Enter fir Oliver Mar-text. Here comes fir Oliver. — Sir Oliver Mar-text, you are well met. Will you despatch us here under this tree, or fhall we go with you to your chapel? Sir Óli. Is there none here to give the woman? Clo. I will not take her on gift of any man. Sir Oli. Truly, fhe must be given, or the marriage is not lawful. Jaq. Proceed, proceed! I'll give her. Clo. Good even, good master What ye call: how do you, fir? you are very well met: god'ild you for your last company! I am very glad to see you; even a toy in hand here, fir: nay; pray be covered. Jaq. Will you be married, Motley? Clo. As the ox hath his bow, fir, the horse his curb, and the falcon his bells, fo man hath his defire; and as pigeons bill, fo wedlock would be nibling. Jaq. And will you, being a man of your breeding, be married under a bush like a beggar? get you to church, and have a good priest that can tell you what marriage is: this fellow will but join you together as they join wainscot; then one of you will prove a fhrunk pannel, and, like green timber, warp, warp. Clo. I am not in the mind, but I were better to be married of him than of another; for he is not like to marry me well; and not being well married, it will be a good excuse for me hereafter to leave my wife. Jaq. Go thou with me, and let me counsel thee. Clo. Come, fweet Audrey, we must be married, or we must live in bawdry. Farewel, good mafter Oliver: Not, o fweet Oliver, O brave Oliver, Leave me not behind thee; But wind away, Be gone, I fay, I will not to wedding with thee. Sir Oli. 'Tis no matter; ne'er a fantastical knave of them all shall flout me out of my calling. [Exeunt. SCENE SCENE X. Enter Rofalind, and Celia. Rof. Never talk to me, I will weep. Cel. Do, I pr'ythee; but yet have the grace to confider that tears do not become a man. Rof. But have I not cause to weep? Cel. As good cause as one would defire; therefore weep. Cel. Something browner than Judas's: marry, his kisses are Judas's own children. Rof. I' faith his hair is of a good colour. Cel. An excellent colour: your chestnut was ever the only colour. Rof. And his kiffing is as full of fanctity as the touch of holy beard." Cel. He hath bought a pair of caft lips of Diana; a nun of winter's fifterhood kiffes not more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in them. Rof. But why did he swear he would come this morning, and comes not? Cel. Nay, certainly there is no truth in him. Rof. Do you think fo? Cel. Yes, I think he is not a pickpurse, nor a horsestealer ; but for his verity in love, I do think him as concave as a cover'd goblet, or a wormeaten nut. Rof. Not true in love? Cel. Yes, when he is in; but, I think, he is not in. Cel. Was, is not, is; befides, the oath of a lover is no stronger than the word of a tapfter; they are both the confirmers of false reckonings; he attends here in the forest on the duke your father. Rof. I met the duke yesterday, and had much question with him: he afk'd me, of what parentage I was; I told him, of as good as he; fo 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, fwears brave oaths, and breaks them bravely; quite traverse athwart the heart of his lover, as a puifny tilter, that spurs his horse but on one fide, breaks his staff like a nose-quill'd goofe; but all's brave that youth mounts, and folly guides: who comes here? Enter Corin. Cor. Mistress, and master, you have oft inquir'd Cel. Well, and what of him? Cor. If you will fee a pageant truly play'd Between the pale complexion of true love, And the red glow of fcorn and proud disfdain, Go hence a little, and I shall conduct you, you will mark it. If Rof. O, come, let us remove; The fight of lovers feedeth those in love: Bring us but to this fight, and you shall say I'll prove a bufy actor in their play. SCENE XI. Enter Sylvius, and Phebe. Sył. Sweet Phebe, do not scorn me, do not, Phebe ; Say, that you love me not, but say not so In bitterness: the common executioner, Whofe heart the accustom'd fight of death makes hard, Than he that lives and thrives by bloody drops? [Exeunt. Enter Enter Rofalind, Celia, and Corin. Phe. I would not be thy executioner; That eyes, that are the frail'ft and fofteft things, Should be call'd tyrants, butchers, murderers! And, if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee: Now show the wound mine eyes have made in thee; The cicatrice and capable impreffure Thy palm fome moment keeps: but now mine eyes, Nor, I am fure, there is no force in eyes Syl. O my dear Phebe, If ever (as that ever may be near) You meet in fome fresh cheek the power of fancy, Then shall you know the wound's invisible That love's keen arrows make. Phe. But, till that time, Come not thou near me; and, when that times comes, Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not; As, till that time, I shall not pity thee. Rof. And why, I pray you? who might be your mother, That you infult, exult, and domineer Over the wretched? what though you have some beauty, (As, by my faith, I fee no more in you Than without candle may go dark to bed) E e 2 Muft Muft you be therefore proud, and pitiless? 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 her foulnefs, and fhe'll fall in love with my anger. If it be fo, as faft as fhe answers thee with frowning looks, I'll fauce her with bitter words. Why look you upon me? fo Phe. For no ill-will I bear you. Ros. 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: 2 By the word foul here is meant frowning, low'ring. Will |