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'Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair,
Your bugle eye-balls, nor your cheek of cream,
That can entame my spirits to your worship.
You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her
Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain ?
You are a thousand times a properer man,
Than she a woman.

'Tis such fools as you,
That make the world full of ill-favour'd children;
'Tis not her glass, but you, that flatter her;
And out of you she sees herself more proper,
Than any of her lineaments can show her.
But, Mistress, know yourself; down on your knees,
And thank Heav'n, fasting, for a good man's love;
For I must tell you friendly in your ear,
Sell when you can, you are not for all markets,
Cry the man mercy, love him, take his offer ;
Foul * is most foul, being found to be a scoffer :
So take her to thee, shepherd; fare you well,

Phe. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together; I had rather hear you chide, than this man woo.

Rof. He's fallen in love with your foulness, and she'll fall in love with my anger.

-If it be so, as fast as The answers thee, with frowning looks, I'll sauce her with bitter words.

Why look



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;
Besides, I like you not.


will know my house, 'Tis at the tuft of olives, here hard by. Will you go, fifter ? shepherd, ply her hard; Come, fister; shepherdess, look on him better, And be not proud ; tho' all the world could fee, None could be fó abus’d in fight as he. Come, to our flock. [Exeunt Rof. Cel. and Corin.

Phe. Deed shepherd, now I find thy saw of might; Who ever lov'd that lov?d not at first sight?

Syl. Sweet Phebe !
Phe. Hah: what say'st thou, Sylvius ?
Syl. Sweet Phebe, pity me.
Phe. Why I am sorry for thee, gentle Sylvius.
Syl. Where-ever forrow is, relief would be;
* By the word foul here is meant ill-favoured.

If you do forrow at my grief in love,
By giving love, your forrow and my grief
Were both extermin’d.

Phe. Thou hast my love; is not that neighbourly?
Syl. I would have you.

Phe. Why, that were covetousness.
Sylvius, the time was that I hated thee ;
And yet it is not that I bear thee love ;
But since that thou canst talk of love so well,
Thy company, which erst was irksome to me,
I will endure; and I'll employ thee too :
But do not look for further recompence,
Than thine own gladness that thou art employ’d.

Syl. 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 cars 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

Syl. Not very well, but I have met him oft; [while ? And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds That the old Carlot once was master of. Phe. Think not I love him, tho' 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

* hiin. He'll make a proper man; the best thing in him • Is his complexion; and faster than his tongue 5. Did make offence, his eye did heal it up : “ He is not very tall, yet for his years he's tall; “ His leg is but so so, and yet 'tis well; 56 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 dif

« ference “ Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask. “ There be some women, Sylvius, had they mark'd " In parcels as I did, would have gone near

[bim VOL. II.


" To fall in love with him ; but, for my part, • I love him not, nor hate him not; and yet “ 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 remembred, 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, Sylvius?

Syl. Phebe, with all my heart.

Pbe. I'll write it straight;
The matter's in my head, and in my heart,
I will be bitter with him, and passing short.
Go with me, Sylvius.



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SC E N E 1.
Continues in the forest.

Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Jaques.

Pr’ythee, pretty youth, let me be better ac

quainted with thee. Rof. They say you are a melancholy fellow. Jaq. I am so; I do love it better than laughing.

Roj. 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 fad, and say nothing. Rof. Why then, 'tis good to be a post.

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 politic ; nor the lady's, which is nice ; nor the lover's, which is all these : but it is a melancholy of mine own, comFounded of many fimples, extracted from many objects, and, indeed, the foudry contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a m it 1:1morous fadness. Rof. A travciler ! by my faith, you

reason to be fad; I 'fear you have fold your own lands to see

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have great

other mens; then, to have seen much, and to have nothing, is to have rich



hands. Faq. Yes, I have gain'd me experience.

Enter Orlando. Rof. And your experience makes you sad: I had rather have a fool to make me merry, than experience to make me fad, and to travel for it too.

Orla. Good day and happiness, dear Rosalind!

Jaq. Nay, then God b'w'y you, an you talk in blank verse.

[Exit. S CE N E II. Rof. Farewel, Monsieur Traveller; look you lisp, « and wear strange fuits ; disable all the benefits of

your own country ; be out of love with your nativity, • and almost chide God for making you that counte

nance you are ; or I will scarce think you have swam “ in a gondola. Why, how now, Orlando, where «s have you been all this while ? You a lover, an you “ serve me such another trick, never come in my light

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a part

Orla. My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.

Ros. “ Break an hour's promise in love ! he that will is divide a minute into a thousand parts, and break but

of the thousandth part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of him, that Cupid hath

clapt him o' th’ shoulder, but I'll warrant him heart66 whole.

Orla. Pardon me, dear Rosalind.

Rof. Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight: I had as lief bé woo'd of a snail.

Orla. Of a snail ?

Rof.“ Ay, of a snail; for though he comes flowly, - he carries his house on his head : a better jointure, I “ 'think, than you make a woman. Besides, he brings “ his destiny with him.

Orla. What's that ?

Rof. 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 flander of his wife.

Orla. Virtue is no horn-maker; and my Rosalind is virtuous.

Rof. And I am your Rosalind.

Cel. It pleases him to call you so; but he hath a Rofalind of a better leer than you.

Rof. Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a holiday humour, and like enough to consent. What would you say to me now an I were your very, very Rosalind ?

Orla. I would kiss before I spoke.

Rof. Nay, you were better speak first; and when you were gravell’d 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 cleanlieft shift is to kiss.

Orla. How if the kiss be denied ?
Rof. Then she puts you to intreaty, and there begins

new matter.

Orla. Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress? Rof. Marry, that should


if I were your mistress; or I should think my honefty ranker than my

wit, Orla. What, of my suit ?

Rof. Not cut of your apparel, and yet out of your suit. An not I your Rosalind ?

Orla. I take fome joy to say you are; because I would be talking of her.

Rof. Well, in her person, I say, I will not have you. Orla. Then in mine own person I die.

Rof. No, faith, die by attorney; the poor world is almost fix 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. Leander, he would have liv'd many a fair year, though Hero had

if it had not been for a hot midsummer: night; for, good youth, he went but forth to wash in the Hellefpont, and, being taken with the cramp, was drown'd; and the foolish chroniclers of that age found it was,--Hero of Sestos. But these are all lyes; men

turn'd nun,

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