'Tis not your inky brows, your black filk hair,
Your bugle eye-balls, nor your cheek of cream,
That can entame my fpirits to your worship.
You foolifh fhepherd, wherefore do you follow her
Like foggy fouth, puffing with wind and rain?
You are a thousand times a properer man,
Than fhe a woman. 'Tis fuch fools as you,
That make the world full of ill-favour'd children;
'Tis not her glass, but you, that flatter her;
And out of you fhe fees herself more proper,
Than any of her lineaments can fhow her.

But, Miftrefs, know yourself; down on your knees,
And thank Heav'n, fafting, 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 moft foul, being found to be a fcoffer:
So take her to thee, fhepherd; fare you well.

;

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 foulnefs, and fhe'll fall in love with my anger.- -If it be fo, as fast as fhe answers 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.

Rof. 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 house, 'Tis at the tuft of olives, here hard by.

Will you go, fifter? fhepherd, ply her hard;
Come, fifter; fhepherdefs, look on him better,
And be not proud; tho' all the world could fee,
None could be fó abus'd in fight as he.

Come, to our flock.

[Exeunt Rof. Cel, and Corin.

Phe. Deed thepherd, now I find thy faw of might;

Who ever lov'd that lov'd not at firft fight?

Syl. Sweet Phebe !

Phe. Hah: what fay'ft thou, Sylvius?

Syl. Sweet Phebe, pity me.

Phe. Why I am forry for thee, gentle Sylvius.

Syl. Where-ever forrow is, relief would be;

By the word foul here is meant ill-favoured.

If you do forrow at my grief in love,

By giving love, your forrow and my grief
Were both extermin'd.

Phe. Thou haft my love; is not that neighbourly?
Syl. I would have you.

Phe. Why, that were covetousness.

Sylvius, the time was that I hated thee;
And yet it is not that I bear thee love;
But fince that thou canft talk of love fo well,
Thy company, which erft 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 employ❜d.
Syl. So holy and fo perfect is my love,

And I in fuch a poverty

of grace,

That I fhall think it a moft plenteous crop

To glean the broken ears after the man
That the main harveft 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
Syl. Not very well, but I have met him oft; [while ?
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 fafter 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 rednefs in his lip,

"A little riper, and more lufty red,

"Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas juft the dif ❝ference

"Betwixt the conftant red and mingled damask.

"There be fome women, Sylvius, had they mark'd
In parcels as I did, would have gone near
VOL. II.
Ꮓ

[him

"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 anfwer'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, Sylvius?
Syl. 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 paffing fhort.
Go with me, Sylvius.

Jaq.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV. SCENE I.

I

Continues in the foreft.

Enter Rofalind, Celia, and Jaques.

Pr'ythee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee.

Rof. They fay you are a melancholy fellow.

Faq. I am fo; I do love it better than laughing. Roj. Thofe that are in extremity of either are abominable fellows; and betray themselves to every modern cenfure, worfe than drunkards.

Jaq. Why, 'tis good to be fad, and fay nothing. Rof. Why then, 'tis good to be a poft.

Faq. I have neither the fcholar's melancholy, which is emulation; nor the mufician'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 these but it is a melancholy of mine own, comFounded of many fimples, extracted from many objects, and, indeed, the fundry contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a mít ...umorous fadness.

:

Rof. A traveller! by my faith, you have great reason 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 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 b' w'y you, an you talk in Blank verfe. [Exit.

Rof. "Farewel, Monfieur Traveller; look you lifp, " and wear ftrange fuits; difable all the benefits of your own country; be out of love with your nativity, and almoft chide God for making you that countenance 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 66 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 66 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 Rosalind.

Rof. Nay, an you be fo tardy, come no more in my fight I had as lief be woo'd of a fnail.

:

Orla. Of a fnail?

Rof." Ay, of a fnail; for though 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 "be beholden to your wives for: but he comes 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 occafion 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 she puts you to intreaty, 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 honefty ranker than my wit. Orla. What, of my fuit?

Ref. Not cut of your apparel, and yet out of your fuit. 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 almost 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 Seftos. But thefe are all lyes; men