But fince that thou canst talk of Love fo 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 imploy'd.
Sil. So holy and fo perfect is my Love,
And fuch a Poverty of Grace attends it,
That I fhall think it a most plenteous Crop
To glean the broken Ears after the Man
That the main Harvest reaps: Lofe now and then
A fcattered Smile, and that I'll live upon.

Phe. Know'st thou the Youth that fpoke to me e'er while?
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 Mafter 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 those 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 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 fo 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; 'twas just 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 Cause to hate 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 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.

Sil. Phebe, with all my Heart.

Phe. 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, Silvius.

ACT IV. SCENE I.

SCENE the Foreft.

Enter Rofalind, Celia and Jaques.

[Exeunt.

Faq. Prithee, pretty Youth, let me be better acquainted

with thee.

Rof. They fay you are a melancholly Fellow.

Faq. I am fo; I do love it better than Laughing.

Rof. Those 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.

Faq. I have neither the Scholars Melancholly, which is Emulation; nor the Muficians, which is fantastical; nor the Courtiers, which is proud; nor the Souldiers, which is ambitious; nor the Lawyers, which is political; nor the Ladies, which is nice; nor the Lovers, which is all thefe; but it is a Melancholly of mine own, compounded of many Simples, extracted from many Objects, and indeed the fundry Contemplations of Travels in which my often Rumination wraps me in a moft humorous Sadness.

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 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.

Verfe.

Jaq. Nay, then God b'w'y you, and you talk in blank [Exit. Rof. Farewel, Monfieur Traveller; look you lifp, and wear ftrange Suits; difabie all the Benefits of your own Country; be our of love with your Nativity, and almoft chide God for making you that Countenance you are, or I will scarce think you have fwam in a Gondallo. Why how now Orlan to, where have you been all this while? You a Lover? And you ferve me fuch another Trick, never come in my Sight more.

Orla. My fair Rofalind, I come within an Hour of my Promife.

Rof. Break an Hour's Promife in Love? He that will divide a Minute into a thousand 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' Shoulder, but I'll warrant him Heart-whole.

Orla. Pardon me, dear Rofalind.

Rof. Nay, and you be fo tardy, come no more in my Sight, I had as lief be woo'd of a Snail.

Orla. Of a Snail?

Rof. Ay, of a Snail; for tho' he comes flowly, he carries his Houfe on his Head: A better Jointure, I think, than you make a Woman; befides he brings his Destiny with him. Orla. What's that?

Rof. Why Horns; which fuch as you are fain to behol ding to your Wives for; but he comes armed in his Fortune, and prevents the Slander of his Wife.

Orla. Virtue is no Horn-maker; and my Rosalind is vir

tuous.

Ref. 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 Holy, day Humour, and like enough to confent: What would you say to me now, and I were your very, very Rosalind.

Orla. I would kifs before I spoke.

Rof. Nay, you were better fpeak firft, and when you were gravell'd for lack of matter, you might take Occafion

to

to kifs. Very good Orators, when they are out, they will fpit; and for Lovers lacking, God warn us, matter, the cleanlieft Shift is to kifs.

Orla. How if the Kifs be denied?

Ref. Then she puts you to Entreaty, and there begins new Matter.

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

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?

Rof. Not out of your Apparel, and yet out of your Suit.

Am not I your Rosalind ?

Orla. I take fome Joy to say you are, because I would be talking of her.

Rof. Well, in her Perfon, I fay I will not have you.
Orla. Then in mine own Perfon I die.

Rof. No Faith, die by Attorney; the poor World is almoft 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 Midsummer-night; for, good Youth, he went but forth to wash 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 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 Rofalind of this Mind, for I proteft her Frown might kill me.

Rof. By this Hand it will not kill a Flie; but come now I will be your Rofalind in a more coming-on Difpofition; and ask what you will, I will grant it.

Orla. Then love me, Rofalind.

Rof. Yes Faith will I, Fridays and Saturdays, and all.
Orla. And wilt thou have me?

Rof. Ay, and twenty fuch,

N 4

Orla.

Orla. What faift thou?

Rof. Are you not good?

Orla. I hope fo.

Rof. Why then, can one defire too much of a good thing? Come, Sifter, you shall be the Prieft, and marry us. Give me your Hand, Orlando: What do you fay Sifter.

Orla. Pray thee marry us.

Cel. I cannot fay the Words.

Rof. You must begin, Will you Orlando.

Cel. Go to ; will you Orlando have to Wife this Rafa

lind?

Orla. I will.

Rof. But when.

Orla. Why now, as faft as fhe can marry us.

Rof. Then you muft fay, I take thee Rofalind for Wife.

Orla. I take thee Rofalind for Wife.

Rof. I might ask you for your Commiffion,

But I do take thee Orlando for my Husband: There's a Girl goes before the Prieft, and certainly a Woman's Thought runs before her Actions.

Orla. So do all Thoughts; they are wing'd.

Rof. Now tell me how long you would have her, after you have poffeft her?

Orla. For ever and a Day.

Rof. Saya Day without the ever: No, no, Orlando, Men are April when they woo, December when they wed: Maids are May when they are Maids, but the Sky changes when they are Wives; I will be more jealous of thee than a Barbary Cock-Pigeon over his Hen, more clamorous than a Parrot a gainft Rain; more new-fangled than an Ape; more giddy in my Defires than a Monkey; I will weep for nothing like Diana in the Fountain, and I will do that when you are difpos'd to be merry; I will laugh like a Hyen, and that when thou art inclin'd to fleep.

Orla. But will my Rofalind do fo?

Ref. By my Life fhe will do as I do.
Orla. O but she is wife.

Ref. Or elfe fhe could not have the Wit to do this; the