Thou tell'st nie, there is murder in mine eye :
'Tis pretty, sure, and very probable,
That eyes,-that are the frail'st and softest things,
Who shut their coward gates on atomies,
Should be call'd tyrants, butchers, murderers !
Now I do frown on thee with all my heart;
And, if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill

thee;
Now counterfeit to swoon; why now fall down;
Or, if thou canst not, 0, for shame, for shame,
Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers.
Now show the wound mine eye hath 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 invisible
That love's keen arrows make.
Phe.

But, till that time,
Come not thou near nie: and, when that time comes,
Amict me with thy mocks, pity me not;
As, till that time, I shall not pity thee.
Ros. And wliy, 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 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

# Love,

le. I would not be thy esecutioner; thee, for I would not injure thee,

Of nature's sale-work:-Od's my little life!
I think, she ineans to tangle my eyes too:-
No, 'faith, proud mistress, hope not after it;
'Tis not your inky brows, your black-silk hair,
Your bugle eye.talls, 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 sbe a woman: 'Tis such fools as you,
That make the world full of ill-favour'd children:
'Tis not her glass, but you, that flatters 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 Heaven, 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 foul to be & scoffer.
So take her to thee, shepherd;-fare you well.
Phe. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year togle-

ther;
I had raiher hear you chide, than this man woo.

Ros. lle's fallen in love with her foulness, and she'll fall in love with my anger: If it be 50, fast as she answers thee with frowning looks, 1'1 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 ot 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 he so abus'd in sight as he.

[E.xeunt Rosalind, Çelia, and Corin.

Come, to our flock.

ence

He'll make a proper man: The best thing in bim Is his complexion; and faster than bis tongue Did make offence, his eye did heal it up. He is not tall; yet for his years he's tall: His leg is but so so; and yet ’tis well: 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 differBetwixt the constant red, and mingled damask, There be some women, Silvius, had they mark'd him In parcels as I did, would have gone near To fall in love with him: but, for my part, I love him not, nor hate him not; and 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 remember'd, '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, Silvius?

Sil. Phebe, with all my heart.

Phe.
The matter's in my head, and in my heart:
I will be bitter with him, and passing short;
Go with me, Silvius.

yet

I'll write it straight;

(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.