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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

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.

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.

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

(As, by my faith, I see no more in you
Than without candle may go dark to hed),

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,

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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-

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.

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Phe. Dead sbepherd! now I find thy saw of might; JVho ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight?

Sil. Sweet Phebe,

Ha! what say'st thou, Silvius
Sil. Sweet Phebe, pity me.
Phe. Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius.

sil, Wberever sorrow is, relief would be;
If you do sorrow at my grief in love,
By giving love, your sorrow and my grief
Were both extermin'd.

Phe. Thou last my love; Is not that neighbourly ?
Sil. I would have you.

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 compauy, which erst was irksome to me,
I will endure; and I'll employ thee too:
But do not look for further recompense,
Thau thine own gladness that thou art employ'd.

Sil. So lioly, 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 then pleases those that hear. It is a pretty youth :- not very pretty :But, sure he's proud; and yet his pride becomes bim:

irt PNP, than thos lica in love with her


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Per. For so it will bear you.

Re, do not fall in love wide Laser a rows salade in wine

is, hie reg sot: If you willporg

at the inftar obres, here hard by:you go, saster -Shepherd

, ply her hands

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Sister Sepuerdess, look on bis better not proud: though all the world and uit be so abas din sight as he

pour flors.

Errant Rosalied, Celia, and Certi


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.

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

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I'll write it straight;



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.

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Jaq. 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.

Jaq. 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, which 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.

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Fushat said he to do to chude it!

Istoreyes were black, and

And, now I am respember'd, scom'da I waniti, wty i ansver'd not aguio:

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Enter Orlando,

Abebe, with all my heart


the matter's in my head, and in my heart I will be butter with him, and passing sex

wa with toe, Suvius.

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

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I prythee, pretty ponti, let me k ***

alrd with thee.

Ines Day, you are a melancholy felon.

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