Enter Rofalind, Celia and Corin

Phe. I would not be thy executioner,
Ify thee, for I would not injure thee.
Thou tell'ft me there is murther in mine eyes;
'Tis pretty, fure, and very probable,
That eyes that are the frail'ft and foftest things,
Who fhut their coward gates on atomies,
Should be call'd tyrants, butchers, murtherers,
Now I do 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 canst not, oh for fhame, for fhame,
Lie not, to fay mine eyes are murtherers.

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 impreffure

Thy palm fome moment keeps: but now mine eyes,
Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not;
Nor, I am fure, there is no force in eyes

That can do any hurt.`

Syl. O my dear Phebe,

If ever (as that ever may be near)

You meet in fome fresh cheek the power of fancy,
Then fhall you know the wound's invisible

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, That you infult, exult and domineer

6

7

Over the wretched? what though you have fome beauty,
(As, by my faith, I fee no more in you,
Than without candle may go dark to bed,)
Must you be therefore proud and pitiless?

Why,

4 do hurt. 50 dear Phobe, 6 rail, at once have beauty,

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 she means to tangle mine eyes too:
No, faith, proud miftrefs, 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.
You foolish fhepherd, wherefore do you follow her
Like foggy fouth puffing with wind and rain?
You are a thousand times a properer man
Than the 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 the fees her felf more proper
Than any of her lineaments can fhow her.
But, mistress, know your felf, down on your knees,
And thank heav'n, fasting, 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,
a 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.

8

Rof. He's fallen in love with her foulness, and fhe'll fall in love with my anger. If it be fo, as faft 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, fifter? fhepherd, ply her hard :
Come, fifter; fhepherdefs, look on him better,

(a) By the word foul here is meant frowning, lowring.

8 your

And

And be not proud; tho' all the world could fee ye
None could be fo abus'd in fight as he.

Come, to our flock.

[Exe. Rof. Cel. and Cor.

Phe. 'Deed,fhepherd, now I find thy faw of might,

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

Syl. Sweet Phebe !·

Phe. Hah: what fay'ft thou, Sylvius?

Syl. Sweet Phebe, pity me.

Phe. Why, I am forry for thee, gentle Sylvius.

Syl. Where-ever forrow is, relief would be;

If you do forrow at my grief in love,

By giving love your forrow and my grief

Were both extermin'd.

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

Phe. Why, that were covetoufness.

Sylvius, the time was, that I hated thee;

And yet

it is not that I bear thee love;

But fince that thou canft talk of love fo 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 gladness that thou art employ'd.
Syl. So holy and fo perfect is my love,
And fuch a poverty of grace attends it,
That I fhall think it a moft plenteous crop
To glean the broken ears after the man
That the main harveft reaps: loofe now and then

A scatter'd smile, and that I'll live upon.

Phe. Know'st thou the youth that fpoke to me erewhile? Syl. 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 pleafes thofe that hear:
VOL. II.

9 Dead,

Р

It

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 fafter than his tongue
Did make offence, his eye did heal it up:
He is not tall, yet for his years he's tall;
His leg is but fo fo, and yet 'tis well;
There was a pretty rednefs in his lip,

A little riper and more lufty red

Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas juft the difference Betwixt the conftant red and mingled damask.

There be fome women, Sylvius, 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 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, Sylvius?
Syl. 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, Sylvius.

I not very tall,

[Exeunt.

ACT

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 themselves to every modern cenfure, worse than drunkards.

Jaq. Why, 'tis good to be fad, and say nothing.
Rof. Why then 'tis good to be a post.

Jaq. I have neither the fcholar's melancholy, which is emulation; nor the musician's, which is fantaftical; 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, in which my often rumination wraps me in a moft humourous fad nefs.

Rof. 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 feen much, and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands.

Jaq. Yes, I have gain'd experience.