Imatges de pàgina

Ros. And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of holy bread.

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

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

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

Cel. Yes, I think he is not a pick-purse, nor a horsestealer; but for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as a covered goblet, or a worm-eaten nut.

Ros. Not true in love?

Cel. Yes, when he is in; but I think he is not in.
Ros. You have heard him swear downright, he was.

Cel. Was is not is. Besides, the oath of a lover is no stronger 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.

Ros. I met the duke yesterday, and had much question with him. He asked me of what parentage I was; I told him, of as good as he; so he laughed, 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 oaths, and breaks them bravely, quite traverse, athwart the heart of his lover; as a puny tilter, that spurs his horse but on 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 master, you have oft inquired
After the shepherd that complained of love;
Who you saw sitting by me on the turf,
Praising the proud, disdainful shepherdess
That was his mistress.


Well, and what of him?

Cor. If you will see a pageant truly played,
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.

O, come, let us remove;
The sight of lovers feedeth those in love.-
Bring us unto this sight, and you shall say
I'll prove a busy actor in their play.


SCENE V. Another Part of the Forest.

Enter SILVIUS and РHebe.

Sil. Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me; do not, Phebe. Say that you love me not; but say not so

In bitterness. The common executioner,

Whose heart the accustomed sight of death makes hard, Falls not the axe upon the humbled neck,

But first begs pardon. Will you sterner be

Than he that dies and lives by bloody drops?

Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN, at a distance.

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 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 called tyrants, butchers, murderers!
Now do I 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, O, 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.

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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 me; and, when that time comes,

Afflict me with thy mocks; pity me not;

As till that time, I shall not pity thee.

Ros. And why, I pray you? [Advancing.] Who might be your mother,

That you insult, exult, and all at once,

Over the wretched? What though you have no 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. Od's my little life!
I think she means to tangle my eyes too.
No, 'faith, proud mistress, hope not after it;
'Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair,
Your bugle eyeballs, 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 she a woman. 'Tis such fools as you,
That make the world full of ill-favored 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 a scoffer.
So take her to thee, shepherd.-Fare you well.
Phe. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together;
I had rather hear you chide than this man woo.

Ros. He's fallen in love with her foulness, and she'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 so upon me?

Phe. 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 of 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 be so abused in sight as he.

Come, to our flock. [Exeunt Ros., CEL., and COR.
Phe. Dead shepherd! now I find thy saw of might;
Who ever loved, that loved 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. 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 extermined.

Phe. Thou hast my love; is not that neighborly?
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 company, 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 employed.
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 scattered smile, and that I'll live upon.

Phe. Know'st thou the youth that spoke to me erewhile?
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, though 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; 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 mixed in his cheek; 'twas just the difference Betwixt the constant red and mingled damask.

There be some women, Silvius, had they marked 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 remembered, scorned at me.

I marvel why I answered 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.

I'll write it straight;



SCENE I. The same.


Jaq. I pr'ythee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee.

Ros. They say you are a melancholy fellow.

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 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 politic; 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; which, by often rumination, wraps me in 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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