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Enter Corin.

Cor. Mistress, and master, you have oft enquired
After the shepherd that complain'd of love;
Who you saw sitting by me on the turf,

Praising the proud disdainful shepherdess
That was his mistress.

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:-
Bring us unto this sight, and you shall say
I'll prove a busy actor in their play.

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
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,
Who shut their coward gates on atomies,--
Should be call'd tyrants, butchers, murderers!
Now I do frown on thee with all my heart;

And, if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee;

Now counterfeit to swoon; why now fall down;
Or, if thou canst not, O, for shame, for shame,
Lie not, to say mine eyes are murderers.

Now show the wound mine eye hath made in thee:
Scratch thee but with a pin, and there remains
Some scar of it; lean but upon a rush,
The cicatrice and capable impressure

Thy palm some moment keeps: but now mine eyes,
Which I have darted at thee, hurt thee not;

Nor, I am sure, there is no force in eyes

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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 think, she means to tangle my eyes too:—
No, 'faith, proud mistress, hope not after it;
'Tis not your inky brows, your black-silk bair,
Your bugle eye-talls, nor your cheek of cream,
That can entame my spirits to your worship.-—
You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow her,
Like foggy south, puffing with wind and rain?
You are a thousand times a properer man,
Than she a woman: "Tis such fools as you,
That make the world full of ill-favour'd children:
'Tis not her glass, but you, that flatters her;
And out of you she sees herself more proper,
Than any of her lineaments can show her.—
But, mistress, know yourself; down on your knees,
And thank Heaven, fasting, for a good man's love:
For I must tell you friendly in your ear,-
Sell when you can; you are not for all markets:
Cry the man mercy; love him; take his offer;
Foul is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer.
So take her to thee, shepherd;-fare you well.
Phe. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year toge
ther;

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
Were both extermin'd.

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,
Thy company, which erst was irksome to me,
I will endure; and I'll employ thee too:
But do not look for further recompense,
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
A scatter'd smile, and that I'll live upon.

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:

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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:
His leg is but so so; and yet 'tis well:
There was a pretty redness in his lip;
A little riper and more lusty red

Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the differ.

ence

Betwixt the constant red, and mingled damask.
There be some 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 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 to him a very taunting letter,

I'll write it straight;

And thou shalt bear it; Wilt thou, Silvius?
Sil. Phebe, with all my heart.
Phe.
The matter's in my head, and in my heart:
I will be bitter with him, and passing short:

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Jaq. I pr'ythee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee.

Ros. They say, you are a melancholy fellow.

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