Cel. He hath bought a pair of caft lips of Diana; a nun of winter's fifterhood kiffes not more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in them.

Rof. But why did he fwear he would come this morning, and comes not ?

Cel. Nay, certainly there is no truth in him.
Rof. Do you think so?

Cel. Yes, I think he is not a pick-pure, nor a horfe ftealer; but for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as a cover'd goblet, or a worm-eaten nut.

Rof. Not true in love?

Cel. Yes, when he is in; but I think he is not in.
Rof. You have heard him fwear downright he was.

Cel. Was, is not, is; befides, the oath of a lover is no ftronger than the word of a tapfter; they are both the confirmers of falfe reckonings; he attends here in the foreft on the Duke your father.

Rof. I met the Duke yefterday, and had much question with him he afkt me of what parentage I was; I told him of as good as he; fo he laugh'd, and let me go. But what talk we of fathers when there is fuch a man as Orlando ?

Cel. O, that's a brave man, he writes brave verses, speaks brave words, fwears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely; quite travers athwart the heart of his lover, as a puifny tilter, that fpurs his horfe but on one fide, breaks his staff like a nofe-quill'd goofe; but all's brave that youth mounts and folly guides: who comes here?

Enter Corin.

Cor. Miftrefs and mafter, you have oft enquir'd
After the fhepherd that complain'd of love,
Whom you faw fitting by me on the turf,
Praising the proud disdainful fhepherdess
That was his mistress.

Cel. Well, and what of him?

Cor, If you will fee a pageant truly plaid Between the pale complexion of true love, And the red glow of fcorn and proud difdain; Go hence a little, and I fhall conduct you,

If

you will mark it,

Rof

Rof. O come, let us remove;

The fight of lovers feedeth thofe in love:
Bring us but to this fight, and you shall fay
I'll prove a bufy actor in their play.

[Exeunt.

SCENE XI. Enter Sylvius and Phebe. Syl. Sweet Phebe, do not fcorn me, do not, Phebe Say that you love me not, but fay not fo

In bitterness; the common executioner,

Whofe heart th' accuftom'd fight of death makes hard,

Falls not the ax upon the humbled neck,

But first begs pardon: will you fterner be
Than he that lives and thrives by bloody drops ?
Enter Rofalind, Celia and Corin.

Phe. I would not be thy executioner,
I fly 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 fofteft 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 invifible

That love's keen arrows make.

Phe. But 'till that time

Come not thou near me; and when that time comes,

VOL. III.

E

Afflict

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

Over the wretched? what though you have some 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 tangle mine eyes too:
No, faith, proud miftiefs, 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 shepherd, 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 fhe fees herself more proper
Than any of her lineaments can show her,

But, mistress, know your felf, 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 scoffer:
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. He's fallen in love with her foulnefs, and fhe'll fall in love with my anger. If it be fo, as faft as the answers thee with frowning looks, I'll fauee her with bitter words Why look you fo upon me?

Phe. For no ill-will I bear you.

Ros. I pray you, do not fall in love with me,
By the word foul here is meant frowning, lowring.

For

For I am falfer than vows made in wine;
Befides; I like you not. If you will know my houfe,
'Tis at the tuft of olives, here hard by:
Will you go, fifter? Thepherd, ply her hard:
Come, fifter; fhepherdefs, look on him better,
And be not proud; tho' all the world could see ye
None could be fo abus'd in fight as he.

Come, to our flock.

[Exe. Rof. Cel. and Cors Phe. 'Deed, fhepherd; now I find they faw of might, Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at firft fight?

Syl: Sweet Phebe!

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

Syl. Sweet Phebe, pity me.

Pbe. 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.

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

Pheb. Why, that were covetoufnefs,

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

Phe, Know ft thou the youth that spoke 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 afk for him

Tis but a peevish boy, yet he talks well;

E 2

But

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 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 redness in his lip,
A ltttle riper and more lufty red

Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the difference
Betwixt the constant 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 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, 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.

[Exeunt

Continues in the Foreft.

Enter Rofalind, Celia and Jaques.

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

IP

with thee,

Rof. They fay you are a melancholy fellow.

faq. I am fo; I do love it better than laughing.
Rof. Thofe that are in extremity of either are abomina-

ble