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

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

Ros. And his kissing is, as full of sandity, as the touch of holy beard.

Cel. He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana ; a nun of Winter's lifterhood kisses not more religioully; the very ice of chastity is in them.

Rof. But why did he swear he would come this morning, and comes not?

Cel. Nay, certainly, there is no truth in him.
Rof. Do you think so ?

Cél. 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.

Ros. 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; besides, the oath of a lover is no ftronger than the word of a tapster; they are both the confirmers of false reckonings; he attends here in the Forest on the Duke

your

Father. 'Rof. I met the Duke yesterday, and had much question with him : he askt 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, swears brave gaths, and breaks them bravely, quite travers, athwart the heart of his lover; as a puisny tilter, that spurs his horse but one side, breaks his staff like a noble, goose; but all's brave that youth mounts, and folly guides : who comes here?

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

Whom

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Whom you saw fitting by me on the turf,
Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess
That was his mistress.

Cel. Well, and what of him?

Cor. If you will see a pageant truly plaid,
Between the pale complexion of true love,
And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain;
Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you,
If you will mark it.

Roj. O come, let us remove;
The light of lovers feedeth those in love :
Bring us but to this fight, and you shall say
I'll prove a busy Actor in their Play. [Exeunt.

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Changes to another part of the Foreft.

Enter Silvius and Phebe.
Sil. WEET Phebe, do not scorn me; do not,
SWE

Phebe;
Say, that

you

love me not; but say not so
In bitterness; the common executioner,
Whose heart th' accuftom'd light of death makes

hard,
Falls not the ax upon the humbled neck,
But first begs pardon : will you fterner be
Than he that deals, and lives by, bloody drops,

Enter Rosalind, Celia and Corin.
Phe. I would not be thy executioner;
I fly thee, for I would not injure thee.
Thou tell'st me, there is murder in mine eyes;
'Tis pretty, sure, and very probable,
That eyes, that are the frail'ft and softest things,
Who shut their coward gates on atomies,
Should be callid 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 shame, for shame,
Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers.
Now shew the wound mine eyes have made in thee;
Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
Some scar of it ; lean but upon a rush,
The cicatrice and capable impressure
Thy Palm some moment keeps : but now mine eyes,
Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not;
Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes
That can do hurt.

Sil. O dear Phebe,
If ever (as that ever may be near)
You meet in some fresh cheek * the power of fancy,
Then shall you know the wounds inviGble
That love's' keen arrows make.

Phebe. But 'till that time, Come not thou near me, and when that time comes, Amiê me with thy mocks, pity me not; As, 'till that time, I shall not pity thee. Rof. And why, I pray you? who might be your

mother, That you insult, exult, and rail, at once Over the wretched? what though you have 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 Of nature's sale-work: odds, my little life! I think, she means to tangle mine eyes too: No, faith, proud mistress, 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 spirits 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 Mistresses. D 3

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 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 ny of her lineaments can show her.
But, mistress, know yourself; down on your knees,
And thank heav'n, fafting, 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 theè, shepherd; fare you well.

Phe. Sweetyouth, I pray you chide a yeartogether; I had rather hear you chide, than this man woo.

Rof. He's fallen in love with your foulness, and ihe'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 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 faller 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; shepherdefs, look on him better, And be not proud; tho' all the world could see, None could be so abus'd in fight as he. Come, to our flock. [Exeunt Ros. Cel. and Corin.

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

Sil. Sweet Phebe !
Phe. Hah: what fay'st thou, Silvius ?
Sil. Sweet Phebe, pity me.
Phe. Why I am sorry 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 Covetousness.
Silvius, 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.

Sil. So holy and so perfe& 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 usc

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, 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

him ;
He'll make a proper man ; the best thing in him
Is his Complexion; and faster than his tongue
Did make Offence, his eye did heal it up:
He is not very tall, for his

years

he's tall; His leg is but fo so, and yet 'tis well; There was a pretty redness in his lip, little riper, and more lusty red

Than

yet

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