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Will you go, fister? Shepherd, ply her hard.
Come, sister. Shepherdess, look on him better,
And be not proud'; though all the world could see ye
None could be so abus’d in fight as he.
Come, to our flock.

[Ex. Ros. Cel. and Cor.
Phe. 'Deed, shepherd, now I find thy law of might,
Who ever lov’d, that lov'd not at first sight?
Syl. Sweet Phebe!
Phe. Hah! what fay'st thou, Sylvius ?
Syl. Sweet Phebe, pity me.
Phe. Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Sylvius.

Syl. 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?
Syl. I would have you. .

Phe. Why, that were covetousness.
Sylvius, 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.

Syl. So holy and so perfect is my love,
And such a poverty of grace attends it,
That I shall think it a most plenteous crop
To glean the broken cars 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 erewhile ?
Syl

. 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, though I ask for him ;

'Tis

'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 inan; 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 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 difference
Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask.
There be some women, Sylvius, 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 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 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, Sylvius ?
Syl. Phebe, with all

my

heart.
Ďbe. I'll write it straight;
The matter's in my head, and in my heart:
I will be bitter with him, and passing short:
Go with me, Sylvius.

[Exeunt .

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ACT

***

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

Continues in the Forest.

I e

Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Jaques.

J AQU E S.
Pr’ythee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee.

Rof. They say, you are a melancholy fellow.
Jaq. I am so; I do love it better than laughing.

Roj. 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.
Roj. Why then, 'tis good to be a post.

Faq. I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which is emulation ; nor the musician'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 in a most humorous sadness.

Rof. 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. Faq. Yes, I have gain'd experience.

Enter Orlando. Rof. 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.

Orla,

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Orla. Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind!
Jaq. Nay then, god b'w'y you, an you talk in blank verse.

[Exit.
SCE N E II.
Ros. Farewel, monsieur traveller ; look, you lisp, and wear strange
suits; disable all the benefits of your own country; be out of love
with your nativity, and almost chide god for making you that
countenance you are; or I will scarce think you have swam in a
gondola. Why, how now, Orlando, where have you been all this
while? lover ? an you serve me such another trick, never
come in my sight more.

Orla. My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.

Rof. Break an hour's promise in love! he that will divide a minute into a thousand parts, and break but a partof the thousandth part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be faid of him, that Cupid hath clap'd him o'th' fhoulder, but I'll warrant him heart-whole.

Orla. Pardon me, dear Rofalind.

Rof. Nay, an you be fo tardy, come no more in my sight; I had as lief be woo'd of a fnail.

Orla. Of a fnail ?

Rof. Ay, .of a fnail; for though he comes flowly, he carries his house on his head : a better jointure, I think, than you can make a woman; besides, he brings his destiny with him.

Orla. What's that?

Rof. Why, horns; which such as you are fain to be beholden
to your wives for; but he comes armed in his fortune, and
prevents the slander of his wife.

Orla. Virtue is no hornmaker; and my Rosalind is virtuous.
Rof. And I am your Rosalind.
Cel

. It pleases him to call you so; but he hath a Rosalind of
a better leer than you.

Rof. Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a holyday humour, and like enough to consent : what would you say to me now, an I were your very, very Rosalind ?

Orla.

1

Orla. I would kiss, before I spoke.

Ros. Nay, you were better speak firft; and when you were gravell’d for lack of matter, you might take occafion to kiss. Very good orators, when they are out, they will fpit; and for lovers lacking, god warn us, matter, the cleanlieft (hift is to kiss.

Orla. How if the kiss be denied ?
Rof. Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter.
Orla. Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress ?

Rof. Marry, that should you, if I were your mistress; or I should think my honesty ranker than my wit.

Orla. What, of my suit?
Ros. Not out of your apparel, and yet out of

apparel, and yet out of your fuit. Am not I your Rosalind ?

Orla. I take some joy to say you are, because I would be talking of her.

Ros. Well, in her person, I say, I will not have you.
Orla. Then, in mine own person, I die.

Rof. No, faith, die by attorney: the poor world is almost fix thousand years old, and in all this time there was not any man died in his own person, videlicet, in a love-cause: Troilus had his brains dash'd out with a Grecian club, yet he did what he could to die before, and he is one of the patterns of love. Leander, he would have liv'd many a fair year, though Hero had turn’d nun, if it had not been for a hot midsummer night; for, good youth, he went but forth to wash in the Hellespont, and, being taken with the cramp, was drown'd; and the foolish coroners of that age found it Hero of Seftos. But these are all lies; men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.

Orla. I would not have my right Rosalind of this mind; for, I protest, her frown might kill me.

Rof. By this hand, it will not kill a fly: but come; now I will be your Rosalind in a more coming-on disposition; and ask me what you will, I will grant it.

Orla. Then love me, Rosalind.
Rof. Yes, faith, will I, fridays and saturdays, and all.
Orla. And wilt thou have me?
Vol. II.

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