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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.
} 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? (Advancir

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

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fe. I would not be the executioner; ther, for I would not injure thet.

-- -

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 ball,
Your bugle eye.talls, nor your cheek of cream,
That can entame my spirits to your worship:
You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow
Like foggy south, puffing with wind and raib!
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

man's love:
And thank Heaven, fasting, for a good man's
For I must tell you friendly in your ear,
Sell when you can ; you are not for all mark
Cry the man mercy: love him: take his orel;
Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffcr.
So take her to thee, shepherd; fare you we
Phe. Sweet youth, I pray you chide

I had raiher hear you chide, than this man wou

Ros. He's fallen in love with her foulness, a she'll fall in love with my anger: If fast as she answers thee with frowning looks, sauce her with bitter words.-Why look yo 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 'Tis at the tuft ot olives, here hard by: w you go, sister?-Shepherd, ply her hard: ne, sister:-Shepherdess, look on him better,

be not proud: though all the world could set, None could be so abus'd in sight as he Come, to our flock.

[E.reunt Rosalind, Celia, and Corin.

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

Sil. Sweet Phebe,

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

Sil. Wherever 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 hast 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,
Than thine own gladness that thou art employ'd.

Sil. 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 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 them pleases those that hear. It is a pretty youth :not very pretty :But, sure he's proud; and yet his pride becomes him:

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He'll make a proper man: The best thing in him
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
Then that mix'd in his cheek: 'twas just the differ.

Betwixt the constant red, and mingled damask.
There be some women, Silvius, had they mark
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 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
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 sho
Go with me, Silvius.

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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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De sue fract, bis efe ad beo Brooxta fortas pean lesz Hunedot : and returer

me v pretir redzess is bei A prind sore lusty 7 that

comes, Roy

Jag. 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.

Jag. 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, wbich 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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Enter Orlando..

The Batter's in my head, and w my I will be butter with him, and passway w with me, Suvius.

11 metai 3d, and in mrhart

ed pacing sur

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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They say, you are a melancholy felon.

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