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 laugh'd, 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 Cel. Well, and what of him? Ros. [Exeunt. SCENE V.-Another part of the Forest. Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE. 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 accustom'd 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, And, if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee; Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers. Now shew the wound mine eye hath made in thee: The cicatrice and capable impressure Thy palm some moment keeps: but now mine eyes, Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes That can do hurt. Sil. O dear Phebe, If ever (as that ever may be near) You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, That love's keen arrows make. Phe. 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 more 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? 'Tis not her glass, but you, that flatters her; Sell when you can; you are not for all markets: Ros. He's fallen in love with her foulness, and she 'li 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, Will you go, sister?-Shepherd, ply her hard.- Come, to our flock. [Exeunt Rosalind, Celia, and Corin. Phe. Dead shepherd! now I find thy saw of might; Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight? Sil. Sweet Phebe, Phe. Ha! what say'st thou, Silvius? Sil. Sweet Phebe, pity me. Phe. Why, I am sorry for thee, gentle Silvius. Sil. Wherever sorrow is, rellef 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 neighbourly? Sil. I would have you. Phe. 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, Than thine own gladness that thou art employ'd. 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 [while? Phe. Think not I love him, though I ask for him; When he that speaks them pleases those that hear. 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 tall; yet for his years he's tall: A little riper and more lusty red Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the difference There be some women, Silvius, had they mark'd him In parcels as I did, would have gone near 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; I marvel, why I answer'd not again: But that's all one; omittance is no quittance. I'll write it straight; ACT IV. SCENE I. The same. Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and JAQUES. Jaq. I pr'ythee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee. Ros. They say you are a melancholy fellow. Jaq. I ani 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. 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 in which my often rumination wraps me, is a most humorous sadness. Ros. A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to be sad: 1 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. Enter ORLANDO. f Ros. 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. Orl. Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind! Jaq. Nay, then, God be wi' you, an' you talk in blank verse. [Exit. Ros. Farewell, monsieur traveller: Look, you lisp, and wear strange suits; disable all the benefits of your own country; be out of love with your nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are; or I will scarce think you have swam in a gondola. |