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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,
beauty (As, by my faith, I see no more in you Than without candle may go dark to hed), 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
fe. I would not be the executioner; ther, for I would not injure thet.
Of nature's sale-work:-Od's my little life!
Ros. He's fallen in love with her foulness, a she'll fall in love with my anger: If fast as she answers thee with frowning looks, sauce her with bitter words.-Why look yo 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 'Tis at the tuft ot olives, here hard by: w you go, sister?-Shepherd, ply her hard: ne, sister:-Shepherdess, look on him better,
be not proud: though all the world could set, None could be so abus'd in sight as he Come, to our flock.
[E.reunt Rosalind, Celia, and Corin.
ith my anger: If it be so, as
Phe. Dead sbepherd ! now I find thy saw of might; Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sighl?
Sil. Sweet Phebe,
Ha! what say'st thou, Silvius
Sil. Wherever sorrow is, relief would be;
Phe. Thou hast my love; Is not that neighbourly?
Why, that were covetousness,
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 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 them pleases those that hear. It is a pretty youth :not very pretty :But, sure he's proud; and yet his pride becomes him:
O ase Dok for Dante
Errant Rosalied, Celia, and listen
He'll make a proper man: The best thing in him
Sil. Phebe, with all my heart.
Jaq. I pr'ythee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee.
Ros. They say, you are a melancholy fellow.
AS TOU LIKE IT.
Brl make a proper 19: 102
De sue fract, bis efe ad beo Brooxta fortas pean lesz Hunedot : and returer
me v pretir redzess is bei A prind sore lusty 7 that
Jag. 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.
Jag. 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, wbich 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.
The Batter's in my head, and w my I will be butter with him, and passway w with me, Suvius.
11 metai 3d, and in mrhart
ed pacing sur
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
Jonti, let me k
They say, you are a melancholy felon.