Thou tell'st me, there is murder in mine eye: That eyes, that are the frail'st and softest things, And, if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee; Now counterfeit to swoon; why now fall down; Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee: Thy palm some moment keeps: but now mine eyes, Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes If ever (as that ever may be near), You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, Then shall 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 shall not pity thee. Ros. And why, I pray you? [Advancing.] Who might be your mother, That you insult, exult, and all at once, Over the wretched? What though you have more beauty (As, by my faith, I see no more in you Than without candle may go dark to bed), Must you be therefore proud and pitiless? Why, what means this? Why do you look on me? I see no more in you, than in the ordinary • Love. Of nature's sale-work:-Od's my little life! But, mistress, know yourself; down on your knees, I had rather hear you chide, than this man woo. Ros. He's fallen in love with her foulness, and she'll fall in love with my anger: If it be so, as fast as she answers thee with frowning looks, I'll 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 of 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 be so abus'd in sight as he. Come, to our flock. [Exeunt Rosalind, Celia, and Corin. Phe. Dead shepherd! now I find thy saw of might; Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight? Sil. Sweet Phebe, Phe. Ha! what say'st thou, Silvius? Sil. Sweet Phebe, pity me. Phe. Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius. Sil. Wherever sorrow is, relief would be; If you do sorrow at my grief in love, By giving love, your sorrow and my grief Phe. Thou hast my love; Is not that neighbourly! Phe. That I shall think it a most plenteous crop That the main harvest reaps: loose now and then 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, 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 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 Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the differ ence Betwixt the constant red, and mingled damask. I love him not, nor hate him not; and yet I have more cause to hate him than to love him: He said, mine eyes were black, and my hair black; I marvel, why I answer'd not again: But that's all one; omittance is no quittance. I'll write it straight; And thou shalt bear it; Wilt thou, Silvius? [Exeunt. ACT IV. 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. Jaq. I have neither the scholar's melancholy, 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 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. 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. 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 your nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are; or I will scarce think you + Undervalue. * Trifling. |