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But do not look for further
710 Than thine own gladness that thou art employ'd.
Sil. So holy, and so perfect is my love,
Phe. Think not I love him, though I ask for him ;
did heal it up.
To fall in love with him : but, for my part,
Sil. Phebe, with all my heart.
730 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 Forest. Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and JAQUES.
quainted with thee.
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.
Jaq. I have neither the scholar's melanci/oly, 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 politick; nor the lady's, which is nice; nor the lover's, which is all these : but is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and, indeed, the sundry contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness.
18 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 gain'd my experience.
Ros. And your experience makes you sad: I had rather have a fool to make me merry, than experience to make me sad ; and to travel for it too.
26 Orla. Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind !
Faq. Nay then, God be wi' you, an you talk in blank verse.
[Exit. Ros. Farewel, 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.-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.
Orlá. My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.
39 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 clapt him o' the shoulder, but I warrant him heartwhole.
Orla. Pardon me, dear Rosalind.
Ros. Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight; I had as lief be wou'd of a snail..
Orla. 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.
Orla. 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.
Orla. 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.
Ros. Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a holiday humour, and like enough to consent :
What would you say to me now, an I were your very very Rosalind ?
Orla. I would kiss, before I spoke.
Ros. Nay, you were better speak first; and when you were gravellid 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.
72 Orla. How if the kiss be denied?
Ros. Then she puts you to entreaty, and there be. gins new matter.
Orla. Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress ?
Ros. Marry, that should you, if I were your mis. tress; or I should think my honesty ranker than my wit.
80 Orla. What, of my suit ?
Ros. Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your suit. Am not I your Rosalind ?
Orla. 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. Orla. Then, in mine own person, I die.
88 Ros. No, faith, die by attorney.
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 dash'd out with a Grecian club; yet he did what he could to die before ; and he is one of the patterns of love.