates in a different emotional key from the first, and Autolycus is the key-change made flesh. He is also remarkably honest: he describes his own crimes directly, names himself at the end of his autobiography, and doesn't pretend to be other than what he is. The paradox is that the most dishonest character in the play is the most transparent with the audience. We are his accomplices — and we consent to it gladly. His name comes from Greek myth: Autolykos was the grandfather of Odysseus, a famous thief who could make stolen goods unrecognizable. Shakespeare's version inherits the mythological genealogy but drops the gravity; his Autolycus is Mercury's child in the most lighthearted sense.
O, help me, help me! Pluck but off these rags; and then, death, death!
Oh, help me, help me! Pull off these rags; and then, death, death!
Oh, help me, help me! Just strip these filthy clothes off me—I'd rather die!
help help get these rags off let me die
Alack, poor soul! thou hast need of more rags to lay on thee, rather
than have these off.
Alas, poor soul! You have more need of additional rags to put on you, rather than have these off.
Poor guy, you've got so many wounds, you need more cloth to cover them, not to take off what you have.
bro u need MORE rags not fewer
O sir, the loathsomeness of them offends me more than the stripes I
have received, which are mighty ones and millions.
Oh sir, the foulness of them offends me more than the beatings I have received, which are mighty ones and numerous.
Oh sir, these rags are so disgusting and filthy that they bother me way more than all the brutal beatings I got, and I've been beaten hard and often.
the filth on these rags worse than the beatings tbh and ive been beaten A LOT
Alas, poor man! a million of beating may come to a great matter.
Alas, poor man! A million beatings could add up to serious injury.
Poor guy, getting beaten a million times would really mess you up.
a million beatings that's a lot of damage
I am robbed, sir, and beaten; my money and apparel ta’en from me, and
these detestable things put upon me.
I am robbed, sir, and beaten; my money and clothes taken from me, and these detestable things put upon me.
I've been robbed and beaten; this guy took my money and my decent clothes and left me wearing these disgusting rags.
got robbed and beaten he took my $ and clothes left me these gross rags
What, by a horseman or a footman?
Did he do this to you while riding a horse, or was he traveling on foot?
Was it a guy on horseback or some guy on foot?
on horse or on foot?
A footman, sweet sir, a footman.
He was on foot, sir—definitely traveling on foot.
A guy on foot, sir, definitely a guy on foot.
on foot, sir
Indeed, he should be a footman by the garments he has left with thee:
if this be a horseman’s coat, it hath seen very hot service. Lend me
thy hand, I’ll help thee: come, lend me thy hand.
Indeed, he should be a footman by the clothes he has left with you: if this is a horseman's coat, it has seen very hard service. Lend me your hand, I will help you: come, lend me your hand.
Yeah, he must have been on foot—look at the rags he left you in! If that's supposed to be a horseman's coat, it's been through hell and back. Come on, give me your hand, I'll help you up.
yeah, on foot for sure this coat is destroyed give me ur hand ill help
The theft in 4-3 is a rare case where Shakespeare's stage direction is embedded in the speech text: Autolycus says 'Softly, dear sir! [Picks his pocket.] good sir, softly.' This was a deliberate choice to make the stage business unmissable — the direction appears mid-line so that actors couldn't miss it. The theatrical mechanics are a lesson in misdirection: Autolycus screams about being in pain (drawing the Clown's attention upward, to his face), complains about the rags (drawing attention to his torso), and then groans about the shoulder (drawing attention right), all while his hands are doing something else entirely. Every complaint is a new distraction. Contemporary audiences at the Globe may well have recognized these techniques — public pickpocketing was a well-known hazard at exactly the kinds of gatherings Autolycus mentions: wakes, fairs, bear-baitings. The scene works because it is accurate.
O, good sir, tenderly, O!
Oh, good sir, gently, oh!
Oh, be careful with me!
ow ow easy
Alas, poor soul!
Alas, poor soul!
Alas, poor soul!
poor soul!
O, good sir, softly, good sir. I fear, sir, my shoulder blade is out.
Oh, good sir, carefully, good sir. I fear, sir, my shoulder blade is out.
Oh, easy, easy. I think my shoulder's dislocated.
careful careful my shoulder's out
How now! canst stand?
How now! Can you stand?
Okay, can you stand up?
can u stand?
Softly, dear sir! [_Picks his pocket._] good sir, softly. You ha’ done
me a charitable office.
Softly, dear sir! Good sir, gently. You have done me a charitable act.
Gently, gently. You've been very kind to me.
thx 4 helping me
Dost lack any money? I have a little money for thee.
Do you lack any money? I have a little money for you.
Do you need any money? I've got some cash for you.
need money? i got some
No, good sweet sir; no, I beseech you, sir: I have a kinsman not past
three-quarters of a mile hence, unto whom I was going. I shall there
have money or anything I want. Offer me no money, I pray you; that
kills my heart.
No, good sweet sir; no, I ask you, sir: I have a relative not more than three-quarters of a mile away, where I was going. I shall there have money or anything I want. Offer me no money, I beg you; that breaks my heart.
No, really, sir, I can't take it. I've got a cousin about three-quarters of a mile from here where I was headed. He'll give me money or whatever I need. Please don't offer me money—it actually hurts that you'd do that.
no no im serious got a cousin nearby he'll hook me up no money pls ur killing me
The Clown's shopping arithmetic might seem like mere padding between Autolycus's entrance and the pickpocketing, but it does something essential: it grounds us in domestic agricultural reality. We hear about the shearers, the food, the festival. We hear that Perdita is running the feast. We hear that there's a Puritan singer who can't help himself dancing. This is Bohemia in summer, and the Clown's obsessive list-making is its texture. He is also a consistent comic type throughout the play — earnest, literal, easily gulled, good-natured. He takes Autolycus's invented robbery at face value, does arithmetic out loud, worries about nutmegs, and gets robbed while helping a stranger. His goodness makes him the perfect victim; his bumbling makes him impossible to resent. Watch for how he develops through the play — by 5-2, he and his father will have been made gentlemen by Leontes, and his attempts to perform the role of gentleman are among the funniest moments in the play.
What manner of fellow was he that robbed you?
What kind of fellow was the one who robbed you?
What was this guy like who robbed you?
what kinda guy did it?
A fellow, sir, that I have known to go about with troll-my-dames. I
knew him once a servant of the prince; I cannot tell, good sir, for
which of his virtues it was, but he was certainly whipped out of the
court.
He's someone I've seen traveling around with that board game, rolling pieces. Years ago I knew him when he worked in the prince's household. I don't know which of his supposedly good qualities got him in trouble, but he definitely got beaten and expelled from court.
Some guy I've seen around playing this game where you roll wooden pieces. I knew him when he was a servant to the prince. I can't say why exactly, but he definitely got whipped and thrown out of the court.
guy who plays that game used to work for the prince got flogged & kicked out
His vices, you would say; there’s no virtue whipped out of the court.
They cherish it to make it stay there; and yet it will no more but
abide.
His vices, you would say; there is no virtue whipped out of the court. They protect it to make it stay there; and yet it will only remain.
You'd say vices, not virtues—they don't kick virtue out of court. They actually protect and keep virtue there; it's just never going to leave anyway.
vices not virtues court keeps virtues anyway virtue doesn't leave
Vices, I would say, sir. I know this man well. He hath been since an
ape-bearer, then a process-server, a bailiff. Then he compassed a
motion of the Prodigal Son, and married a tinker’s wife within a mile
where my land and living lies; and, having flown over many knavish
professions, he settled only in rogue. Some call him Autolycus.
Vices, I would say, sir. I know this man well. He has been since an ape-keeper, then a legal officer, a bailiff. Then he made a puppet show of the Prodigal Son, and married a tinker's wife within a mile where my land and living is; and, having held many criminal professions, he settled only in robbery. Some call him Autolycus.
Yeah, vices. I know this guy well. He's been a circus ape handler, then a process server, then a bailiff. After that he put on a puppet show about the Prodigal Son, and married a traveling tinker's wife who lives about a mile from where my land is. He's had so many shady jobs, but the only one that stuck was robbery. People call him Autolycus.
yeah vices this guy's had every job ape keeper, officer, bailiff puppet shows, tinker stuff but only robbery stuck that's autolycus
Out upon him! prig, for my life, prig: he haunts wakes, fairs, and
bear-baitings.
Out upon him! Thief, for my life, thief: he haunts fairs, festivals, and bear-baitings.
That lowlife! He's a total thief—I'd bet money on it. He hangs out at all the fairs, festivals, and entertainment events.
that guy's a thief 100% hits up every fair and party
Very true, sir; he, sir, he; that’s the rogue that put me into this
apparel.
Very true, sir; he, sir, he; that is the rogue who put me into this clothing.
Yes sir, that's exactly right. That's the guy who beat me up and put these clothes on me.
yep thats him the one who did this to me
Not a more cowardly rogue in all Bohemia. If you had but looked big and
spit at him, he’d have run.
Not a more cowardly rogue in all Bohemia. If you had but looked threatening and spat at him, he would have run.
He's the biggest coward in Bohemia. If you'd just given him a hard look and spit at him, he'd have taken off running.
biggest coward in bohemia one dirty look hed run away
I must confess to you, sir, I am no fighter. I am false of heart that
way; and that he knew, I warrant him.
I must admit to you, sir, I am no fighter. I am weak of heart that way; and that he knew, I am sure.
I've got to be honest, sir—I'm not a fighter. I'm a coward, and he could tell.
im not a fighter im a coward tbh he knew it
When Autolycus describes himself to the Clown in 4-3-026 through 4-3-028, he uses the third person throughout — 'I knew him once a servant of the prince,' 'Some call him Autolycus' — as if narrating a stranger's life. This theatrical device does at least three things simultaneously. First, it lets the audience in on the joke while excluding the Clown — dramatic irony as pure comedy. Second, it lets Autolycus perform a kind of autobiography that is too honest to deliver in the first person: he can brag about his criminal career by pretending to condemn it. Third, it echoes the earlier moment in 4-3-002 when he names himself directly ('My father named me Autolycus') — we already know who he is, so when the name arrives at the end of the third-person description, the recognition is a pleasure rather than a revelation. Shakespeare uses this technique sparingly; its closest relative in the canon is Iago's 'I am not what I am,' but where Iago uses disguise to deceive everyone, Autolycus uses it to delight everyone.
How do you now?
Are you managing to get on your feet?
How are you doing now?
better now?
Sweet sir, much better than I was. I can stand and walk: I will even
take my leave of you and pace softly towards my kinsman’s.
Sweet sir, much better than I was. I can stand and walk: I will now take my leave of you and walk gently toward my cousin's.
Sweet sir, I'm much better. I can stand and walk now. I think I'll get going and head gently toward my cousin's place.
way better can walk now im gonna go 2 my cousin's
Shall I bring thee on the way?
Shall I take you part of the way?
Want me to walk part of the way with you?
want company?
No, good-faced sir; no, sweet sir.
No, I'll be fine on my own.
No, you're kind, but no thanks.
nah im good thx
Then fare thee well. I must go buy spices for our sheep-shearing.
Then goodbye. I must go buy spices for our sheep-shearing.
Alright, take care. I need to go buy spices for the sheep-shearing party.
ok bye need spices 4 feast
Prosper you, sweet sir!
I hope everything goes well for you!
Hope you do well, sir!
good luck!
Your purse is not hot enough to purchase your spice. I’ll be with you
at your sheep-shearing too. If I make not this cheat bring out
another, and the shearers prove sheep, let me be unrolled, and my name
put in the book of virtue!
Your purse doesn't have enough money for those spices. But I'll be at your sheep-shearing too. If I don't manage to turn this con into another, if the sheep shearers don't prove as easy to fool as sheep themselves, then strip me of my rogue status and write my name in the book of the virtuous!
You don't have enough money for those spices. But I'll show up at your sheep-shearing too. And if I can't turn this con into another scam, if those shearers aren't as easy to fool as actual sheep, then I deserve to lose my rogue status and be called an honest man!
your purse isn't rich enough i'll be at the sheep-shearing if i can't con people there then call me virtuous
_Jog on, jog on, the footpath way,
And merrily hent the stile-a:
A merry heart goes all the day,
Your sad tires in a mile-a._
Keep walking, keep walking along the footpath, And cheerfully hop over the stile: A happy heart lasts the whole day, But your sadness fades after just a mile.
Just keep moving down the path, And jump that fence with a smile: A good mood carries you through the whole day, But bad moods? They burn out in a mile.
just keep moving hop the fence with cheer happy mood lasts all day sadness fades in a mile
The Reckoning
After the formal machinery of the Time Chorus, Shakespeare detonates a character who is pure theatrical pleasure: Autolycus, pickpocket, ballad-monger, former royal servant, self-confessed rogue, and the play's engine of comic energy for the next two acts. He enters singing a spring song — which is itself a kind of seasonal announcement — and within two minutes has charmed the audience with his absolute candor about who he is, robbed the Clown blind while helping him to his feet, and set off in pursuit of more victims. There is no villain in him, exactly; just a man who has chosen freedom over respectability and finds the choice bracing. The Clown's oblivious arithmetic — sheep mathematics for the feast — is the perfect foil: earnest, specific, easily gulled.
If this happened today…
A charming con artist in a denim jacket walks onto screen singing to himself. He spots a tourist doing the math on a currency converter app to figure out how much to spend at the market. Within sixty seconds, he's on the ground groaning about being mugged, the tourist is helping him up, and the con artist has the tourist's wallet in his other hand — all while describing the mugger as 'some guy named me' in the third person. He walks off singing the same song, following the tourist toward the festival he just learned about.