Than the a woman: 'Tis fuch 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 fhow her.
But, mistress, know yourself; down on your knees,
And thank heaven, 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 most foul, being foul 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.

Ros. He's fallen in love with her foulness, and fhe'll fall in love with my anger: If it be so, as fast as she 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.

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 house,

"Tis at the tuft of olives, here hard by :-
Will you go, fifter ?-Shepherd, ply her hard :-
Come, fifter:-Shepherdess, look on him better,
And be not proud: though all the world could fee,
None could be so abus'd in fight as he.

Come, to our flock. [Exeunt ROSALIND, CELIA, and CORIN.

PHE. Dead shepherd! now I find thy faw of might;

Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first fight?

SIL. Sweet Phebe,

PHE. Ha! what fay'ft thou, Silvius?

SIL. Sweet Phebe, pity me.

Ι

If

PHE. Why, I am forry for thee, gentle Silvius.
SIL. Wherever forrow is, relief would be:

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? SIL. I would have you.

PHE. Why, that were covetoufnefs.

Silvius, the time was, that I hated thee;

And yet it is not, that I bear thee love:

But fince that thou canst 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 recompenfe,
Than thine own gladness that thou art employ'd.
SIL. 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 harvest reaps: loose now and then

A fcatter'd fmile, 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 mafter 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, 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 faster than his tongue

VOL. II.

е

Did make offence, his eye did heal it up.
He is not tall; yet for his years he's tall :
His leg is but fo fo; and yet 'tis well:
There was a pretty redness in his lip;
A little riper and more lufty red

Than that mix'd in his cheek; 'twas just the difference
Betwixt the conftant red, and mingled damask.
There be fome 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 faid, mine eyes were black, and my hair black;
And, now I am remember'd, fcorn'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,
And thou shalt bear it; Wilt thou, Silvius?
SIL. Phebe, with all my heart.

PHE. I'll write it straight;

The matter is in my head, and in

my

heart:

I will be bitter with him, and paffing short:

Go with me, Silvius.

ACT IV.

SCENE I. The fame.

Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and JAQUES.

[Exeunt.

F42. I pr'ythee, pretty youth, let me be better ac

quainted with thee.

Ros. They fay, you are a melancholy fellow.

F42. I am fo; I do love it better than laughing.

Ros. Those, that are in extremity of either, are abo minable fellows; and betray themselves to every modern cenfure, worse than drunkards.

J42. Why, 'tis good to be fad and fay nothing.
Ros. Why then, 'tis good to be a post.

F42. 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 foldier's, which is ambitious; nor the lawyer's, which is politick; 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 fimples, extracted from many objects: and, indeed, the fundry contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me, is a moft humorous fadnefs.

Ros. A traveller! By my faith, faith, you have great reafon to be fad: I fear, you have fold your own lands, to fee other men's; then, to have seen much, and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands.

J42. Yes, I have gain'd my experience.
Enter ORLANDO.

Ros. 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.

ORL. Good day, and happiness, dear Rofalind!

F42. Nay then, God be wi' you, an you talk in blank verfe.

[Exit.

Ros. Farewell, monfieur traveller: Look, you lifp, and wear strange 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 scarce think you have swam 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 more.

ORL. My fair Rofalind, I come within an hour of my promife.

Ros. Break an hour's promife in love? He that will divide a minute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of the thousandth part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of him, that Cupid hath clap'd hìm o' the fhoulder, but I warrant him heart-whole.

ORL. Pardon me, dear Rofalind.

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

ORL. Of a fnail?

Ros. Ay, of a fnail; for though he comes flowly, he carries his house on his head; a better jointure, I think, than you can make a woman: Befides, he brings his destiny with him.

ORL. What's that?

Ros. 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.

ORL. Virtue is no horn-maker; and my Rofalind is virtuous.

Ros. And I am your Rofalind.

CEL. It pleases him to call you fo; but he hath a Rofalind of a better leer than you.

Ros. 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?

ORL. I would kiss, before I spoke.

Ros. Nay, you were better speak first; and when you were gravell'd for lack of matter, you might take occa