Should be call'd tyrants, butchers, murderers !

Now do I frown on thee with all my heart,

And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee:
Now counterfeit to fwoon; why, now fall down;
Or if thou can'ft not, oh, for fhame, for fhame,
Lye not to fay mine eyes are murderers,

Now fhew the wound mine eyes have made in thee;
Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
Some fear of it; lean but upon a rush,

The cicatrice and capable impressure 3

Thy Palm fome moments keeps: but now mine eyes, Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not;

Nor, I am fure, there is no force in

That can do hurt.

Sil. O dear Phebe,

If ever (as that ever may be near)

eyes

You meet in fome fresh cheek the power of fancy*, Then fhall you know the wounds invifible

That love's keen arrows make.

Phe. But 'till that time,

Come not thou near me; and when that time comes, Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not;

As, 'till that time, I fhall not pity thee.

Rof. And why, I pray you?-Who might be your

mother s

That you infult, exult, and all at once"

Over the wretched? what though you have beauty 7,
(As, by my faith, I fee no more in you
Than without candle may go dark to bed)
Muft you be therefore proud and pitiless?
Why, what means this? why do you look on me?
I fee no more in you than in the ordinary
Of nature's fale-work: odds, my little life!
I think the means to angle mine eyes too :
she
No, 'faith, proud mistress, hope not after it;
'Tis not your inky brows, your black filk hair,
Your bugle eye-balls, nor your cheek of cream,
That can entame my fpirits to your worship 9.
You foolish fhepherd, wherefore do you follow her
Like foggy South, puffing with wind and rain?
You are a thousand times a properer man,
Than fhe a woman. 'Tis fuch fools as you,
That make the world full of ill-favour'd children;
'Tis not her glass, but you, that flatter her;
And out of you fhe fees herself more proper,
Than any of her lineaments can fhow her.
But, miftrefs, know yourself; down on your knees,
And thank heav'n fafting, for a good man's love;
For I must tell you friendly in your ear,

Sell when you can; you are not for all markets.

Cry the man mercy, love him, take his offer:
Foul is most foul, being foul to be a fcoffer':
So take her to thee, fhepherd-fare you well.

Phe. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together; I had rather hear you chide, than this man woo.

Rof. [afide] He's fallen in love with her foulness, and fhe'll fall in love with my anger. If it be fo, as fast as she answers thee with frowning looks, I'll fauce her with bitter words-Why look you fo upon me? Phe. For no ill-will I bear you.

Rof. I pray you, do not fall in love with me; For I am falfer than vows made in wine;

Befides, I like you not, If you will know my house, 'Tis at the tuft of Olives here hard by.

Will you go, Sifter?-Shepherd, ply her hard-
Come, fifter-fhepherdefs, look on him better,
And be not proud. Though all the world could fee3,
None could be fo abus'd in fight as he.

Come, to our flock. [Exeunt Rof. Cel. and Corin,
Phe. Dead fhepherd, now I find thy Saw of might
Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first fight?

Sil. Sweet Phebe!

Phe. Hah! what say'st thou, Silvius !

Sil. Sweet Phebe, pity me.

Phe. Why, I am forry for thee, gentle Silvius.
Sil. Where-ever forrow is, relief would be;

Foul is most foul, being FOUL to be a fcoffer: The only fenfe of this is, An ill-favour'd perfon is moft ill-favoured, when, if he be ill-favoured, he is a coffer. Which is a deal too abfurd to come from Shakespeare; who, without queftion, wrote,

Foul is moft foul, being FOUND to be a fcoffer. i. e. where an ill-favour'd perfon ridicules the defects of others, it makes his own appear exceffive. WARBURTON,

If you do forrow at my grief in love,

By giving love, your Sorrow and my grief
Were both extermin'd.

Phe. Thou haft my love; is not that neighbourly?
Sil. I would have you.

Phe. Why, that were Covetoufnefs.
Silvius, the time was, that I hated thee;
And yet it is not, that I bear thee love;
But fince thou canft talk of love fo well,
Thy company, which erft was irkfome to me,
I will endure; and I'll employ thee too :
But do not look for further recompence,
Than thine own gladness that thou art employ'd,
Sil. So holy and so perfect is my love,
And I in fuch a poverty of grace,

That I fhall think it a moft plenteous crop
To glean the broken ears after the man

That the main harvest reaps: loose now and then
A fcatter'd smile, and that I'll live upon.

Phe. Know'ft thou the youth, that spoke to me ere-
while?

Sil. Not very well, but I have met him oft; And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds, That the old Carlot once was mafter of.

Phe. Think not, I love him, tho' I ask for him;
'Tis but a peevish boy-yet he talks well.
But what care I for words? yet words do well,
When he that speaks them, pleases those that hear:
It is a pretty youth-not very pretty-

But, fure, he's proud; and yet his pride becomes him;
He'll make a proper man; the best thing in him
Is his Complexion; and faster than his tongue
Did make offence, his eye did heal it up:
He is not very tall, yet for his years he's tall;
His leg is but fo, and yet 'tis well;

There was a pretty redness in his lip,
A little riper and more lufty red

Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'was just the difference

Betwixt

Betwixt the conftant red and mingled damask.
There be fome women, Silvius, had they mark'd him
In parcels as I did, would have gone near
To fall in love with him; but, for my part,
I love him not, nor hate him not; and yet

I have more caufe to hate him than to love him ;
For what had he to do to chide at me ;

He said, mine eyes were black, and my hair black:
And, now I am remembred, fcorn'd at me ;

I marvel, why I answer'd not again;
But that's all one; omittance is no quittance.
I'll write to him a very taunting letter,
And thou shalt bear it; wilt thou, Silvius?
Sil. Phebe, with all my heart.
Phe. I'll write it straight;

The matter's in my head, and in my heart,
I will be bitter with him, and paffing fhort:
Go with me, Silvius.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

Continues in the FOREST.

Enter Rofalind, Celia, and Jaques,

JAQUES.

Pr'ythee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee.

Rof. They fay you are a melancholy fellow.

Jaq. I am fo; I do love it better than laughing. Rof. Thofe that are in extremity of either, are abominable fellows; and betray themfelves to every modern cenfure, worse than drunkards.

Jaq. Why, 'tis good to be fad, and fay nothing,

Rof