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

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

That thou infult, exult, and all at once

Over the wretched? what though you have beauty,

(As, by my faith, I fee no more in you

Than without candle may go dark to bed)

Muft you be therefore proud and pitilefs?
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:
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 spirits to your worship.
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 glafs, but you, that flatter her;
And out of you the fees herself more proper;
Than any of her lineaments can show her.
But, mistress, 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 moft 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.

Ros. [afide.] He's fallen in love with her foulness, and 'fhe'll fall in love with my anger. If it be so, as fast as she anfwers thee, with frowning looks, I'll fauce her with bitter words. Why look you so upon me?

PHE. For no ill will I bear you.

Ros. 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, fifter?-Shepherd, ply her hard-
Come, fifter-shepherdefs, look on him better,

And be not proud. Though all the world could fee,
None could be so abus'd in fight as he.

Come, to our flock.

[Exeunt Rof. Cel. and Corin.

PHE. Dead shepherd, now I find thy faw of might;

Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight?

SIL. Sweet Phebe !

PHE. Hah: what fay'ft thou, Silvias!

SIL. Sweet Phebe, pity me.

PHE. Why, I am forry for thee, gentle Silvius.

SIL. Wherever forrow is, relief would be;

If you do forrow at my grief in love,

By giving love, your forrow and

Were both extermin'd.

my grief

PHE. Thou haft my love; is not that neighbourly?

SIL. I would have you.

PHE. Why, that were covetousness.

Silvius, the time was, that I hated thee;

And

yet it is not, that I bear thee love; And fince that thou canst talk of love so well, Thy company, which erft was irksome to me,

I will endure; and I'll employ thee too:
But do not look for further recompence,

Than thine own gladnefs that thou art employ'd.
SIL. So holy and fo 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: lofe now and then

A fcatter'd fmile, and that I'll live upon.

PHE. Know'ftthou the youth, that fpoke to me erewhile? 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,

His leg is but fo fo,

yet for his years he's tall;

and yet 'tis well;

There was a pretty redness in his lip,

A little riper and more lusty red

Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas juft the difference
Betwixt the constant 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 cause to hate him than to love him;
For what had he to do to chide at me?

He faid, mine eyes were black, and my hair black:
And, now I am remembred, fcorn'd at me;
I marvel, why I anfwer'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 short;
Go with me, Silvius.

A C T IV.

[Exeunt.

SCENE I.

Continues in the forest.

Enter Rofalind, Celia, and Jaques.

JAQUES.

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

thee.

Ros. They fay you are a melancholy fellow.

JAQ. I am fo; I do love it better than laughing.

Ros. Thofe, that are in extremity of either, are abominable fellows; and betray themselves to every modern cenfure, worse than drunkards.

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

Ros. Why, then, 'tis good to be a post.

JAQ. I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which is emulation; nor the musician's, which is fantastical; nor the courtier's, which is proud; nor the foldier's, which is ambitious; nor the lawyer's, which is politick; nor the

lady's, which is nice; nor the lover's, which is all these; but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many fimples, extracted from many objects, and, indeed, the fundry contemplation of my travels, on which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness.

Ros. A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to be fad: I fear, you have fold your own lands, to fee other mens; then, to have seen much, and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands.

JAQ Yes, I have gain'd me experience.

SCENE II.

Enter Orlando.

Ros. And your experience makes you fad: I had rather have a fool to make me merry, than experience to make me fad, and to travel for it too.

ORLA. Good day, and happiness, dear Rofalind!

JAQ Nay then-God b'w'y you, an' you talk in blank verse.

SCENE III.

[Exit.

Ros. Farewel, monfieur traveller; look, you lifp and wear ftrange fuits; difable all the benefits of your own country; be out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are; or I will fcarce think, you have fwam in a Gondola.-Why, how now, Orlando, where have you been all this while? You a lover? an' you ferve me fuch another trick, never come in my fight more.

ORLA. My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promife.

Ros. Break an hour's promife in love! he that will divide a minute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of the thoufandth part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be