Phe. Dead shepherd! now I find thy saw of

might;

Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight? 1

If

Sil. Sweet Phebe,―

Phe.

Ha! What say'st thou,.Silvius!

Sil. Sweet Phebe, pity me.

Phe. Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.
Sil. Wherever sorrow is, relief would be;

you do sorrow at my grief in love,

By giving love, your sorrow and my grief

Were both extermined.

Phe. Thou hast my love; is not that neighborly?
Sil. I would have you.

Phe.
Silvius, the time was, that I hated thee;

Why, that were covetousness.

And yet it is not, that I bear thee love;

But since that thou canst talk of love so well,
Thy company, which erst was irksome to me,
I will endure; and I'll employ thee too.
But do not look for further recompense,
Than thine own gladness that thou art employed.
Sil. So holy, and so perfect is my love,
And I in such a poverty of grace,

That I shall think it a most plenteous crop
To glean the broken ears after the man

That the main harvest reaps. Loose now and then
A scattered smile, and that I'll live upon.

Phe. Know'st thou the youth that spoke 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 2 once was master of.

Phe. Think not I love him, though I ask for him. 'Tis but a peevish3 boy ;—yet he talks well ;But what care 1 for words? Yet words do well,

This line is from Marlowe's beautiful poem of Hero and Leander, left unfinished at his death in 1592, and first published in 1598, when it Decame very popular.

2 Carlot. This is printed in Italics as a proper name in the old edition. It is, however, apparently formed from carle, a peasant.

3 i. e. weak, silly.

When he that speaks them pleases those that hear.
It is a pretty youth;-not very pretty;-

But, sure, 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 so so; and yet 'tis well:
There was a pretty redness in his lip;

A little riper and more lusty red

Than that mixed in his cheek; 'twas just the difference
Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask.
There be some women, Silvius, had they marked 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 said, mine eyes were black, and my hair black;
And, now I am remembered, scorned at me.

I marvel why I answered 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.
Sil. Phebe, with all

Wilt thou, Silvius?

my heart.

I'll write it straight;

[Exeunt.

Phe.
The matter's in my head, and in my heart;
I will be bitter with him, and passing short.
Go with me, Silvius.

ACT IV

SCENE I. The same.

Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and JAques.

Jaq. I pr'ythee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee.

Ros. They say, you are a melancholy fellow.

Jaq. I am so; I do love it better than laughing. Ros. Those that are in extremity of either, are abominable fellows; and betray themselves to every modern' censure, worse than drunkards.

Jaq. Why, 'tis good to be sad and say 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 soldier's, which is ambitious; nor the lawyer's, which is politic; 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 simples, extracted from many objects; and, indeed, the sundry contemplation of my travels; which, by often rumination, wraps me in a most humorous sadness.3

Ros. A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to be sad; I fear you have sold your own lands, to see other men's; then, to have seen much, and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands. Jaq. Yes, I have gained my experience.

Enter ORLANDO.

Ros. And your experience makes you sad. I had

1 i. e. common, trifling.

2 Nice here means tender, delicate, and not silly, trifling, as Steevens supposed.

3 The old copy reads and points thus:-"and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, in which by often rumination, wraps me in a most humorous sadness." The emendation is Malone's.

rather have a fool to make me merry, than experience to make me sad; and to travel for it too.

Orl. Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind! Jaq. Nay then, God be wi' you, an you talk in blank verse.

[Exit. Ros. Farewell, monsieur traveller. Look, you lisp, and wear strange suits; disable 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 scarce think you have swam in a gondola.2 -Why, how now, Orlando! Where have you been all this while? You a lover?-An you serve me such another trick, never come in my sight more. Orl. My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my_promise.

Ros. Break an hour's promise in love? He that will divide a minute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of the thousandth part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of him, that Cupid hath clapped him o' the shoulder, but I warrant him heart-whole.

Orl. Pardon me, dear Rosalind.

Ros. Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight; I had as lief be wooed of a snail.

Orl. Of a snail?

Ros. Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly, he carries his house on his head; a better jointure, I think, than you can make a woman. Besides, he brings his destiny with him.

Orl. What's that?

Ros. Why, horns; which such as you are fain to be beholden to your wives for: but he comes armed in his fortune, and prevents the slander of his wife.

Orl. Virtue is no horn-maker; and my Rosalind is

virtuous.

Ros. And I am your Rosalind.

Cel. It pleases him to call you so; but he hath a Rosalind of a better leer than you.

3

1 i. e. undervalue. 2 i. e. been at Venice. 3 i. e. complexion, color

Ros. Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a holiday humor, and like enough to consent. What would you say to me now, an I were your very, very Rosalind? Orl. I would kiss, before I spoke.

Ros. Nay, you were better speak first; and when you were gravelled for lack of matter, you might take occasion to kiss. Very good orators, when they are out, they will spit; and for lovers lacking (God warn us!) matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss.

Orl. How if the kiss be denied?

Ros. Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter.

Orl. Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress?

my

wit..

Ros. Marry, that should you, if I were your mistress; or I should think my honesty ranker than Orl. What, of my suit?

Ros. Not out of your apparel, and yet out of suit. Am not I your Rosalind?

your

Orl. I take some joy to say you are, because I would be talking of her.

Ros. Well, in her person, I say-I will not have you. Orl. Then, in mine own person, I die.

Ros. No, faith, die by attorney. The poor world is almost six thousand years old, and in all this time there was not any man died in his own person, videlicet, in a love-cause. Troilus had his brains dashed out with a Grecian club; yet he did what he could to die before; and he is one of the patterns of love. Leander, he would have lived many a fair year, though Hero had turned nun, if it had not been for a hot midsummer night; for, good youth, he went but forth to wash him in the Hellespont, and, being taken with the cramp, was drowned; and the foolish chroniclers' of that age found it was-Hero of Sestos. But these are all lies; men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.

1 "The foolish chroniclers." Sir Thomas Hanmer reads coroners; and it must be confessed the context seems to warrant the innovation.