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Sir? you are very well met: God'ild you for your laft company! I am very glad to see you; even a toy in hand here, Sir: nay; pray be covered.

Jaq. Will you be married, Motley?

Clo. As the ox hath his bow, Sir, the horse his curb, and the faulcon his bells, fo man hath his defire; and as pigeons bill, fo wedlock would be nibling.

faq. And will you, being a man of your breeding, be married under a bufh like a beggar? get you to church, and have a good prieft that can tell you what marriage is; this fellow will but join you together as they join wainscot; then one of you will prove a fhrunk pannel, and, like green timber, warp, warp.

Clo. I am not in the mind, but I were better to be married of him than of another; for he is not like to marry me well; and not being well married, it will be a good excufe for me hereafter to leave my wife.

Jaq. Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee.

Clo. Come, fweet Audrey, we must be married, or we muft live in bawdry: farewel, good Mr. Oliver; not O fweet Oliver, O brave Oliver, leave me not behind thee but wind away, be gone, I fay, I will not to wedding with thee.

Sir Oli. 'Tis no matter; ne'er a fantaftical knave of them all fhall flout me out of my calling.

[Exeunt. SCENE X. Enter Rofalind and Celia.

Rof. Never talk to me, I will weep.

Celia. Do, I pr'ythee; but yet have the grace to confider that tears do not become a man,

Rof. But have I not cause to weep?

Cel. As good caufe as one would defire, therefore weep. Rof. His very hair is of a diffembling colour.

Cel. Something browner than Judas's: marry his kiffes are Judas's own children,

Rof. I'faith his hair is of a good colour,

Cel. An excellent colour: your chefnut was ever the only colour.

Rof. And his kiffing is as full of fanctity as the touch of holy beard,*

Meaning the kifs of charity from Hermits and holy men.

Cel

Cel. He hath bought a pair of caft lips of Diana; a num of winter's fifterhood kiffes not more religioufly; 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 fo?

Cel. Yes, I think he is not a pick-purse, nor a horfefealer; 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 falle 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 verfes, fpeaks 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 ftaff like 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 shepherd that complain'd of love,
Whom you faw fitting by me on the turf,
Praifing the proud difdainful 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 disdain. nj Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you, If you will mark it,

Ref.

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 say 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 firft 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 shall 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,

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Afflia

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 fome 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 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 foolifh fhepherd, wherefore do you follow her
Like foggy fouth 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 her felf more proper
Than any of her lineaments can fhow her.
But, miftrefs, 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 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. He's fallen in love with her foulnefs, and fhe'll fall in love with my anger. If it be fo, as fast as the 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,

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 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,
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.

[Ex. 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 !

Pbe. Hah: what fay't thou, Sylvius ?

Syl. Sweet Phebe, pity me.

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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.

Pheb. Why, that were covetousness.
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 scattered 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 master of.

Phe. Think not I love him, tho' I ask for him:
'Tis but a peevish boy, yet he talks well,
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