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But do not look for further

recompence,

710 Than thine own gladness that thou art employ'd.

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 scatter'd smile, and that I'll live upon.
Phe. Know'st thou the youth that spoke to me ere-

while ?
Sil. Not very well, but I have met him oft;
And he hath bought the cottage, and the bounds, 720
That the old carlot once was master of.

Phe. Think not I love him, though I ask for him ;
'Tis but a peevish boy :-yet he talks well ;-
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, 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 tonglie
Did make offence, his eye

did heal it up.

730
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 mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the difference
Betwixt the constant red, and mingled damask.
There be some women, Silvius, had they nark'd hiin
In parcels as I did, would have gone near

Το,

2

To fall in love with him : but, for my part,
I love him not, nor hate him not; and yet

740
I have mo e cause to hate him than to love him:
For what ad he to do to chide at me:
He said, mine eyes were black, and my hair black,
And, now I am remembred, scórn'd at me :
I marvel, why I answer'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, Silvius?

Sil. Phebe, with all my heart.
Phe. I'll write it straight;

730 The matter's in my head, and in my

heart : I will be bitter with him, and passing short : Go with me, Silvius.

[ Éxeunt.

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ACT IV. SCENE I.

The Forest. Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and JAQUES.

Jagues.
I pr’ythe, pretty youth, let me be better ac-

quainted with thee.
Ros. They say, you are a melancholy fellow,
Faq. 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,

Fag.

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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 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.

Enter ORLANDO.

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

H

gondola.

49

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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 :

60

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.

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 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.

Hij

Leander,

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