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Rof. I'faith, his hair is of a good colour.

Cel. An excellent colour: your chefnut was ever the only colour.

Ros. Ánd 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 religi oufly; 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.
Rof. Do you think so?

Cel. Yes, I think he is not a pick-purse nor a horse-stealer; 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 fwear downright, he was. Cel. Was, is not is; befides, the oath of a lover is, no ftronger than the word of a tapfter; they are both the confirmers of falfe reckonings; he attends here in the Foreft on the Duke your Father.

'Rof. I met the Duke yesterday, and had much queftion with him: he afkt 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, speaks brave words, fwears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely, quite travers, athwart the heart of his lover; as a puifny tilter, that spurs his horse but one fide, breaks his ftaff like a noble, goofe; but all's brave that youth mounts, and folly guides: who comes here?

Enter Corin.

Cor. Mistress and master, you have oft enquired After the shepherd that complain'd of love;

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Whom

Whom you faw fitting by me on the turf,
Praising the proud difdainful fhepherdess
That was his mistress.

Cel. Well, and what of him?

Cor. If you will fee a pageant truly plaid,
Between the pale complexion of true love,
And the red glow of fcorn and proud difdain;
Go hence a little, and I fhall conduct you,
you will mark it.

If

Rof. O come, let us remove;

The fight of lovers feedeth those in love:
Bring us but to this fight, and you shall fay
I'll prove a bufy Actor in their Play.

Sil.

[Exeunt.

WEET Phebe, do not fcorn me; do not,

Sw Phebe;

Say, that

you love me not; but say not so

In bitterness; the common executioner,

Whose heart th' accuftom'd fight of death makes hard,

Falls not the ax upon the humbled neck,

But firft begs pardon: will you fterner be

Than he that deals, and lives by, bloody drops.

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 eyes;
'Tis pretty, fure, and very probable,

That eyes, that are the frail'ft and softest things,
Who fhut their coward gates on atomies,
Should be call'd tyrants, butchers, murderers!
Now do I frown on thee with all my heart,

And

And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee:
Now counterfeit to fwoon; why, now fall down;
Or if thou canst not, oh, for fhame, for shame,
Lie not, to fay mine

eyes are murderers.

Now fhew the wound mine eyes have made in thee;
Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
Some fear of it; lean but upon a rush,

The cicatrice and capable impreffure

Thy Palm fome moment keeps: but now mine eyes, Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not;

Nor, I am fure, there is no force in

That can do hurt.

Sil. O dear Phebe,

If ever (as that ever may

be near)

eyes

You meet in fome fresh cheek* the power of fancy,
Then fhall you know the wounds invisible
That love's keen arrows make.

Phebe. 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.

Rof. And why, I pray you? who might be your mother,

That you infult, exult, and rail, at once

Over the wretched? what though you have 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?
I fee no more in you than in the ordinary
Of nature's fale-work: odds, my little life!
I think, she means to tangle mine eyes too:
No, faith, proud miftrefs, hope not after it;
'Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair,
Your bugle eye-balls, nor your cheek of cream,
That can entame my fpirits to your worship.

the power of fancy,] i. e. the Arms of Love: As Poets talk of the Darts of Cupid in the Eyes of their Miftreffes.

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You

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 fhe a woman.

'Tis fuch 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 fhe fees herself more proper,
Than any of her lineaments can fhow her.
But, miftrefs, know yourfelf; 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, fhepherd; 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 fo, as faft as fhe answers 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 houfe,
'Tis at the tuft of Olives, here hard by:
Will you go, Sifter? fhepherd, ply her hard:
Come, fifter; fhepherdefs, look on him better,
And be not proud; tho' all the world could fee,
None could be fo abus'd in fight as he.
Come, to our flock. [Exeunt Rof. Cel. and Corin.
Phe. Deed fhepherd, now I find thy Saw of might;
Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first fight?

Sil. Sweet Phebe !

Phe. Hah: what fay'ft thou, Silvius?

Sil. Sweet Phebe, pity me.

Phe. Why I am forry for thee, gentle Silvius.
Sil. Where-ever forrow is, relief would be;

If you do forrow at my grief in love,

By giving love, your Sorrow and my grief
Were both extermin'd.

Phe. Thou haft my love; is not that neighbourly? Sil. I would have

you.

Phe. Why, that were Covetoufness.

Silvius, the time was, that I hated thee;

And yet it is not, that I bear thee love;
But fince that thou canst talk of love fo well,
Thy company, which erft 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.
Sil. So holy and fo perfect is my love,
And I in fuch a poverty of grace,

That I fhall think it a moft plenteous crop
To glean the broken ears after the man

That the main harvest reaps: loose now and then
A fcatter'd fmile, and that I'll live upon.

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Phe. Know'ft thou the youth, that poke to me cre/ 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 mafter 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 fpeaks them, pleases thofe that hear: It is a pretty youth, not very pretty;

But, fure, he's proud; and yet his pride becomes

him;

He'll make a proper man; the beft thing in him
Is his Complexion; and fafter than his tongue
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 fo fo, and yet 'tis well;
There was a pretty redness in his lip,
A little riper, and more lufty red

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Than