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Thou tell'st nie, there is murder in mine eye :
O dear Phebe,
But, till that time,
might be your mother,
you be therefore proud and pitiless ?
le. I would not be thy esecutioner; thee, for I would not injure thee,
Of nature's sale-work:-Od's my little life!
Ros. lle's fallen in love with her foulness, and she'll fall in love with my anger: If it be 50, fast as she answers thee with frowning looks, 1'1 sauce her with bitter words.-Why look you so upon me?
Phc. For no ill will I bear you.
Ros. I pray you, do not fall in love with me, For I am falser than vows made in wine: Besides, I like you not: If you will know my house, 'Tis at the tuft ot olives, here hard by: Will you go, sister?-Shepherd, ply her hard: Come, sister:-Shepherdess, look on him better, And be not proud: though all the world could see, None could he so abus'd in sight as he.
[E.xeunt Rosalind, Çelia, and Corin.
Come, to our flock.
Phe. Dead sbepherd! now I find thy saw of might; JVho ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight?
Sil. Sweet Phebe,
Ha! what say'st thou, Silvius
sil, Wberever sorrow is, relief would be;
Phe. Thou last my love; Is not that neighbourly ?
Why, that were covetousness.
Sil. So lioly, 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 liath bought the cottage, and the bounds, That the old carlot* once was master of.
Phe. Think not I love him, though I ask for him; 'Tis but a peevisht boy:- yet he talks well;But what care I for words? yet words do well, When he that speaks then pleases those that hear. It is a pretty youth :- not very pretty :But, sure he's proud; and yet his pride becomes bim:
irt PNP, than thos lica in love with her
Per. For so it will bear you.
Re, do not fall in love wide Laser a rows salade in wine
is, hie reg sot: If you willporg
at the inftar obres, here hard by:you go, saster -Shepherd
, ply her hands
Sister Sepuerdess, look on bis better not proud: though all the world and uit be so abas din sight as he
Errant Rosalied, Celia, and Certi
He'll make a proper man: The best thing in bim Is his complexion; and faster than bis tongue Did make offence, his eye did heal it up. He is not 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 differBetwixt the constant red, and mingled damask, There be some women, Silvius, had they mark'd him In parcels as I did, would have gone near To fall in love with him: but, for my part, I love him not, nor hate him not; and I have more cause to hate him than to love him: For what had he to do to chide at me? He said, mine eyes were black, and
my hair black; And, now I am remember'd, 'scorn'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.
I'll write it straight;
SCENE I. The same,
Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Jaques. Jaq. I pr'ythee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee.
Ros. They say, you are a melancholy fellow.
Jaq. 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.
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 melancholy, which is emulation; nor the niusician'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 it 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, is a most humorous sadness.
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 gained my experience.
Fushat said he to do to chude it!
Istoreyes were black, and
And, now I am respember'd, scom'da I waniti, wty i ansver'd not aguio:
Abebe, with all my heart
the matter's in my head, and in my heart I will be butter with him, and passing sex
wa with toe, Suvius.
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.
Orl. Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind!
Jaq. Nay, then, God be wi' you, an you talk in blank verse.
[Exit. Ros. Farewell, monsieur traveller: Look, you lisp, and wear strange suits; disablet all the benefits of your own country; be out of love with yonr nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are; or I will scarce think you
I prythee, pretty ponti, let me k ***
alrd with thee.
Ines Day, you are a melancholy felon.