But-P Wind away, Begone, I fay, I will not to wedding with thee to-day. Sir Oli. 'Tis no matter; ne'er a fantastical knave of them all fhall flout me out of my calling. A Cottage in the Foreft. Enter Rofalind and Celia. Rof. Never talk to me, I will weep. [Exeunt. Cel. 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 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 fanctity as the touch of 'holy beard. Cel. He hath bought a pair of caft 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. Cel. Yes I think he is not a pick-purfe, 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 swear downright, he was. Cel. Was, is not is: befides, the oath of a lover is no stronger than the word of a tapfter; they are both the confirmers 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 asked 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 such a man as Orlando? Cel. O, that's a brave man! he writes brave verses, fpeaks brave words, fwears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, "quite traverse, athwart the heart of his lover; as a puny tilter, that fpurs his horfe but on one fide, breaks his staff like a noble goose: but all's brave, that youth mounts, and folly guides :-Who comes here? W Enter Corin. Cor. Mistress, and mafter, you have oft enquired Cel. Well, and what of him? Cor. If you will fee a pageant truly play'd, Between the pale complexion of true love 12 t a brave man!]-a fashionable gallant. W quite traverfe,]-it was a difgrace to have a lance broken across. w nofe-quill'd--with a quill ftuck through the nofe. And And the red glow of fcorn and proud difdain, Go hence a little, and I fhall conduct you, Rof. O, come, let us remove; The fight of lovers feedeth those in love :- SCENE V. Another Part of the Foreft. Enter Silvius, and Phebe. [Exeunt. Sil. Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe: Say, that you love me not; but fay not fo In bitterness: The common executioner, Whofe heart the accuftom'd fight of death makes hard, *Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck, But first begs pardon; Will you fterner be 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 murder in mine eye; '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, murderers! And, if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee: * Falls not]-Does not let fall. Y dies and lives]-is all his life converfant with. 2 for]-because. Or, Or, if thou can'st not, oh, for fhame, for shame, Now fhew the wound mine eyes have made in thee: The cicatrice and capable impreffure Thy palm fome moment keeps: but now mine eyes, Nor, I am fure, there is no force in eyes That can do hurt. Sil. O dear Phebe, If ever (as that ever may be near) b You meet in fome fresh cheek the power of fancy, Then fhall you know the wounds invisible That love's keen arrows make. Phe. But, 'till that time, Come not thou near me: and, when that time comes, Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not; As, 'till that time, I fhall not pity thee. с 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? Of nature's fale-work :- Od's, my little life! 2 capable impreffure]-hollow mark, dint. of fancy,]-of pleasing. Who might be your mother,]-What tigrefs nurfed thee? in the ordinary of nature's fale-work :]-common course of nature's productions. Od's,]-God fave. I think, 2 I think, the means to tangle mine eyes too:- 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 she anfwers 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 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 :— 8 Foul is most foul, being foul to be a fcoffer.]-For an ill-favoured perfon to ridicule the defects of others adds deformity to native homelinefs. h foulness, -fhrewishness. |