Enter Corin. Cor. Mistress, and master, you have oft enquired Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess Cel. Well, and what of him? Cor. If you will see a pageant truly play'd, Between the pale complexion of true love And the red glow of scorn and proud disdain, Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you, you will mark it. If Ros. O, come, let us remove; The sight of lovers feedeth those in love:- SCENE V. Another part of the Forest. Enter Silvius and Phebe. [Excunt. 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 humble neck, But first begs pardon; Will you sterner be 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: That eyes, that are the frail'st and softest things, And, if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee; Now counterfeit to swoon; why now fall down; Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee: Thy palm some moment keeps: but now mine eyes, Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes If ever (as that ever may be near), You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy*, Then shall you know the wounds invisible 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? I see no more in you, than in the ordinary * Love. Of nature's sale-work:-Od's my little life! I had rather hear you chide, than this man woo. Ros. He's fallen in love with her foulness, and she'll 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, 'Tis at the tuft of olives, here hard by : Will you go, sister?-Shepherd, ply her hard:Come, sister:-Shepherdess, look on him better, And be not proud: though all the world could see, None could be so abus'd in sight as he. Come, to our flock. [Exeunt Rosalind, Celia, and Corin. Phe. Dead shepherd! now I find thy saw of might; Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight? Sil. Sweet Pnebe, 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, relief would be; If you do sorrow at my grief in love, By giving love, your sorrow and my grief Phe. Thou hast my love; Is not that neighbourly? Phe. That I shall think it a most plenteous crop That the main harvest reaps: loose now and then Phe. Know'st thou the youth that spoke to me ere 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 master of. Phe. Think not I love him, though 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, sure he's proud; and yet his pride becomes him: He'll make a proper man: The best thing in him Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the differ. ence Betwixt the constant red, and mingled damask. 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; And, now I am remember'd, scorn'd at me: I marvel, why I answer'd not again: But that's all one; omittance is no quittance. I'll write it straight; And thou shalt bear it; Wilt thou, Silvius? Jaq. I pr'ythee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee. Ros. They say, you are a melancholy fellow. |