Enter Sir Oliver Mar-text.

Here comes Sir Oliver: Sir Oliver Mar-text, you are well met. Will you dispatch us here under this Tree, or fhall we go with you to your Chappel?

Sir Oli. Is there none here to give the Woman?

Clo. I will not take her on Gift of any Man.

Sir Oli. Truly the must be given, or the Marriage is not lawful.

Jaq. Proceed, proceed! I'll give her.

Clo. Good Even, good M. What ye call't: How do you Sir, you are very well met: Godild you for your laft Company, I am very glad to fee you, even a Toy in Hand here Sir: Nay; pray be covered.

Jag. Will you be married, Motley?

Clo. As the Ox hath his Bow, Sir, the Horse his Curb, and the Falcon 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 Bush 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 Wainfcot, then one of you will prove a shrunk Pannel, and like Timber, warp, warp.

Clo. I am not in the Mind, but I were better to be mar ried of him than of another; for he is not like to marry me well; and not being well married, it will be a good Excuse 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 fantastical Knave of them all fhall flout me out of my Calling,

[Exeunt.

SCENE

SCENE IV.

Enter Rofalind and Celia.

Rof. Never talk to me, I will weep.

Cel. Do I prethee, but yet have the Grace to confider that Tears do not become a Man.

Rof. But have I not Caufe to weep?
Cel. As good Caufe as one would defire,
Therefore weep.

Rof. His very Hair

Is of the 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 Sanctity, As the touch of holy Bread.

Cel. He hath bought a Pair of chafte 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 fo?

Cel. Yes, I think he is not a Pick-purse, nor a Horseftealer; 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 Confirmer of falfe Reckonings; he attends here in the Forest on the Duke your Father.

Rof. I met the Duke Yesterday, and had much question with him: He askt 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.

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 spurs his Horfe but on one Side, breaks his Staff like a noble Goofe; but all's brave that Youth mounts, and Folly guides: Who comes here?

Enter Corin.

Cor. Miftrefs and Master, 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 Shepherdess
That was his Miftrefs.

Cel. Well, and what of him?

Cor. If you will fee a Pageant truly plaid
Between the pale Complection of true Love,
And the red Glow of Scorn and proud Difdain;
Go hence a little and I fhall conduct you,
If you will mark it.

Rof. O come let us remove,

The Sight of Lovers feedeth those in Love:
Bring us to this Sight, and you fhall fay
I'll prove a bufie Actor in their Play.

SCENE V.

Enter Silvius and Phebe.

[Exeunt.

Sil. Sweet Phebe do not fcorn me, do not, Phebe; Say that you love me not, but fay not fo

In bitterness; the common Executioner,

Whose Heart th' accuftom'd Sight of Death makes hard,
Falls not the Ax upon the humbled Neck,
But firft begs Pardon: Will you fterner be
Than he that dies and lives 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.
VOL. II.

N

Now

Now, I do frown on thee with all my Heart,
And if mine Eyes can wound, now let them kill thee :
Now counterfeit to fwound, why now, fall down,
Or if thou can't not, oh for Shame, for Shame,
Lie not, to fay mine Eyes are Murtherers.
Now fhew the Wound mine Eye hath made in thee;
Scratch thee but with a Pin, and there remains
Some Scar 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, is there no fuch force in Eyes
That can do hurt.

Sil. O dear Phebe,

If ever, as that ever may be near,

You met in fome fresh Cheek the Power of Fancy,
Then fhall you know the Wounds invifible

That Love's keen Arrows make.

Phe. But 'till that time

Come thou not near me; and when that time comes,
Affli& 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 all at once

Over the wretched? What though you have no 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 pitiless?
Why what means this? Why do you look on me?
I fee no more in you than in the Ordinary
Of Nature's Sale-work? 'ods my little Life,
I think the means to tangle 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 Shepherd, 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 makes the World full of ill-favour'd Children:

'Tis not her Glafs, but you that flatters her,
And out of you fhe fees her felf more proper
Than any of her Lineaments can show 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 what you can, you are not for all Markets.
Cry the Man Mercy, love him, take his Offer,
Foul is most foul, being foul to be a Scoffer:
So take her to thee, Shepherd, 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 fall'n in love with your Foulness, and she'll Fall in love with my Anger. If it be so, 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,
For I am faller 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, Sifter? Shepherd, ply her hard:
Come Sifter; Shepherdefs, look on him better,
And be not proud; tho' all the World could see,
None could be fo abus'd in Sight as he.

Come to our Flock.

[Exit.

Phe. Deed Shepherd, now I find thy Saw of Might, Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first Sight?

If

Sil. Sweet Phebe.

Phe. Hah: What fayft thou, Silvius?

Sil. Sweet Phebe, pity me.

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

Sil. Where-ever Sorrow is, Relief would be:
you do forrow at my Grief in Love,

By giving Love, your Sorrow and my Grief
Were both extermin'd.

Phe. Thou haft my Love; is not that neighbourly?'
Sil. I would have you.

Phe. Why that were Covetoufnefs.

Silvius, the time was, that I hated thee;

And yet it is not that I bear thee Love;

N 2

But