'Tis not your inky brows, your black filk hair, But, Mitrefs, know yourfelf; down on your knees, your ear, Phe. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together; I had rather hear you chide, than this man woo. Rof. He's fallen in love with your foulness, and she'll fall in love with my anger.. -If it be fo, as faft as the anfwers thee, with frowning looks, I'll fauce her with bitter words. Why look you fo upon me? Phe. For no ill-will I bear you. Ref. I pray you, do not fall in love with me; For I am falfer than vows made in wine; Befides, I like you not. If you will know my houfe, "Tis at the tuft of olives, here hard by. Come, to our flock. [Exeunt Rof. Cel. and Corin. Phe. Deed fhepherd, now I find thy faw of might; Who ever lov'd that lov'd not at first fight? Syl. Sweet Phebe! Phe. Hah: what fay'ft thou, Silvius? Syl. Sweet Phebe, pity me. Phe. Why I am forry for thee, gentle Sylvius. Syl. If Syl. Where-ever forrow is, relief would be; By giving love, your forrow and my grief Phe. Thou haft my love; is not that neighbourly? Phe. Why, that were covetousness. Sylvius, the time was that I hated thee; And yet it is not that I bear thee love; That I fhall think it a moft plenteous crop To glean the broken ears after the man That the main harvest 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 ere while? And he hath bought the cottage and the bounds Phe. "Think not I love him, tho' I afk for him; "'Tis but a peevish boy, yet he talks well. "But what care I for words? yet words do well, "But, fure, he's proud; and yet his pride becomes him. "Did make offence, his eye did heal it up: "He is not tall, yet very for his years "His leg is but so so, and yet 'tis well; "There was a pretty redness in his lip, "A little riper, and more lufty red, he's tall; "Than that mix'd in his cheek: 'twas juft the difference "Betwixt the conftant red and mingled damask. "There be fome 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, "He said mine eyes were black, and my hair black; "But that's all one, omittance is no quittance.' Phe. I'll write it straight: The matter's in my head, and in my heart, ‚.I Jaq. ACT IV. SCENE I. Continues in the foreft. Enter Rofalind, Celia, and Jaques. [Exeunt. PR’YTHEE, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee. Ref. They fay you are a melancholy fellow. Jaq. 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. fuq. 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 politic; 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, in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous fadness. VOL. II. Ꮓ Ref. 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 seen 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 be wi' you, an you talk in blank verfe. SCENE II. [Exit. Rof. Farewell, Monfieur Traveller; look you lifp, "and wear strange fuits; difable all the benefits of 66 your own country; be out of love with your nativity, "and almoft chide God for making you that counte"nance you are; or I will fcarce think you have fwam "in a gondola. Why, how now, Orlando, where have 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 thousand parts, and break but "a part of the thousandth 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 heart"whole." 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 snail. 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 make a woman. Befides, he brings his destiny with him.” you Orla. What's that? Rof. "Why, horns; which fuch as you are fain to "be A be beholden to your wives for: but he conies 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 holiday 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 fpeak firft; and when you were gravell'd for lack of matter, you might take occafon to kifs. Very good orators, when they are out, they will fpit; and for lovers lacking, God warn us, matter, the cleanlieft fhift is to kifs. Orla. How if the kifs be denied?.. Rof. Then fhe puts you to intreaty, and there begins. new matter. Orla. Who could be out, being before his beloved miftrefs? Rof. Marry, that fhould you, if I were your mistress; or I should think my honefty ranker than my wit. Orla What, of my fuit? Rof. Not out of your apparel, and yet out of your suit. Am not I your Rofalind? Orla. I take fome joy to fay 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, though Hero had turn'd nun, if it had not been for a hot midfummernight; 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 Sestos. But thefe are all lies; men Z 2 have |