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But since that thou canst talk of Love so well,
Thy Company, which erst was irkfome 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 imploy'd.

Sil. So holy and so perfe& is my Love,
And such a Poverty of Grace attends it,
That I shall think it a most plenteous Crop
To glean the broken Ears after the Man
That the main Harvest reaps: Lose now and then
A scattered Smile, and that I'll live upon.

Phe. Know'lt thou the Youth that spoke to me e'er 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, tho’ I ask for him; 'Tis but a peevith 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 Is his Complexion; and faster 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 Redness in his Lip, A little riper, and more lusty red Than that mix'd in his Cheek; 'twas just the Difference 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 remembred, scorn'd at me; I marvel why I anzer'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

Sil. 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 passing short:
Go with me, Silvius.

[Exennt.

ACT IV. SCENE 1.

SCENE the Forest.
Enter Rosalind, Celia and Jaques.

pretty
with thee.
Rof. They say you are a melancholly Fellow.
Jag. I am lo; I do love it better than Laughing.

Roj. Those that are in Extremity of either, are abominable Fellows, and betray themselves to every modern Censure, worse than Drunkards.

Faq. Why, 'tis good to be fad, and say nothing.
Roj: Why then 'cis good to be a Poft.

Jaq. I have neither the Scholars Melancholly, which is Emulation; nor the Musicians, which is fantastical; nor the Courtiers, which is proud; nor the Souldiers, which is ambitious; nor the Lawyers, which is political ; nor the Ladies, which is nice; nor the Lovers, which is all these; but it is a Melancholly of mine own, compounded of many Simples, extracted from many Objects, and indeed the sundry Contemplations of Travels in which my often Rumination wraps me in a most humorous Sadness.

Rof. A Traveller! by my Faith you have great Reason to be sad: I fear you have sold your own Lands, to see other Mens; then, to have seen much, and to have nothing, is to have rich Eyes and

poor

Hands.
Jaq. Yes, I have gain’d 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
sad, and to travel for it too,
Orla. Good Day, and Happiness, dear Rosalind.

Faq

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Jaq. Nay, then God b'w'y you, and you talk in blank Verse.

[Exit. Roj. Farewel, Monsieur Traveller; look you lisp, and wear strange Suits; disable all the Benefits of your own Country; be our of love with your Nativity, and almost chide God for making you that Countenance you are, or I will scarce think you have swam in a Gondallo. Why how now Orlan 10, where have you been all this while? You a Lover? And you serve me such another Trick, never come in my Sight more.

Orla. My fair Rosalind, I come within an Hour of my Promise.

Rof. Break an Hour's Promise 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 clapt him o'th' Shoulder, but I'll warrant him Heart-whole.

Orla. Pardon me, dear Rosalind.

Ros. Nay, and you be lo tardy, come no more in my
Sigt, I had as lief be woo'd of a Snail.
Orla. Of a Soail ?

Rof. Ay, of a Snail; for tho' he comes slowly, he carries his House on his Head : A better Jointure, I think, than you make a Woman; befides he brings his Destiny with him.

Orla. What's that ?

Ros. Why Horns; which such as you are fain to beholding to your Wives for; but he comes armed in his Fortune, and prevents the Slander of his Wife.

Orla. Virtue is no Horn-maker ; and my Rosalind is vir

1

tuous.

Rof. And I am your Rosalind. Cel

. It pleases him to call you fo; but he hath a Rosalind of a better Leer than

you. Rof. Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a Holy, day Humour, and like enough to consent: What would you say to me now, and I were your very, very Rosalind.

Orla. I would kiss before I spoke.

Rof. Nay, you were better speak first, and when you were gravell’d for lack of matter, you might take Occasion

to

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to kiss. Very good Orators, when they are out, they will spit; and for Lovers lacking, God warn us, matter, the cleanlieft Shift is to kiss.

Orla, How if the Kiss be denied ?

Rof. Then she puts you to Entreaty, and there begins new Matter.

Orla. Who could be out, being before his beloved Mistress?

Rof. Marry that should you if I were your Mistress, or I should think my Honesty ranker than my Wit.

Orla. What, of my Suit?

Ros. Not out of your Apparel, and yet out of your
Suit.
Am not I your Rosalind ?

Orla. I take some Joy to say you are, because I would be talking of her.

Ros. Well, in her Person, I say I will not have you.
Orla. Then in mine own person I die.

Ros. No Faith, die by Attorney; the poor World is almost six thousand Years old, and in all this time there was not any Man died in his own Person, videlicet, in a Love Cause: Troilus had his Brains dash'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 livd many a fair Year, tho' Hero had turn'd Nun, if it had not been for a hot Midsummer-night; 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 these are all Lies, Men have died from time to time, and Worms have eateni them, but not for Love.

Orla. I would not have my right Rosalind of this Mind, for I protest her Frown might kill me.

Ros. By this Hand it will not kill a Flie; but come now I will be your Rosalind in a thore comingon Disposition; and ask what you will, I will grant it.

Orla. Then love me, Rosalind.
Ros. Yes Faith will I, Fridays and Saturdays, and all.
Orla. And wilt thou have me?
Rof. Ay, and twenty fuch,

Orla.

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us.

for

Orla. What faist thou?
Rof. Are you not good?
Orla. I hope so.

Rof. Why then, can one desire too much of a good thing? Come, Sister, you shall be the Priest, and marry

Give me your Hand, Orlando : What do you say Sifter.

Orla. Pray thee marry us.
Cel. I cannot say the Words.
Ros. You must begin, Will you Orlando.
Cel

. Go to; will you Orlando have to Wife this Rosas lind?

Orla. I will.
Rof. But when.
Orla. Why now, as fast as she can marry us.
Rof. Then you must say, I take thee Rosalind for
Wife.

Orla. I take thee Rosalind for Wife.
Ros. I might ask

you your Commission, But I do take thee Orlando for my Husband: "There's a Girl goes beforethe Priest, and certainly a Woman's Thought runs before her Actions.

Orla. So do all Thoughts; they are wing d.

Ros. Now tell me how long you would have her, after you have pofseft her?

Orla. For ever and a Day.

Ros. Say a Day without the ever: No, no, Orlando, Men are April when they woo, December when they wed: Maids are May when they are Maids, but the Sky changes when they are Wives; I will be more jealous of thee than a Barbary Cock-Pigeon over his Hen, more clamorous than a Parrot á. gainst Rain; more new-fangled than an Ape; more giddy in my Desires than a Monkey ; I will weep for nothing like Diana in the Fountain, and I will do that when you are dispos’d to be merry ; I will laugh like a Hyen, and that when thou art inclin'd to fleep.

Orla. But will my Rosalind do so?
Ros. By my Life she will do as I do,
Orla. O but she is wise.
Ref. Or else she could not have che Wie to do this; the

wiser,

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