« ПредишнаНапред »
Will you go, fister? Shepherd, ply her hard.
[Ex. Ros. Cel. and Cor.
Syl. Wherever sorrow is, relief would be;
Phe. Thou hast my love; is not that neighbourly?
Phe. Why, that were covetousness.
yet it is not, that I bear thee love:
Syl. So holy and so perfect is my love,
Phe. Know'st thou the youth that spoke to me erewhile ?
. Not very well, but I have met him oft ;
'Tis but a peevish boy; yet he talks well;
Continues in the Forest.
Enter Rosalind, Celia, and Jaques.
J AQU E S.
Rof. They say, you are a melancholy fellow.
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.
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. Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind!
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
Orla. Virtue is no hornmaker; and my Rosalind is virtuous.
. It pleases him to call you so; but he hath a Rosalind of
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. 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. Marry, that should you, if I were your mistress; or I should think my honesty ranker than my wit.
Orla. What, of my suit?
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.
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.