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If you do forrow at my grief in love,

By giving love, your Sorrow and my grief
Were both extermin❜d.

Phe. Thou haft my love; is not that neighbourly? Sil. I would have you.

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Phe. Why, that were Covetoufnefs.
Silvius, the time was, that I hated thee
And yet it is not, that I bear thee love;
But fince that thou canft talk of love fo well,
Thy company, which erft was irkfome to me,
I will endure; and I'll employ thee too:
But do not look for further recompence, i
Than thine own gladness that thou art employ'd.
Sil. So holy and fo perfect is my love,
And I in fuch a poverty of grace,

That I fhall think it a moft plenteous crop
To glean the broken ears after the man

That the main harveft reaps: loofe now and then
A fcatter'd fmile, and that I'll live upon.

Phe. Know't 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, tho' 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 thofe that hear:
It is a pretty youth-not very pretty————

But, fure, he's proud; and yet his pride becomes him;
He'll make a proper man; the best thing in him
Is his Complexion; and fafter 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 fo, and yet 'tis well;
There was a pretty redness in his lip,
A little riper, and more lufty red

Than that mix'd in his cheek; was juft the difference


Betwixt the conftant red and mingled damask.
There be fome 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 yet
I have more caufe to have him than to love him
For what had he to do to chide at me;

He faid, mine eyes were black, and my hair black:
And, now I am remembred, fcorn'd at me;

I marvel, why I anfwer'd not again;

But that's all one; omittance is no quittance.
I'll write to him a very taunting letter,
And thou fhalt bear it; wilt thou, Silvius ?
Sil. Phebe, with all my heart..
Phe. I'll write it ftraight;

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



Continues in the FOREST.

Enter Rofalind, Celia, and Jaques.


I Prythee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted

with thee.

Rof. They fay you are a melancholy fellow.

Fac. I am fo; I do love it better than laughing. Rof. Thofe, that are in extremity of either, are abominable fellows; and betray themselves to every modern cenfure, worse than drunkards.

Jaq. Why, 'tis good to be fad, and fay nothing.


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

Jaq. I have neither the fcholar's melancholy, which is emulation; nor the musician's, which is fantastical nor the courtier's, which is proud; nor the foldier'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 thefe; but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many fimples, extracted from many objects, and, indeed, the fundry contemplation of my travels, on which my often rumination wraps me in moft humorous fadnefs."


Rof. A traveller! By my faith, you have great reafon to be fad: I fear, you have fold your own lands, to fee other mens; then, to have feen much, and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands. Jaq. Yes, I have gain'd me experience.

Enter Orlando.'

Rof. And your experience makes you fad: I had rather have a fool to make me merry, than experience to make me fad, and to travel for it too.

Orla. Good-day, and happiness, dear Rofalind!
Jaq. Nay then-God b'w'y you, an you talk in

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[Exit. Rof. Farewel, monfieur traveller; look, you lifp, and wear strange fuits; difable all the benefits of your own Country; be out of love with your nativity, and almoft chide God for making you that countenance you are; or I will fcarce think, you have fwam in a Gondola *. -Why, how now, Orlando, where have you

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you been all this while? You a lover?an you ferve me fuch another trick, never come in my fight more! Orla. My fair Rofalind, I come within an hour of my promise.

Rof. Break an hour's promife in love! he that will divide a minute into a thoufand parts, and break but a part of the thoufandth part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be faid of him, that Cupid hath clapt him o' th' fhoulder, but I'll warrant him heartwhole:

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Orla. Pardon me, dear Rofalind.

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

Orla. Of a fnail?

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

Orla. What's that?

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

Orla. Virtue is no horn-maker; and my Rofalind is virtuous.

Rof. And I am your Rofalind.

Cel. It pleafes him to call you fo; but he hath a Rofalind of a better leer than you.

Rof. Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a holyday humour, and like enough to confent. What would you fay to me now, an I were your very, very Rofalind?

Orla. I would kifs, before I fpoke.

Rof. Nay, you were better speak firft, and when you were gravell'd for lack of matter, you might take occafion to kifs. Very good orators, when they are out,

mafter, and by Bishop Hall in his other passages, ridiculed by ShakeQuo Vadis, and is here, and in fpeare.

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they will spit; and for lovers lacking, God warns us, matter, the cleanlieft fhift is to kifs.

Orla. How if the kifs be denied?~

Rof. Then the puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter...

Orla. Who could be out, being before his beloved mistress?


Rof. Marry, that fhould you, if I were your miftrefs? or I fhould think my honesty ranker than my


Orla. What, of my fuit?

Rof. Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your fuit. Am not your Rofalind?

Orla. I take fome joy to fay, you are; because I ⚫ would be talking of her.

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Rof Well, in her perfon, I fay, 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 perfon, videlicet, in a love caufe. Troilus had his brains dafh'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, tho' Hero had turn'd nun, if it had not been for a hot midfummer night; for, good youth, he went but forth to wath in the Hellefpont, and, being taken with the cramp, was drown'd ; and the foolish chroniclers of that age found it was,-Hero of Seftos. But thefe are all lyes; 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 proteit, her frown might kill me. Rof. By this hand, it will not kill a fly-but come ;

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